#just brit (ish)

[palaeolithicc]

.

[mintfullyyours]

something blue

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone!

I'd originally written this as a multi-chap fic so this is what I have so far. Thank you so much for reading!! I really appreciate and love talking to everyone about the 141! authors here are so talented and feed me in every way that I'm grateful to have this creative outlet too.

AnYWAY!!! LMK what y'all think.

Other Simon pics for your consideration: amnesiac!simon part 1, amnesiac!simon part 2-ish, patching up exhusband!simon, ex-husband!simon part 2, to give a dog a bone (aka saving simon once),

"Baby, listen, I needed a break so I could do some... soul-searching."

You pressed your phone to your ear, weaving through the crowd as you descended the escalator toward baggage claim. "And soul-searching had to happen between your assistant's legs?"

"It was one time," James sighed, exasperation laced in his voice.

"Right. And that makes it better somehow?" You scoffed, adjusting the duffle bag slipping off your shoulder. "Listen, James, I have to go. It’s my sister's wedding week, and I’m really looking forward to explaining to my entire family why my cheating ex won’t be in attendance—for obvious reasons."

Too focused on maneuvering through the sea of travelers, you didn’t notice the hulking figure in your path until you collided—shouldering a body that felt like solid stone. A shock shot through you, something sharp and electric, like static but deeper, rippling under your skin.

"Shit—sorry," you mumbled, barely sparing the man a glance. But even in that fleeting moment, there was something about him. The sheer size of him, the weight of his gaze, the way he felt — like gravity had shifted just for him.

A grunt emanated from his lips. You shook your head and darted away from him – not wanting to deal with the locals and refocused your attention on the carousel.

“Baby, I—”

"Nope. Goodbye." You hung up mid-protest and exhaled, exasperated. The last thing you needed was James’ voice in your ear ruining the little bit of peace you had left.

The conveyor belt whirred to life and your simple black suitcase rolled into view. You grabbed it swiftly, eager to put distance between you and the airport chaos, already exhausted by the week ahead. You just needed a hot shower, a drink, and a moment to forget your disaster of a love life.

Unbeknownst to you, across the baggage claim, a towering man in a black hoodie with a camouflage print duffle bag was staring down at a suitcase identical to yours.

Simon Riley’s brow furrowed beneath his mask as he realized his luggage was missing.

At your hotel room, you finally picked up your mother’s call—something you’d been avoiding all night.

“You’re coming for... As the Brits would say afternoon tea tomorrow, right?” she asked, her voice chipper and expectant. “Your sister’s future in-laws will be there too.”

“Yeah, of course, Mom,” you mumbled, shutting the curtains to your room.

“Oh, good! Wear the pink dress I bought you then.” You shuddered at the thought of wearing something so fluffy. “And you brought your sister’s baby pictures?”

You plopped onto the floor, suitcase in front of you, already unzipping it. “Yes, they’re in my lugga—”

Your words cut off as the sight before you sank in.

This… wasn’t your luggage.

“What the fuck…” you mumbled, sifting through the unfamiliar belongings. Your mother tsked on the other end. “Language.”

“Sorry, uh—yeah. I brought them,” you said absentmindedly, but panic had already started to settle in. Your suitcase could be anywhere by now. You were so screwed.

Your fingers frantically dug into the foreign clothing, pulling out neatly folded black shirts—all black, heavy-duty material, the kind that felt expensive but built for function. Then came the cargo pants, thick straps and buckles lining the sides. You lifted a jacket that looked like it weighed more than you, feeling the sheer size of it, like it belonged to a man carved from stone.

And then—your fingers brushed against something different.

Thick. Stiff. Worn.

You pulled it out, expecting a belt or gloves—only to be met with the hollow, gaping eyes of a skull mask.

A chill ran down your spine.

The material was sturdy, molded for durability, not for show. The kind of thing that didn’t belong in civilian luggage.

A weight settled in your stomach, but before you could even process it, your fingers brushed against another.

And then another.

Your pulse spiked as you pulled them free—three, four—each identical, yet different. Some had cracks along the bone-white surface, others bore deep scuffs, dark smudges, like they’d been through hell. One of them had what looked like dried blood staining the lower jaw.

Your mind raced. What the hell kind of person needed multiple skull masks? Your throat went dry. Was he some kind of serial killer? A mercenary? A complete fucking psycho? Why the hell did you have this bag?

“Also, did James arrive with you?”

Your mother’s voice cut through the silence. Another muttered fuck under your breath. “Who? Sorry, yeah, Mom… about that.”

“Is that Sissy?” a voice chirped in the background. “Gimme, gimme — hello?”

Your sister’s voice replaced your mother’s, bright and teasing. She was always so much better at this, at life, than you. 

“Heyyy,” you said, forcing lightness into your tone, “I’m excited to see you tomorrow!”

“Ugh, same. Save me from the mom-sanity,” she giggled. “You’re bringing James, right? I’m dying to meet the guy!”

Your fingers traced the luggage lining, searching—praying—for some kind of identification. Then, finally, you found it. A small leather name tag, embossed with a name and phone number.

Without thinking, without breathing, you word-vomited the first name you saw. “Did I say James? Because I meant… Simon.”

A pause. Well you were committed to the bit now. 

“...Simon Riley.”

The name sat heavy in the air, and your fingers tightened around the mask still in your lap.

You didn’t know who Simon Riley was. But for now that didn’t matter. The name sat heavy between you and your sister, stretching the air thin. Your sister broke the silence first, “Okay… I guess I have time to change the seating card but really sissy, you have to tell me these things sooner. And Simon's your boyfriend, right?”

She asked and then, a vibration.

Your head snapped to your phone screen.

UNKNOWN CALLER.

You chose to ignore it, "Yes, I'm with Simon. Been almost a year now." The lie came easily because what else could you have said?

Then another vibration.

This time, a text.

A single message.

“Wrong bag, love. But you already knew that.”

A chill shot down your spine with skull masks staring up at you. You gulped and hung up the phone after you reassured your sister you'd be there tomorrow. This was going to be a long night.

Now you and Simon Riley had never met before. Not properly, anyway.

The first time he knew you existed was because of a simple mix-up at the baggage claim. Nothing special. Nothing deliberate. Just a wrong bag taken by the wrong person at the worst possible time.

And yet—

The moment he unzipped your suitcase, his entire world tilted.

Your scent was the first thing that hit him. Something warm, something sweet. Not perfume—no, it was deeper than that. Skin and shampoo and you. He could smell it on the soft sweater tucked inside, the delicate pink lace of something he shouldn’t be touching, but he does anyway.

Then, there was the red floor-length dress.

The dress that, for some fucking reason, he couldn't stop staring at.

His fingers flexed around the fabric, his mind already playing tricks on him—How would it fit? Would it hug her just right? Would it be easy to pull up, to push aside—

His jaw clenched.

He shouldn’t be thinking about you like this.

But then there were the other things—small, delicate things that told him more about you than a conversation ever could. The book tucked into the side pocket. The neatly folded socks. The half-used lipstick that made his pulse tick in his throat.

What would that color look like staining the skin around his cock?

And that was when he knew.

Knew he had to see you.

He thanked the Universe for the handy contact information on your luggage tag and reached for his phone.

It wasn't about the luggage anymore.

It was about you.

Tag list

@ebodebo @meheheasasa @thegirlintheshadows101 @galactict3a @star-buck-barnes @synamonthy @vylaris @vvenus-child @negomisan @heretoreadanddrinktea @mocalocha @icommitwarcrimes @readingcatinacorner @just-lilita @blackhawkfanatic @kristalhi

[avatar-anna]

Moments caught between Harry and Y/n on camera at the Brits

just something fun because harry at the brits was a mess but we love him for it!

Young Dad! Harry Styles x Young Mom! Reader Masterlist

The red carpet is loud and raucous, bright lights flashing as people shout for the attention of celebrities. One couple in particular is the center of attention the second they step on the carpet.

Harry Styles and a woman walk arm-in-arm, a broad grin on his face and a shy smile on hers. Harry seems to be whispering something in the woman's ear, his nose pressed against the crown of her head. It makes her visibly relax, her grin widening and becoming more authentic as they take a couple more steps.

The woman is the recently revealed Y/n Styles, Harry Styles' long-time partner that he'd somehow kept from the rest of the world for over a decade. But she was here tonight, just as she had been at the Grammys a couple weeks ago, and the cameras now track their every move, intrigued by this new-ish couple.

"Harry! Harry! Harry, over here!"

"Y/n!"

"Harry, did you really marry Y/n when you were in One Direction?"

"Y/n, how does it feel to be with the most famous man in music?"

Y/n, who's hard to miss in a red dress that fits like a glove, shrinks almost imperceptibly against Harry's side. Harry looks down at her, and the husband and wife share a look as if they're having an unspoken conversation.

Then he mutters something to her, and Y/n laughs as Harry kisses her cheek, but not before nudging his nose against it. The shouts double, so used to Harry's stoic approach to being out in the public eye, but both of them move steadily down the carpet, not paying the paparazzi and reporters any mind.

*.*

During their walk down the red carpet, Harry and Y/n come across a barricaded section for fans of the artists in attendance. They all cheer as each celebrity walks by, shouting compliments and proclamations of love for their favorite.

Y/n once again hesitates on Harry's arm, wary eyes darting toward the boisterous fans. At the same time, Harry is called to by a reporter asking for an interview. Checking in with his wife, he departs with a kiss to her forehead, murmuring words the cameras can't quite pick up.

Y/n stands on her own, one arm crossed over her stomach as she tries to stay standing tall. Fans call out to her from the barricade in a way that's difficult to ignore. She waves at them with a small smile, but it's clear they want her to come closer.

With one glance at her husband, who's still speaking with the reporter, and another to a security guard close by, she nods to the latter and they step closer to the barricade, just close enough in proximity that she can actually make out distinct voices and words.

"Y/n we love you!"

"Where did you meet Harry?"

"How long have you been together?"

"Ugh, you are so mother in that dress!"

"What's your skincare routine?"

"What's Harry's?"

The tense set of her shoulders eases a bit, no longer apprehensive of the fans and their potential to be cruel.

"I feel like I met him a lifetime ago," she says. "And I just cleanse, moisturize, and use SPF."

"How come we've never seen you at shows?"

"What's your favorite Harry song?"

"Are you friends with One Direction?"

"Where were you last year when Harry got wasted?"

Y/n chuckles at the last question, her eyes lighting up as her hand covers her mouth. "I've always had a soft spot for 'Ever Since New York.'"

"Taste!" a fan yells, decibels louder above the rest, which garners laughter from everyone.

"Can you make Harry release 'Medicine?'" another asks.

Before Y/n answers, Harry appears by her side, an arm snaking around her waist. "There you are. Got sidetracked by your own interview, did you?"

"They were just asking if I'd help them in their quest for a studio version of 'Medicine.' I'm not sure if I can, though. They don't know how stubborn you are."

A chorus of boos went up at Y/n's answer, but not at her. Harry raised his eyebrows at his wife as if in challenge, but her responding gaze is quite mischievous.

Taking everyone, including Y/n, by surprise, he leans in to kiss her cheek, saying, "Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight, darling?"

A chorus of aww's ring through the small crowd of fans as Harry places his hand on Y/n's lower back, ushering her away from the barricade. Y/n raises an eyebrow at her husband, who is conveniently not meeting her eye. "Nice save."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You never call me darling."

Harry lets out a snort. "Lies. Lies on the red carpet tonight."

Y/n rolls her eyes but leans in close to her husband, carefully avoiding the fabric flower around his neck. "Mhmm. Let's go, darling."

*.*

An artist is being interviewed inside the O2, and Harry and Y/n are videotaped in the background.

In the very corner, the couple are leaning in close and talking, a drink in each one of their hands. Harry talks animatedly, gesturing with his drink to the point where it nearly spills on Y/n's dress. Y/n doesn't seem to mind and just throws back her head as she laughs. His eyes light up as he watches her, a word that could only be described as love encompassing his face.

*.*

During one of the performances, a camera pans to Harry's table. The house lights are dim, but he's still visible amongst the flashes of color from the stage. Harry sits in his chair, body slumped a little low so he can rest his head on Y/n's shoulder.

Both of their attention is on the performer onstage, not noticing as a few cameras are pointed in their direction as Y/n scratches the back of Harry's neck absentmindedly. He leans into her touch, looking up occasionally to say something to his wife.

*.*

"And the winner is...Harry Styles!"

Cheers erupted throughout the room, the table Harry is at standing up. Harry himself stays seated and curls in on himself, pumping his arms victoriously as he beams. His eyes are a little glassy, his hair unkempt, a sign that the night has progressed with lots of alcohol consumption.

He turns to his sister Gemma first as he stands up, high-fiving her before giving her a hug and fist-bumping someone else. Then he turns to Y/n, who hasn't stopped clapping since his name had been read for the third time from the envelope.

She opens her arms as if to accept a hug, but Harry has other plans. He leans forward and kisses her in a way that's merely pressing his smile against hers until they mold their mouths into a kiss. Then he kisses her cheek repeatedly, making her shoulders bunch as she smiles brightly.

When Harry finally pulls away, Y/n's cheeks are flushed as she tries to wipe at her husband's face with her thumb. With one last kiss, he heads up to the stage to accept his award.

*.*

Another performance, only this time, everyone is on their feet, including Harry and Y/n.

Harry's arms are wrapped around Y/n's shoulders from behind, his chin on her shoulder. Both of them sway from side to side to the rhythm of the song as Harry mouthed the words in Y/n's ear.

Her grin is wide as her eyes stay trained on the performance. Then, she looks back at Harry, who met her gaze as she says something.

Nodding, he kisses her once on the cheek before nodding back to the stage.

*.*

As Kid speaks into the microphone onstage saying his thank yous, Harry is having the time of his life behind his friend as he speaks to Stanley Tucci.

By now it's a little obvious he's had more than a couple drinks. His hair is nothing short of a mess, his dress shirt is a little more unbuttoned than it had been to begin with, and he throws his head back and laughs in a way that is fueled by drunken delight.

Briefly, the camera turns to Harry's wife, who stands beside Gemma. Y/n's hands hold her face as she watches her husband be ushered offstage by the people around him. She giggles a little before leaning over to Gemma and shaking her head. Gemma laughs along with her, covering her mouth as she says something to the woman beside her.

The camera flashes back to Harry, who turns around one last time so he can blow a kiss to the crowd, more specifically, Y/n, who the camera catches covering her face in her hands, cheeks as red as her dress.

*.*

Paparazzi shout at their latest persons of interest as they make the brief walk from the car to the entrance of a club where the after party for the Brits is being held.

Harry's arms are tightly wrapped around Y/n's waist, face set as he ignores the crowd of people shouting for his attention. Y/n, turned slightly inward towards Harry's chest, keeps pace beside him. Most of her body is covered by what can only be her husband's suit jacket, but with the open front, a hint of a sparkly pink dress can be seen, a drastic change from her award show attire.

The only time they separate is when Harry allows Y/n entrance into the club first before following close behind, his hand once again protectively hovering over the small of her back.

*.*

Photos are strictly forbidden inside of the club, so it isn't until the couple emerges from the doors once again that they're spotted.

Neither of them stumble, though paparazzi wouldn't have cared if they were. All eyes are on Harry's disheveled hair, the heels dangling from his fingers, the suit jacket draped over the arm not around his wife. They're on Y/n, whose dress is completely on display, the beading that covers its entirety flashing with every snap of the camera's shutter.

Then the collar of Harry's silk dress shirt shifted, revealing a harsh purple bruise that hadn't been there before. Neither Harry nor Y/n seem to notice, or understand why the cacophony of shouts became louder, they just continue on, Y/n's hand on the nape of her husband's neck idly scratching until he helps her into the car.

Following suit, Harry climbs inside. For a brief moment, Harry sticks his head out the open window of the car and winks and sticks his tongue out at all the photographers. Y/n appears from her side of the car, leaning across her husband to bring the window up. Not an ounce of care in the world, he leans forward to kiss his wife's exposed jaw. With an exasperated expression on her face and a delicate wave of her fingers, the window goes up, and though the windows are tinted, a hand is visible against the glass as the car peeled away from the curb.

[shotmrmiller]

More p!soap. More p!soap. MORE P!SOAP PLEASE

ok but p!soap getting with a lucky fan and he's genuinely shook by how pretty you are and oh man then you let it slip that while you've used toys (small ones) you're still pretty much a virgin and he calls it.

there's no way he's fucking you into the mattress on camera as your first genuine experience. that's unacceptable. the director is already groaning in the back how this was a waste of time, money, blah blah and honestly if soap won't do it then call the big brit. "no the bigger one. ghost, right. get him."

so he untwists his knickers and only does oral with just one finger since he saw you tense when he prodded your entrance with two. you do wonderfully, the video does even better and soap, er johnny, ("ah've gotten to know a very intimate part of ye, least ye can do is call me by my name") gave you his number just in case you're interested in more.

properly. at home with lit candles and rose petals and privacy.

he might treat his costars like nothing more than holes sometimes (it's in the script you can't get mad at him) but he's still a gentleman. ish. kinda.

[fandomtrumpshate]

By the Numbers! 102 hours! (ish)

Last year our second 'by the numbers' update happened on day 5 of the signup window. We're currently at 102 hours - just past 4 full days and into day 5 since signups opened. Shall we compare?

We shall!

Last year on day 5 we had 385 creators offering 536 auctions in 104 listed fandoms and 114 write-ins.

This year …

602 creators 819 auctions 112 listed fandoms 180 write-ins

We have the sneaking suspicion that the next time we do a numbers roundup we'll have surpassed the 2023 totals and be a day or two away from beating 2024.

We. Are. Thrilled! (We are also slightly terrified!!)

Ahem.

A breakdown of the types of offers we have so far:

554 Written fanwork (fic, fan poetry, etc) 84 Podfic 112 Fan art 57 Fan labor (beta services, translation, Brit-picking, typesetting, etc) 6 Video 6 Other Digital Fanwork

Over in the supported orgs, the groups that could use more love include:

National Network to End Domestic Violence Environmental Integrity Project Congo Leadership Initiative Bellingcat Fight for the Future Education Fund

That's where things stand at 102(ish) hours. Where will we be on Day 6? ... on day 14??

eep. yay! Onward!

Signups are OPEN!

[lokisknife]

Golden Girl - John Price

Summary: In a London club alive with the victory celebrations of Task Force 141, Captain Price just wants a night free from formality and the weight of war. But amidst the revelry, a new kind of tension emerges as his attention fixates on his newest sniper, Y/N, his "Golden Girl". Battling thoughts he knows are inappropriate due to his age and rank, Price finds himself drawn to her in a way that defies duty. pulling towards something undeniably "risky. And wrong. And so, so tempting".

Warnings: not sticking to the canon; age difference (do I really have to say everyone is an adult here? we're talking about the military, helloooo); heavy drinking; implied size kink; implied corruption kink (just a little bit!).

Word count: 2.3k~ish

Author's note: ok, this has been sitting on my drafts for quite literally more than a year. this month sucked, my pet died, high stress at the job, high stress at uni and I've been hospitalized with a kidney infection (plz drink water and pee after sex. i beg you). I'm too scared of writing actual smut, and I wanted to post this finally, so... sorry if this is too short. I don't think anyone is going to read this lol is cod hype even a thing anymore?

It’s a typical Friday night in London. To the civilians, at least. The club is buzzing with life, with groups of all sizes chatting and laughing, drinks being spilled by drunk people on the dance floor while the colored lights keep flickering. Red, blue, red, blue, purple. The unusual thing about tonight is that the club is packed with soldiers —they aren’t spotted by their uniform, no, they are all dressed to the occasion, thank you very much. But they are spotted, instead, by their demeanor: loud, expansive, with a certain arrogance to know that they can celebrate as hard as they want because they deserve it. Their drunken grins showed a type of euphoria you could only feel if you had just won the war. And that is precisely what happened.

The infamous Task Force 141, with the help of Los Vaqueros and the Shadow Company, spent thirteen months of non-stop hard work completely annihilating a major terrorist group that presented an international threat. Unfortunately, as part of the job, the soldiers' stress levels only grew in proportion to the way the dangerous organization crumbled to ashes: all of them, by some months of work, presented stiff muscles, dark underbags, and snappy responses. And Captain Price was a traditional man: was there a way of de-stressing better than drinking your body weight in alcohol and shit-talking with your friends? He didn’t think so. His boys deserved a little fun; they did an excellent job under his command. So, order everything you want on his tab.

And there she was, the Captain’s Golden Girl, basking in the energetic booming music that made the concrete floors shake. Being the newest one on the team, she earned the nickname from her teammates, who always found a way to tease her about the non-subtle preference of the older man for his newest sniper. Innocently, Y/N thought it was a consequence of her professionalism: she was reliable and precise, always following her superior’s orders without any hesitation, and her accuracy with her rifle was impressive. She was very proud of it, always biting back a grin when the Brit called her “my golden girl”, so, of course, her friends wouldn’t dare burst her bubble. After years under his wing, they knew the bastard too damn well to know that his acts of endearment to the rookie were very far off from the paternalistic proudness Price felt towards the rest of the Task Force. Especially when his drunken state can’t take his eyes off her, sitting so pretty on the other side of the table. 

“We’re off duty, so we better act like we’re off duty” was Price’s motto for the night. After the stresses of the battlefield, he only longed for a night out with his friends, and not an awkward happy hour with coworkers. So, not only was it mandatory to boast all you want, it was essential to leave all the formalities back at the compound: for tonight, at least, there were no ranks, no dog tags, and no uniforms. Wanting to impress someone (even though he said to himself that he shouldn’t), he dressed nicely: before stepping out, he spent an embarrassingly long time perfecting his beard and applying cologne, kicking himself for caring too much. He really shouldn’t; it’s not right.

Staring at the girl in front of him, taking in her mini-skirt and the top that enhanced every single one of her curves, he forced himself to think about how he was too old for her, and not how the clothing would look scattered on his floor. Analyzing the way she did her make-up to perfection, he repeated “I’m her boss” like a mantra, instead of focusing on how incredibly plush her lips look with that shiny lip gloss.

Price is pulled out of his thoughts as shot glasses are slammed down on the hardwood table, followed by the sound of tipsy giggles. As Soap pulled a disgusted face at the burning taste of the tequila, Y/N wiped her chin from any remnants of spilled alcohol. Unaware of the glances coming from the other side of the table, she watched the banter that was initiated between the Scotsman and Alejandro at her side. 

The Captain shouldn’t be so enticed by his snipper, and God, he tried to convince himself he didn’t feel a thing. She is pretty, he has eyes, and he is lonely, simple as that. But he couldn’t attribute the burning sensation at the pit of his stomach to all the whiskey he had downed, not when it only started when he paid attention to the scene in front of his eyes. He felt like a possessive dog, watching her laugh loudly at one of the Soap’s jokes, and the sweet cadence of the sound reached his ears above the music he didn’t recognize. MacTavish was a funny guy, Price gets it. He would laugh just as loud at the humorous remark if he weren’t so stuck in his head. His fingers turned white as he gripped his cup, gulping his drink away. He should be the one sitting so close to Y/N, making her laugh so hard her eyes crinkle. Not Soap. Not anyone else. She is his golden girl, what the fuck do they know about her?

“I’ll be heading towards the bar, have another round” Price spoke up, almost mumbling to himself.

He needed another one, that’s for sure. Whatever it takes to endure the sight of her flirting with other men. But was she actually flirting, or was his mind playing tricks? Could he know that with one hundred percent certainty?

The only thing clear in his wounded heart is that he ached for her attention. It was clear from day one when his golden girl skipped into his office lighting the dark space with her bright smile. Taking notice of her joyful personality, he remembers he thought how the job would ruin her. He was wrong: she ruined him. He turned soft; he was a 37-year-old man who blushed like a teenager whenever he made an excuse to talk to Y/N. It was embarrassing.

The loud music and the intoxicated state of his mind didn't allow Price's well-trained ears to catch the following footsteps, trailing behind in the direction of the bar. Sitting on the wonky bar stool, kicking at himself for letting inappropriate feelings ruin the night, his breath hitched when he finally noticed her small figure at his side. Y/N's hand, much smaller than his, gently grazed his biceps to catch the Captain's attention. Looking up at him with pupils so dilated he could barely see the color of the irises, she smiled innocently. What he wouldn't give to ruin that pure, sinless expression...

"Just checking up on ya. You are oddly quiet, are you okay?”. Her grin was like that of a Cheshire cat under the flickering lights. The snipper kept her palm on his tense muscles for three, four, five seconds before resting it under the chin. It was enough time to make his body feel like it had been electrified, and his heart was hammering so loudly you could hear it above the music. She had to know his effects on him; it could only be on purpose. It couldn't be just a simple, thoughtless act.

"I'm fine. My mind is just... on other things." He trails off, gulping as her skirt rolls up to reveal more of her legs as she sits at his side. It moved barely an inch, but the sight of her glistening thighs was like a full meal to the starved man John Price was. Especially when his thoughts started to become more and more unfiltered with each drink.

"Thinking about what?" Y/N urges innocently, tilting her head to the side and unconsciously exposing some of her neck. The soldier looked genuinely concerned about his mental state, but her captain could only think about covering the smooth, delicate skin with hickeys until the whole team recognized his ownership.

Price shakes his head slightly, trying to drown these thoughts. He felt dirty. And drunk.

"I shouldn't be thinking about you this way..." he snickers, turning his head to the front and drinking some sips of whisky. It's almost as if he didn't notice it was said out loud.

"This way?" She arches a brow, tilting her head again. Again, with those adorable puppy eyes, with that sweet perfume that urged the man to bend her over that very same pub counter, and– And then she leans closer, apparently to hear him better. An innocent act, as innocent as her, he tries to convince himself. "What way?"

No, she must know her effects on him. His mind is taken over by images of how Y/N would look with her eyes rolled all the way back while he pounded relentlessly into her. His body feels mostly numb, as if all of his blood went straight to his crotch. Trying to look away and calm down, he catches her gaze sparkling with mischief, bottom lip caught between teeth.

Shit.

"You know what that way means" Price's eyes trailed down, meeting her cleavage with dilated pupils. It almost made him uncomfortable, the situation looking too good to be true. A beautiful piece of forbidden fruit, taunting him to make a foolish mistake. She couldn't be possibly offering herself on a silver platter like this, not to him of all people. He blurts out, before gulping another sip of the glass "You are too young for me. And I'm still your commanding officer".

"What? I didn't say anything, Captain," She purrs, feigning the purity of her intentions once again. Smiling, she snakes her hand down to his, gently pulling him out of the stool. "C'mon, Price. We are off duty, so we better act like we're off duty, right? Give me a dance".

John could stop Y/N if he really wanted, but he let himself get led to the crowded dance floor, holding her soft hands in his rough ones. He wasn't a religious man, not at all, especially after all the horrors he saw in his line of work. But right now, he makes a mental note to thank God later as the DJ stops playing the hyper techno music he didn't like to give place instead to a slow, 90's R&B, he could recognize the low bass anywhere. The Captain watched with glee as his favorite girl closed her eyes and smiled widely as she sang along to his favorite lyrics. Five minutes ago, he would have told you a whole different answer to what his favorite music is, but the sight in front of him changed everything.

The brief wholesomeness of the moment quickly shifted as Y/N placed her hands on his broad shoulders, swaying her hips easily to the bass of the music, smiling up at him. Now, John recognizes it under the bright red lights: her smile is far from sweet and innocent, but tempting like the devil up on your shoulder that whispers the sweetest and wicked ideas in your ears. With that mischievous sparkle in her eyes, what was the point of fighting?

He was off duty. For one night, he wasn't anybody's boss.

So fuck it. Right?

Price can't bite back the lustful smirk stretching his lips as he finally grabs Y/N's hips and pulls her closer the moment she turns her back on him. The act doesn't scare her at all like she acted in Price's most lucid daydreams. No, in fact, the woman pushes her dancing hips against his, looking up at his icy eyes above her uncovered shoulder.

"Took you long enough" Y/N teased over the loud music, running a rosy tongue tip over the bottom lip. One hand traveled to rest on top of the one that gripped with strength the skirt's waistband, while the other moved back to his broad shoulders, incredibly tense to someone at the club. Price chuckled, not believing his ears.

"Took me long enough? Don't you know I work above you, you little rascal?" The captain teased right back, tilting his head down to speak right into her ear, the feel of his beard tickling the sensitive skin enough to give goosebumps, even with the heat of the night.

"Ah, c'mon, Price. I've seen you. How you look at me, always pairing us both together on missions, even if Gaz would be way more useful to you most of the time" She laughed, almost quietly, the mischievous smile plastered on that cute little face of hers. Following the music with a slow, calculated swing of hips against his crotch, she added. "I think you want to be above me in other ways, am I wrong?"

Goddammit, that was risky. And wrong. And so, so tempting.

Price sighed, his tongue pressing on the side of his cheek, looking baffled with himself. Accessing what was left of the captain inside of him, in this inebriated state, the Brit scanned the room, searching for any pair of familiar eyes on him, but instead, found his table full-on bantering about football or something that looked completely stupid and meaningless right now. This, and the crack of light coming from the back door of the club, leading to an alley that hardly gets any attention this time of night.

"What a witty little thing," John whispered in Y/S's ear, hot alcoholically breath fanning over her skin. One large hand rested beautifully on her waist, pressed back, forcing her to feel how hot his body was burning, how tight his denim probably felt now at this state. How desperate, how much he fantasized about something like this happening to him. "So clever... Let me see how sharp that tongue really is, hm?"

[gemsofgreece]

really loved your post on greek(-ish) film productions, but would you mind going into more detail about "the greek gaze"? 😇

Sure. By Greek gaze I mean the way a Greek experiences a Greek-inspired movie that is meant for international audiences. Our experience is not the same with everyone else.

I will give you a hypothetical example. Imagine that the modern state of Greece was the largest film industry in the world instead of the USA. Given the crazy number of film productions that take place annually to keep the film engine going, Greeks would of course soon start using material from other nations, new non-Greek stories to adapt them into movies. So surely at some point the Greeks would also make a movie on American history. A quick example, let's say the story of Abraham Lincoln and the American Civil War.

So the production starts and, of course, native Greek actors take all the significant roles at least. There is a native Brit in a supporting role, to include some accurate diversity. The movie is in Greek obviously, so Lincoln and everyone else speak Greek. The Greek moviemakers want to be "accurate" so the Yankees speak Athenian Greek whereas the Rednecks speak in the Cretan dialect. They try their best to get most crucial events right but some have to be changed a little bit to be more acceptable or interesting to the Greek viewers. And also there might be some bits that the Greeks don't know as well or have a different perception for them but, hey, who will notice after all? They want to have a scene in the Grand Canyon for whatever reason but it's not worth it going there just for that, so it shows Meteora instead, close enough, right? Greeks won't care anyway. The Greeks are not extremely knowledgeable on how Americans dressed in the 19th century, but they looked it up a bit on the internet and they read a couple of books and they believe some generic vintage western clothes they have in the vestiaries in their theatres can work well enough as an inspiration. They will do the job. They want to make this a good movie, a commercial success, and this translates into catering to Greek viewers' wants, therefore the movie also features elements, tropes and adjustments in the plot that are known to be attractive to Greeks.

Greek audiences love it indeed. Then it's released internationally. Other nations are used to Greeks being the ones making the movies about most everyone so they don't care that Lincoln speaks Greek and the movie has clear evidence of a Greek rather than an American perception of the American history. It's just a movie. We all know it mustn't have been exactly like this in reality! But nobody cares. It's not a big deal. We're here for the fun.

Then the movie is released in American cinemas. So there are three ways the American will experience this and it is going to be very different from all other nations. The American will either be: a) straight out horrified, b) laughing non-stop for the entirety of the film, or c) sullenly taking into account all inaccuracies and all telling signs that the Greeks do not know American history all that well and, more importantly, that they have no insight into American society at all. The American will be very annoyed because they clearly see very obviously Greek Greeks with thick Greek accents, Greek mannerisms, Greek hand gestures pretend to be Americans and demonstrate some events that did happen in America, but not like that!!! The American wants to protest that this is a travesty but they also feel hesitant to do it because after all they are also a little touched that the famous Greek moviemakers valued American history enough to make a film about it, despite that they butchered both the history and the depiction of the American society thoroughly.

If however the Greek moviemakers cared to collaborate with Americans and welcomed their insight, if they themselves went to the USA to pick up on mannerisms, attitudes and common character types, in order to make an informed representation, if they studied and explored the US enough to develop a profound understanding of American society and culture, if they cared enough to really and passionately present the values and the motives that permeated the causes behind the war, and all this showed in the final work, then the American audiences would be more pleased. Suddenly the inaccuracies would matter less, because hey! they can tell these Greeks strived a lot and respected the history and who Americans are as people. The Americans will pick up the little mannerisms, all the little easter eggs, anything that will make them feel seen by the famous Greek moviemakers who evidently understand them to some degree. No other nation will notice or understand this. Only the Americans and those who have lived in the USA can and only those will care enough in the first place. And they would appreciate that those Greek film celebrities took the time and care to think it would be appropriate that the movie should also make the Americans content, either with its accuracy or with its respect.

So this is what I refer to by Greek gaze. It goes beyond sticking to a literary or historical source. Our eyes are by default trained to pick up on inaccuracies and little easter eggs of insight on the Greek culture. Troy had some such moments. Disney's Hercules did too. Yes both were American but you could tell they had a mentality of "okay we're trying to be Greeks for this one". Recent productions do not have this heart or this genuine effort, it's like Americans (or other foreigners) clock in for the job, a role with a strange name, and other than that you can tell that nobody cares in the slightest that they are actively representing the culture of someone who is about to watch this movie when it's released in a few months.

*Having said this, I must clarify that Hercules and Troy are in no way ideal or good enough in this, but they are comparatively better than the other productions.

[the-ace-with-spades]

I need a fic where Ghost and Soap are on the run but like, framed and on the run.

They're on an assignment, just the two of them, to co-lead a team for the prevention of assassination for some big-name politician (dunno, I like to think this would happen either in usa or in the uk...) and it's all done and they're about to pack their shit and go back to base when Soap gets an encrypted call from Price to tell him that a video of Ghost killing the same big-name politician is on the telly

It's not Ghost, obviously, but it's someone of Ghost's posture, in Ghost's gear and Ghost's mask.

Also obviously, Soap doesn't believe it.

They get surrounded pretty fast by the local SWAT-like team and Soap makes Ghost use him as a hostage so they can escape with a minimal amount of maiming -- Soap is pretty sure Ghost could escape on his own, but it'd be a bloody mess that would follow him after he was proven to be framed.

Of course, Ghost tries to get Soap to leave once they're out of the danger zone. He does not.

Cue Ghost and Soap on the run while Price, Gaz and Lasewell try to find out who is framing him.

Simon's existence was erased so much that there are no pictures of him anywhere so instead, his APB has a sketch and a description. Problem is, the scars on his face were included, and way too characteristic to miss them (whether it's the glasgow smile or other scars, dunno, but you get my point). At first, it's really hard to move around because scars/mask + Simon being like 6'4 and built like a tank scream 'notice me'. Simon grows out a beard - it's red-ish blond colour so he ends up dying his hair red too. He absolutely doesn't care but Soap mourns because he's barely started being able to see Simon's face and hair and now it's all changed up.

Soap doesn't have an APB at first, but after a couple of days he is named as complicit (because he's seen helping Ghost run) and his photo is out. He has to shave the mohawk because it's too eye-catching (he's fucking bald and he hates it). He has to rein in his accent because he is described as glasgowian scottish. He can't call his maw so he sends her a random postcard he picked up a few towns ago and sends a short and cryptic message, hoping she believes he's not a terrorist.

Soap also finds out Ghost knows way too many shady people and knows way too easily where to look for even more shady people if he needs something the former people don't have. They steal shit out of necessity, often clothes and food, but sometimes they pickpocket cards and wallets. Some days they sleep in the car, some days they stop at questionable motels or hostels, and some days they don't sleep at all. They have burner phones but don't contact Price at all.

There would be a mandatory 'taking care of each others' wounds' scene (no bandages, please, you rarely use bandages in healthcare nowadays) after a dangerous run-in, a mandatory 'pretend to be a couple to lose the trail' and after that, an awkward 'there was only one bed' scene where things happen for the first time and they have a sloppy handjob or two.

They're probably trying to escape the country but can't do it via air because of the APBs and have to make their way to some shady port and even shadier ferry or cargo ship that won't run their fake passports in the system if they pay well enough.

Ghost is surprising Soap once again with an off-shore bank account and a knowledge of whichever country they're in's language. They move somewhere less crowded but not small enough that two Brits would be weird. Some people refer to Ghost as Soap's husband.

Weeks or months go by.

"What if they can't prove I didn't do it?"

"You faked your death once, love, I think you can do it twice."

[marzipanandminutiae]

I mean this fully sincerely: it is so interesting to me as a brit how different our conceptions of "old" buildings are, even though I know Boston is The city for old architecture in the states. The double-gregs-casino person probably didn't think twice about the buildings, because anything post-war pretty much counts as modern here. To me, Victorian red-brick is completely normal, standard housing. You rewire it and add indoor plumbing and it's all good, no need to tear it down and build new. My town has half-timbered hairdressers, a pizza place supposedly haunted by the ghost of Nell Gwyn, and a hotel that has existed on the same site and under the same name for 600 years, and this is just... normal? (And much better than turning it into a picture postcard relic like the twitter op apparently wants.) Genuinely strange to think of this as strange, it's so interesting to hear different perspectives.

I don’t think I articulated myself well on my response to that post, because the comments I’ve gotten are not reacting to what I MEANT to say

I know they’re not that old. Victorian housing is also normal where I live. My point was that they are Not Modern and still in functional use, that old or old-ish buildings can still be part of normal people’s normal lives (not just #aesthetic Instagram pictures)

This is important to me because, where I live, modern buildings are often gentrification with good PR. Two full neighborhoods of working-class people’s Victorian homes and businesses were torn down to build expensive high-rises, here in Boston. implying that old buildings are Olny For Posh People and that modern buildings are Real Life triggers a knee-jerk “OLD OR OLD-ISH BUILDINGS ARE STILL USEFUL AND PART OF NORMAL LIFE FOR THE GENERAL PUBLIC” reaction in me

It was early in the morning. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Mea culpa. But I do know that buildings from the 1920s to the 1950s are not actually very old

[unformula1]

race winner! (LS2 x OP81)

logan visits oscar after the win! w/c: 1729 loscar posts until loscar podium part 47 ! (series masterlist) a/n: im so happy happy happy oscar won hungary !!! HALF a loscar podium! || masterlist

Oscar Piastri is a race winner.

Logan smiles, no one can see him since the cameras are all on the podium while he is tucked away in a nice corner of the garage.

He glances up at the small TV hung on the corner of the garage and watches as Oscar holds the trophy above his head, smiling down to the crowd. A bittersweet feeling washes over Logan, the smile falters slightly.

Logan’s race was messy, it was disappointing to say the least. Logan fiddles with his race suit, letting his fingers curl over the flap and the zip. He runs his free hand through his hair, leaning back on the plastic chair, which definitely isn’t comfortable but it’s better than the floor.

He adjusts his posture slightly and shifts the chair to get a better angle of the TV, he lets out a soft sigh before looking back up at the TV.

He was proud of Oscar. 

He was proud of how far Oscar had come.

He quickly regains his focus onto the TV.

Champagne pop.

—

Oscar protects the trophy with his life, hoping Lando’s champagne bottle doesn’t break it into two pieces like last years. Lando completely avoids spraying Oscar, opting to spray the other brit with champagne.

Oscar quickly gets in on the action as Lewis sprays him with champagne before giving him a celebratory pat on the back. It’s soon interrupted by Lando’s champagne blast into the centre of both of them.

The podium feels like a few seconds before Oscar is guided off the podiums section and down the stairs. He’s promptly greeted with multiple pats on the shoulders, side hugs and cheers from whoever he passes.

The team gives him a minute in his own driver’s room, he stares at the trophy. It’s been his only dream, he just kept dreaming and dreaming for it and it finally came.

The trophy was sparkling, it was glowing, giving Oscar’s face a soft golden-ish glow. He places it on the table, and rests his chin on his arms, admiring his own hard work come to fruition.

Oscar lets out a satisfied sigh, before standing up to peel off the sticky race suit. 

—

Logan stands up and folds the metal foldable chair, leaning it against the wall as the television finally cuts the programme, with some ad involving Lando Norris popping up.

Logan weaves his way through the crowd, quietly manoeuvring his way through his mechanics, giving them side hugs and fist bumps whenever offered.

He didn’t exactly know what they were so happy about but whatever, if they were happy, Logan should be too.

Logan wasn’t mad, he just expected slightly more from this race, maybe if he had stuck to one strategy and stopped doubting his own abilities, then people would trust him more.

Maybe if he was as good as Oscar people would like him.

Logan freezes in the middle of the garage, the thought comes down like hail on his head. He shuts his eyes for a second to clear his mind, he can’t be thinking of that. Logan takes a deep breath and adjusts his hair once again before continuing to make his way to the exit. 

Would Oscar even want him there? Would someone else be there already? Was it even worth it?

Logan held his head high despite the thoughts plaguing his poor mind, he tried to keep a neutral face but it didn’t go that well. His face scrunched up, a frown subconsciously forming.

Logan keeps walking, finally leaving the garage, still in his race suit. There are some camera flashes but not that many, not as much as the other racers, which Logan somehow feels slightly grateful for.

He briskly walks toward the McLaren garage, which isn’t that hard to find considering it’s decked out in bright orange and is missing a roof. Logan takes another deep breath before walking toward the bright orange garage.

He gets a few stares from the McLaren staff, but nothing too concerning. The entrance is even more awkward, knowing he isn’t supposed to be here and he probably isn’t wanted here.

He runs into Lando. They lock eyes and Logan lowers his head, unable to look him in the eye. 

“Oscar’s in his room.” Lando says nonchalantly, “He’s waiting for you, I think.”

Logan doesn’t lift his head but a smile forms on his face. It’s subtle but obvious enough for people to notice. Lando nods and pats Logan’s shoulder before walking off. 

Oscar was waiting for him.

It felt like a refreshing splash onto him, like cold water on a hot summer day, which was pretty fitting considering the weather.

Logan wipes his hands on his race suit, which is actually much dirtier than his hands, and knocks gently on the door which has “Oscar” labelled on it.

“Door’s open.” Oscar shouts from the inside.

Logan hesitates but pushes down on the door handle and the door slowly creaks open.

Oscar’s obviously smiling while putting on a shirt, turns around. Upon seeing Logan, Oscar subtly pushes the trophy behind his back.

“No, no, that’s fine.” Logan notices, as usual.

Oscar lets out a soft chuckle and steps forward.

“You haven’t changed.” Oscar says, “Like, literally.”

Logan looks down, as if he didn’t know he was still in his race suit, before nodding while laughing.

“Yea, I rushed here the moment I could.” Logan rubs the back of his forehead while speaking.

Oscar ushers for Logan to come in, and he does, closing the door behind him.

The door clicks shut and it’s like nothing else matters, it’s a safe space now.

Logan sniffs, fighting the tear that threatened to trickle down.

Oscar just smiles stupidly.

Logan steps forward and Oscar rushes to him, enveloping him in a warm hug. Oscar grips tighter, pulling Logan in. 

Logan hugs him back, quietly sobbing on his shoulder.

“I did it.” Oscar whispers.

Logan nods and continues holding tightly onto Oscar like his life depends on it.

“You did.” Logan says, his voice laced with sobs.

“I’m sorry,” Oscar says, his tone growing solemn, his voice softening.

Logan lifts his head and shakes it, “You don’t have to be…”

“It should’ve been with you.” Oscar hugs him tighter. Oscar didn’t like denying that he wished Logan was up there, because he did. 

He wished with every beat of his heart and every pump of blood, on every shooting star that one day, him and Logan would be up there.

“Shut up.” Logan says, between tears and a small fit of laughter.

Oscar doesn’t say anything, the room echoes of both their sobs.

Logan steps back from the hug and looks at Oscar’s face, he locks eyes with Oscar, the first time in probably months.

“I’m so proud of you Oscar.” Logan says, “So, so, so proud of you. You made it…”

His voice falters as he fights back more sobs.

Oscar nods gently, “I’m sorry about yours.”

Logan can feel his heart melt, even at Oscar’s highest point all he cares about is Logan. He genuinely doesn’t know how long more his legs can take before he breaks down and Logan has to fall into Oscar’s arms.

Logan glances over at the trophy and Oscar catches it. He shifts the trophy closer to Logan. 

“It’ll be yours soon.” Oscar says, and he can feel the snicker from Logan.

“Mate.” Oscar says, “You deserve it so much, only if Williams didn’t go and screw you over.”

Logan feels a warm sensation bubble inside of him, he looks up at Oscar, who looks back at him and smiles.

“I swear, if they do anything else I might go over there and punch them.” Oscar says.

Logan can’t help the smile that creeps onto his face, it almost brightens up. Oscar was always special to Logan.

Oscar swings his arm around Logan’s shoulder and pulls him in.

Both of them don’t say anything for a few seconds, it’s just them and the silence. 

—

“You reckon we’d win an F1 race one day?” Logan asks.

“Hell yeah.” Oscar replies, confidence booming in his voice.

“Oh really? Who’d get there first?”

“We’d win together.” Oscar says.

“Doesn’t work like that.”

“P1 for you, then P2 for me.” Oscar explains, “Then, the next race, it’s me for P1 and you for P2.”

Logan chuckles.

“We’d share every single podium.”

—

It’s bittersweet, everything is. Logan didn’t know what emotions he was supposed to be feeling. In Oscar’s warm embrace, Logan felt a mixture of emotions all bouncing around in his chest.

He watched Oscar win, from one lap behind. 

He watched his best friend cross the chequered flag while he lagged behind an entire lap. 

He watched his best friend rise to become a Formula 1 race winner while he struggled to show his worth. 

He watched his best friend do everything they’ve ever dreamed of.

“I really… really… really wanted you up there.” Oscar says.

“We would spray each other with champagne forever.” Oscar continues, “We’d be living each other’s dreams.”

Logan sighs and Oscar pats him gently.

“You’re the greatest. The absolute greatest.”

“Really?” Logan questions, a snark coming through.

“Well obviously, you mean everything to me!” Oscar replies.

Logan feels time slow down, he hears Oscar’s voice resound in his head and it feels good.

Suddenly every single plaguing thought disappears, all replaced with Oscar. Every single doubt fades away at Oscar’s touch, and every single nightmare he’s had that haunts him all snaps out of existence.

“You’re amazing…” Logan’s voice cracks again.

“You’re more amazing.” Oscar says.

“Second fastest lap in a Williams!” Oscar diverts attention, turning their focus onto Logan.

Logan chuckles, “Don’t even-”

Oscar interrupts him, “No! We are so talking about that, that’s absolutely amazing!”

Logan can’t even be mad at Oscar, all he does is chuckle and Oscar pats his shoulder violently, shaking him while screaming every compliment known to mankind into Logan’s ear.

A hug later, they both stand up.

“I should probably go back, they’re looking for me.” Logan says.

“Yea. You know what, dinner, tomorrow, you and me, my treat!” Oscar says.

“No, my treat.” Logan says, “For the winner, only.”

Oscar chuckles, he knows he can’t fight that. 

As Logan leaves, Oscar raises his fist, “Next time, it’s gonna be you.”

Logan smiles, bumping his fist with Oscar’s.

“Deal.”

[youcouldmakealife]

Ok so we will be having a COTT March (I love those guys) and then some April Fools in late April....can I dare hope that we will be seeing some Georgie and/or Robbie too in the near future? (Forever and Always in Tandem (FAIT) maybe?) I'm honestly dying to hear about the modernists Taylor!!

You're pretty dead on. With the biggest of caveats one must give, especially when they're me, here's what the rest of the year is looking like.

It's the Official Schedule as of very recently, since I had to re-jig the whole thing to cram in 16 physio sessions, and I want to be transparent with you guys because it is different from what I initially planned, particularly that I lowered my minimum writing goal to 200k, about an 10% decrease, with all other writing goals reflecting that, and changed some timelines as well.

So, here's what's happening in 2025:

Previously, in 2025:

Jan - Wrapping SAIT, Big Annual Planning that lasts One Month.

Feb - Was supposed to be a get ahead month, but I dealt with a lot of healthcare stuff in Jan and Feb, including some time consuming testing. Add in the whole 'my country's sovereignty is apparently now in question' (I cannot overstate, to those who aren't in Canada, that everything I have seen and heard in recent weeks has strongly indicated that the relationship America has had with Canada is now over. We did our mourning and lamenting over the last few months, mostly amongst ourselves -- though great fucking timing with that international tourney, NHL -- and now it's the clear-eyed stone-faced acceptance of reality, unhinged as it is. Glad to see Europe seems to be doing the same.)

Ahem, sorry, there's been some processing going on for me this year, but processing is hard given that we're living in the stupidest fucking dystopia (Red-White-and-Blueland. I can't. This motherfucker. I can't.) and any attempts to get ahead have just lead to treading water. Thus the big re-jig that follows below.

What's still yet to come, 2025:

Mar - That's now! More healthcare stuff this month (fuck long COVID, seriously), including physio, but also trying to ACTUALLY get ahead now that I've lowered some of my expectations for this year (aiming for around 40-ish rather than 50-ish AO3 updates in 2025 is massive, workload wise) and doing a lot of the groundwork for Kickstarter, ie: setting up the campaign, financial work, etc.

April - I hopefully graduate from physio plus the real run up to my April Fools, which will be in late April and carry through to late May. We've got ourselves a Taurus. (Two, actually!)

May - main Kickstarter month! That will be like 75% of my job, the other 25% making sure everything else comes out on time.

June-July: These are head down writing months. With little to no hockey (early June has the SCF, and if my team's in them this is all null and void but that is...exceedingly unlikely this year), my schedule's wide open and I'm going to be working to get ahead on, well -- everything.

This is also when I plan on beginning to post the third part of the Tandem (which does have a title, though I figure I'll give it a better announcement than in the middle of an impromptu calendar).

Aug - I'm taking a week off at the start to do absolutely nothing, and then I'm making sure I've sorted out all my bits and bobs before I fly to England for my cousin's wedding (to a Brit, thus the locale). I've never been, so I've turned it into a proper little sightseeing trip as well.

September - I'm still in England (there 2 weeks total), as I'm spending a week by the sea for an Official Writing Trip. There will be scribbling in notebooks in cafes and drizzly walks along the shore and it won't be the right ocean but I don't think Gabe and Stephen would mind me starting it there.

Then I come home and do more writing, but the kind that doesn't look as cool in a montage.

This is when the Kickstarter extras will begin to go out, along with the beginning of the progress updates.

Oct-Dec: My season status quo, with the usual half work in December, while I make time for family and attempt to wrap as many in progress things as possible.

Basically, on AO3:

Jan - SAIT

Feb, Mar, Apr, May - COTT

June-Dec: COTT and ( )AIT, generally alternating 1-2-1-2, with the usual exceptions.

Kickstarter specific:

Now to Late April - prep, setup, promo, etc

Apr-May: Kickstarter Campaign

June/July: get started on admin, logistics, and begin work on the extras

Aug: Extras begin

Sep: Heads down work on the Kickstarter project (currently titled AF), continuing through remainder of 2025 and into 2026

[darkeraurora]

ADMISSIONS

CHAPTER 5 - MISSION FIRST

SFW-ish. Mostly. A couple of lines that might raise eyebrows.

Word count: 3348

This chapter kicks off the first arc of the story. As always, Spanish translations are at the end. It's not what I want it to be (when is it ever) but we had a funeral last week and I'm about to be going back to school... so here we are. I'll fluff it up and edit it more later.

MASTERLIST

FINALLY.

Today was the day. Just a few hours and Simon would be cleared for duty.

He felt relieved – done with the boot after six long weeks of limping around and holding up his team. Perhaps he could give it to Johnny, let him blow it up. That would be satisfying. Hunting down targets would be more satisfying though, and someone else would need the boot in the future.

The Brit tsked; couldn’t have anything nice.

He sighed.

It would stand to reason that Ghost would be used to waiting around after more than a decade in the military. Or reasonably so at least.

Incorrect. After waiting over two hours his temper was rising. Sereza had ordered his x-ray for yesterday to save him some time, so what the hell was the hold-up?

The Brit cracked his neck. These were busy people and he wasn’t exactly a high priority to them; not right now. Mentally admonishing himself for his selfishness, Simon returned to scrolling through his phone. Keen eyes perused texts and emails about their first op once the team was deemed fit for duty again. A wicked grin pulled at the corner of his hidden mouth as he read. Strategies and plans already played out in his head, his analytical mind turning each one inside out and back again as it fastidiously scrutinized the details.

The curtain surrounding Simon’s bay was jerked open…

And his mood instantaneously soured.

Not an orderly, not a nurse. And not the little one either, most unfortunately. Quite possibly the most punch-able face in Westforge.

“Your physical is due Lieutenant,” Abrams sneered. Ghost knew damn well that wasn’t even close to accurate. “Best not keep me waiting. Strip.”

If the temperature in the bay hadn’t dropped to match the raging blizzard outside, it was at least close. “Fuck off,” Ghost answered icily.

“Unfortunately for you, your… friend… isn’t here,” Abrams tutted. “You know that physicals are not optional, Lieutenant. Looks like this time you have no choice but to obey me.”

Not for the first time since their meeting, Simon had to remind himself that command would get their knickers in a twist if he were to kill the twat. Also Sereza might not appreciate the mess that would leave in her med bay. “Show me the paperwork.”

“No,” Abrams smiled sinisterly. “Strip. Now. Otherwise, I’ll have you reprimanded and see to it that you’re forced to stay behind while your team leaves without you.”

Ghost stood to his full height and leveled a death stare at this obnoxious prick. “Hand it over. Now,” he venomously growled; his hand extended.

“Again, no.”

Don’t kill him, don’t kill him, don’t kill him. “I’m losing my patience. Paperwork, now. That’s an order.”

“You have no authority here Lieutenant," he practically spat. "In med bay you listen to me. High time your type learned to do as you’re told.”

A memory clawed its way out from the back of his mind. His father yelling while his leather belt connected with Simon’s back. His face, his legs, his stomach. Over and over. Demanding his son ‘do as he’s told’ and kiss the snake his father had brought home. As a child, Simon had been afraid of snakes, something his father believed emasculating and he became determined to beat the fear out of his son. It didn’t stop until Simon relented, resulting in the angry snake biting his lip. His father had laughed and walked away, leaving his son covered in welts with a snake dangling from his face.

The skull advanced, towering over the pale-faced snob. “Go ahead!” Abrams challenged with an arrogant smirk, though he backed up several steps. “Put a hand on me and not leaving with your team will be the least of your problems!”

What was this fucker’s game? Either he fully believed he was above consequences – he’d probably never faced a consequence in his life, spoiled wanker that he was – or he was baiting Simon. Wanted to push until he made the Brit snap. Why?

“Guys!”  Abrams's pale cheeks went ruddy as Sereza stepped around the curtain. “This is the med bay! There are hurt people trying to sleep!” she whisper-yelled at both men. Mostly Abrams.

Simon’s shoulders relaxed as he let out the breath he’d been holding. Those fucking flashbacks, they picked the worst damn times. He’d have to go punch something later. Regrettably, it couldn’t be the wanker in front of him.

He aimed a glare at the prick. Not here, huh?

“Dr. Olivares you are not needed here,” Abrams snapped, stepping in front of her. The move seemed an attempt to separate Ghost from her, further raising his ire.

“Your tone contradicts you, Dr. Abrams,” she calmly draped her stethoscope around her neck. Faster than Simon could blink, Sereza snatched the chart from Abrams’s hand. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing that concerns you. This soldier is refusing his physical; plain and simple.”

Amber irises flicked briefly over to the skull before returning to the chart. “Somehow, I don’t believe you. You wouldn’t be speaking so disrespectfully if it was. However, it seems you forgot – again – that the military writes dates differently than regular people. See? The Lieutenant isn’t due for quite a long time yet.” She tilted the folder and pointed. “You were wrong Dr. Abrams; plain and simple.”

It was immensely satisfying to watch her correct the little snob.

Sereza glanced over what Simon assumed were notes this knobhead had scribbled on his record. Her eyes narrowed and those full lips pressed tightly together…  Teeth lightly bit on her lower lip, her tongue briefly flicked out, moistening them. Holy hell, that mouth… warm, wet…

Fucking hell, not now!

The skull blinked rapidly a few times and dropped his gaze to the floor.

“You may go Abrams, you’re the one who is not needed here.” Sereza loudly snapped the folder closed and reached around Ghost’s side, picking up the form he needed signed. “Lieutenant Riley. Are you actively dying right now? Do you have any complaints that would keep you from completing a mission or endanger your teammates?”

“Negative,” Ghost answered simply.

“Excellent.” Sereza signed the form and passed it to him. “Here you are, now go make good choices.”

Abrams's face puffed up as he began to throw a fit at being overruled. Sereza silently mouthed ‘go’ at the Brit and nodded at the curtain behind her. Simon didn’t need to be told twice and all but stormed from the bay as the twerp continued with his outburst.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Pieces of his rifle littered Simon’s desk.

For a rare moment, no mask or gloves hid him from the world. It wasn’t normally his habit to wear them when alone in his dorm with the door locked. Besides, cleaning his guns with gloves on would just result in dirty gloves.

He’d skipped dinner after his latest run-in with Abrams. Just not in the mood to be around a bunch of people and his insides were still twisted up from the flashback of his piece-of-shit father. And that shitstain’s comments had brought it on.

Shaky hands dropped a tiny piece for the second damn time.

Fucking hell.

Physicals were the worst.

People he didn’t know – almost always men, given his branch of the military and all… They were only doing their jobs and he knew that, but they’d touch him. Everywhere. And he unequivocally fucking loathed it.

It always left him feeling as dirty as Roba...

Whenever possible Simon tried to arrange his physical with a female physician, but then he felt gross for other reasons. While always exceedingly professional, a woman worked with a sort of firm detachment, which he infinitely appreciated. The entire experience was far less jarring when a woman was involved.

With Sereza…

He’d never interacted with someone so… effortlessly. And there wasn’t a single moment with her that he’d hated or tied his insides in knots. Very much the opposite. A fact that puzzled him.

He was indescribably grateful she’d stepped in. For all the fight he would have put up over stupid-ass orders, ultimately Ghost couldn’t refuse unless it was unlawful. He would have been forced to cooperate if he wanted to be cleared.

What if he’d stood his ground – even though he was in the right – and the 141 left him behind and someone didn’t make it back alive this time? Just last month he’d nearly lost both Gaz and Soap...

And what about Sereza?

A new wave of unease filled him. Twice now she had intervened between him and Abrams. What if she got in trouble because of him?

The chair screeched across the floor as he rose to his feet. He had to go find her.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Not in the common room. Not in her office. An orderly said her shift in the med bay ended hours ago.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit...

Where are you sweetheart?

Arriving at the last place he could think of, gloved knuckles tapped on the door of her room.

“It’s open!”

If he tried for a lifetime to find words for the relief he felt at hearing her voice it wouldn’t suffice. Slowly, the skull opened her door.

The little one sat on her bed, back to the wall and knees drawn up. Long tresses loose and partially clipped at the back of her head, out of her face. Navy leggings hugged her perfect legs and the V-neck cut of her charcoal gray shirt revealed the upper portion of her chest. Peeking out from her sleeves, bone-printed fingerless wrist warmers.

“Ghost! Que onda?”

Ghost blinked and tore his eyes from the vision in front of him. “Nice gloves.” The little one rewarded him with a pretty smile. “Brother?”

“Mm-hm,” Sereza looked down at her hands. “After their first deployment after I joined. I think I’d complained about cold hands for a month straight. What’s up?”

His huge frame leaned against her open doorway, one forearm against the top of her doorframe. “You alright? After… earlier?” he asked.

“U-uh…” she stammered, a tinge of pink tinting her cheeks. Sereza turned her head and coughed in her elbow. “I’m perfectly fine.”

Simon hummed. “I don’t wanna see you in trouble… because of me.” She smiled at him again. Fuck me you’re breathtaking.

“Ohhhh I get it now.  You don’t have to worry, I can’t get in trouble when it comes to him. Unless I stab him, but even then the only trouble I’d be in would be for getting to stab him first.” Her late-night visitor chuckled. She imagined he was wondering how he got a place in that line.

“You’ve done that twice now, getting between me and him. Why?”

“It’s not that I don’t think you couldn’t handle him yourself. I know you can and, obviously,” she gestured at the giant, barrel-chested lieutenant, “you’d win.”

Heat prickled Simon’s covered cheeks. Thank heaven for masks.

“It’s quite literally part of my job to stand between him and patients. Abrams is a new doctor. Very, very new. No one at his level is ready to solo yet, despite what he thinks of himself. As senior physicians, it’s our job to be a safeguard between newbies like him and you guys. I’m meant to nitpick his work, catch his fuck-ups, and call him out on them. And the way he spoke to you, not to mention his disregard for your autonomy, is a major fuck-up. That’s why, and you don’t have to feel guilty, okay?” Her friend nodded, but her little speech hadn’t worked; guilt still filled his eyes. “Wanna hang out?”

“I guess.” Abso-fucking-lutely I do. Fucking hell, did he just quote Johnny? Goddammit all to hell.

Ghost hadn’t been comfortable with hanging out in her room. People would get the wrong idea, and he wouldn’t stand for gossip spreading about her. The pair meandered down to the common room. Tea in hand and parked in their usual spot on the sofa, Simon found himself gradually unwinding.

Sereza hadn’t brought her sketchbook this time; instead, she dug through a stash of puzzle books in one of the end tables. Together they passed a few hours playing sudoku, crosswords, and hangman - which Simon was surprisingly good at. Sereza’s poor man was hung every time though. Simon even began sharing some of his worst jokes with her, just as he did in the field with Soap. Between her laughing and her own bad jokes, all of the Brit’s anxieties from the day faded away. She even managed to pull several genuine deep laughs from him as well.

He was enjoying himself. Immensely.

You are a wonder, Love.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

One final sweep of his dorm.

Pristinely tidy with zero trace of its soon-to-be former occupant.

This was okay, he reminded himself. Good, actually. Skills he depended on for survival would stay razor-sharp, and no more fantasies disrupting briefings. Things would be back to normal because Sereza would be out of his life after today.

Movements slowed and a bone glove rubbed over the ache gnawing at his chest. A crushing, smothering feeling. For weeks he’d been anticipating and mentally preparing for today, and now that it was here it fucking hurt. But this is what had to happen. Duty called, and Ghost would answer it. Whenever and wherever - he would go willingly.

Mission first. Always.

Plus the little one… Regardless of whatever he felt when it came to her, she belonged here. Deserved to have her life back without being burdened by him. And she would forget about him quickly, he was sure.

Everything would be… fine.

His phone buzzed just as Simon pulled the skull-plate balaclava down over his face. A text letting him know Kyle and Soap were at the flightline, Price had finished his business and was on the way, and that left Simon to bring up the rear.

There was one thing he had to do first.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ghost leaned against the wall just outside the kitchen. The major and the peanut were amusing together and he couldn’t pass up one last moment of entertainment. Her brother often came to “pester” her, as she put it. Gaz or Soap occasionally remarked it was because he loved his little sister, but Sereza would only roll her eyes before dismissing it as him having nothing better to do.

He wasn’t quite sure what he’d walked in on, but it was certain to be good.

Sereza held up her spoon, pointing it in her brother’s face like a weapon. “Drop ice down my shirt again I swear to all that is holy I will tickle you ‘til you vomit,” she warned. Simon quite believed she’d follow through.

Rafael held his palms up in mock surrender, wanting her to try his new smoothie recipe with him. Protein powder, jalapeños, quadruple the usual amount of spinach, and what sounded like enough celery to kill someone. Personally, the skull had nothing against smoothies, but just hearing about this concoction made him queasy.

“If you try this, I’ll try your tea,” Rafael offered.

The little one liked filling her stanley with tea and taking it along for her rounds. The Brit had thought it weird initially - tea in anything aside from a proper mug, but it made sense when he considered the demands of her job.

Soap had teased her about the pink camo stanley at first until she bonked him hard on the funny bone with it. He hadn’t done it since. Later he’d heard the story behind her cup – it had been a Christmas present from her brother during her first year at Westforge. Rafael had thought she could use a bit of femininity in this place drowning in testosterone. Needless to say, she’d wholeheartedly agreed.

There were several such stories from the guys on her brother’s team, telling Simon that despite the sibling’s propensity for bickering, and Rafael’s endless needling of his sister, they both cared for each other deeply.

Sereza cautiously picked up Rafael’s offering and examined it through the glass. “I don’t know. Looks like liquid salad.”

Bravery won out and the siblings each tried the other’s drink.

And promptly gagged.

“Why the fuck is there milk in your tea?!”

“Why did your smoothie taste like the underside of a lawn mower?!” she countered.

Simon was having the best time.

Both siblings scoffed and shoved their drinks back to each other. Perfectly synchronized.

“Have your weird tea back,” the major groused.

“Ew no. It’s got your boy germs on it now.” Her brother walked away toward his office, laughing evilly. “Now I have to make another one,” she almost whined, dumping her cup in the sink and turning the kettle back on.

Beneath the balaclava, Simon grinned as she pulled a box of Earl Grey from the cabinet. His second favorite right after Yorkshire Gold. And to his delight, Sereza prepared her tea impeccably well. He might have let it steep half a minute longer and added a tiny bit less milk but to each their own. Certainly far better than having ice in her tea, the poor thing.

She cleaned up, put the lid back on her mug, and wiped down the counter. Turning to leave, Sereza jumped when she noticed the skull silhouetted in the shadows. “Shit, Ghost!!” she swore with a shaky laugh. “I’m getting you a pair of those squeaky shoes parents put little kids in!”

A deep rumbling chuckle tickled her ears. “Not very tactical Peanut.”

“You’re dressed up all snazzy today,” she observed.

Simon felt a smile blooming under his balaclava. Distantly he wondered if she knew what ‘snazzy’ meant where he was from.

Just then realization seemed to dawn on her. He was geared up, a duffle slung over one shoulder, armed to the teeth and then some. Simon watched the light fade from her face. “You’re leaving?”

It tore at his heart. Please don’t look so sad angel. “Yeah.”

“For good, or…?” The skull gave a single slight nod. “That was quick; I just cleared you a few hours ago.” She grinned, but it didn’t reach her eyes this time.

Ghost sighed. A bone glove reached out and gently patted the top of her head, his thumb tracing down the curve of her cheek after. “You took good care of us Peanut,” he praised.

“My pleasure.” Sereza tiptoed but couldn��t quite reach the top of Simon’s head and instead patted the side of his helmet. “Sorry, can’t reach.”

“’ Course you can’t,” he retorted, unable to resist teasing her… one last time. The little one made a face and shoved his chest. The hulking Brit didn’t even budge at her effort. Laughing softly, Simon took pity on her and bent down, allowing her to give him a proper pat on the head. “Bye Sereza.”

“Yeah,” she cleared her throat. “Um… Take care of yourself out there, okay?”

“I will.”

Snuffing out the urge to stay longer, and risk saying something that need never be said, Ghost turned and walked away.

A foreign feeling enshrouded him. Something telling him he’d just left behind something important.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Heavy doors of the roof access banged open.

Polar air seared her lungs and exposed face. Sereza ran as quickly as the ice allowed, skidding to a stop once she reached the railing of the roof. Just as the plane roared through the sky overhead and was swallowed by the low, thick clouds.

A frozen tear singed her cheek. “… Simon.”

In a dark window some distance behind her, Rafael felt her world crashing down on her. Sereza remained on the roof, arms wrapped around herself, long after the sound of the plane’s engines was gone. Frozen wind tore at her black parka. Fitting, he thought, as she normally favored her blue one. Today, black matched her mood.

Rafael almost felt helpless.

Almost.

His phone dinged.

Price: She alright?

Rafael: She will be. Not tonight though. Yours?

Price: Peachy as ever.

Rafael: You’re an ass.

Price: Affirmative.

Rafael: Better work your magic fast Captain, I don’t like seeing my baby sister upset. Annoyed or happy suit her much better.

Price: Yes sir.

Spanish translations:

Que onda? - a slang greeting, 'what's up?'

[myrxellabaratheon]

Dear HBO, may I present you with my perfect casting (and awful edit) for Wolfstar?!

Richard Madden as Sirius Black and Alfie Allen as Remus Lupin.

Guys, listen to me they make sense — I swear it’s not only my Throbb shipper speaking.

They are both 38. They make sense age-wise

Richard has long-ish dark hair and disarmingly blue eyes, Alfie is sort of blond and has greenish-blueish-brownish eyes. They make sense look-wise

Alfie is not conventionally attractive, Richard is (I found them both extremely attractive, but that’s me). This just makes sense!

They worked together and they could lean heavily on the homoeroticism if and when needed — that’s maybe the throbb shipper speaking but still.

They both are from the UK (idk if they are going with “only brits actors” for the series as well, but just in case, they also have this)

The only “problem” might be that I’m not sure Richard could pull Sirius off (especially with Gary as a comparison), but still.

Sirius and Remus’s cast is the one I’m more worried about even if I won’t even watch the series…

[ostensiblynone]

LIAM - THE INTERVIEW | NME 6 APRIL 2002 'Born Again'

A blizzard of swearwords, a tsunami of bile, and a huge projectile vomit in the face of 'safe' rock 'n' roll. LIAM GALLAGHER is back, talking exclusively to NME.

Break out the Boddington's, steam clean that kagoul: Oasis are back. It's been quite a wait. It may be 18 months since the last campaign petered out, tellingly, with the best-forgotten 'Sunday Morning Call', but 2002 finds the group re-invigorated and back to their belligerent best.

This isn't the bloated coke-rock Oasis of 'Be Here Now' (Number Two in America, and still talked about as a flop) or the mix'n'match hotchpotch of 'Standing On The Shoulder Of Giants' (Number 54 in America, not talked about at all), but a gleaming, streamlined Oasis MKII, about to rip the drudgery out of Brit rock and start a rock'n'roll renaissance not seen since, erm, Oasis.

Yawn. You've heard it all before, right? Well, check out the promo produced by long-term video wunderkid Wiz for new single, 'The Hindu Times'. Be gone, untucked flowery shirts and putrid paisley visuals! Here the band are dressed in Droog-ish matching black leather, playing live in a monochrome fantasy land staffed by gun-toting dominatrixes, where neon signs flash the words 'pills' and 'bombs' and the band slurp on take-outs from the Korova Milk Bar. Phew. It's Clockwork Oasis. A 21st Century noise. No wonder Wiz describes it as, "The video all Oasis fans want to see".

All of this welded to the best numbskull rock riff they've mimed since '(What's The Story) Morning Glory?'. And that's before you even get to the lyrics. This is a song - if you've just been teleported in from Mars - which has a chorus which goes "God gave me soul / You know I'll rock 'n' roll". Kiss would sing it, but at least you wouldn't be able to see them blush under all that make-up. Oasis couldn't give a fook. Don't take our word for it. Turn on the radio. D'ya know what I mean?

William John Paul Gallagher certainly does. Today, we find him sitting in a dimly-lit bar a minute's swagger from the band's Marylebone offices and everything about him is in place. The double-glazed hooded-stare? Check. The tornado of wired mannerisms and immaculate Mancunian street-suss? Check. The now-permanent smoke-screen shades perched below that mod-ish thatch known to hairdressers the nation over as 'the Liam'? Check. And last, but by no means least, that sandpaper and licorice drawl...

"Me fookin' drinking is having some strange side effects!" he suddenly exclaims catapulting himself out of his chair in a blur of leather'n'Burberry to illustrate his point. "I can drink like a god but I'm pukin' up a lot these days. I went out with Richard Ashcroft in the week. Fookin' straight in there, ten minutes into the session, and I had to say to him, 'Get out the fucking way!' Next thing it's (mimes spectacular barfing motion), it's fookin', 'Yeeuuuurgh!' I'm puking up all over him."

Bandmates Alan White and Andy Bell, sitting nearby and modelling matching hangovers, fall about laughing. They may be in the company of, lest we forget, the greatest singer the country has produced in the last 20 years, a millionaire at 23 and the public face of a band that has sold 34 million albums in a chaotic ten-year trajectory but right now he's just being, y'know, Liam.

"We're going out a lot as a band at the moment and that's great," he enthuses. "And if I wasn't in a band, I'd be doing it anyway. Probably worse, because there wouldn't be some cunt waiting for me to take my photo and put me in the papers the next morning."

He allows himself a grin. They may have called time on laddism, but seemingly, the lock-in rolls on. And Liam doesn't just know the owner. He is the owner. The trio have been out on the tiles for the last three nights, but seeing as it's Wednesday afternoon, it seems pointless to end there. Having met up with Ian Brown already this week (He's colossal, but he's off his fookin' tits, man!) tonight the beneficiaries of Oasis' roving hospitality is to be Travis. Liam's a big fan.

"I fookin' love those guys," he roars leaping to his feet once more, before declaring with an evil grin, "I'm gonna teach Dougie how to swear tonight: 'How's it going, Dougie? Still Happy? Surely someone's pissed you off; you've been touring around the world for the last fookin' two years! You must have got the arse with summat!'"

He adopts the scholarly air of someone putting Dougie from Travis through a Teaching Swearing As A Foreign Language course.

"It's 'fuck off', it's 'shit'," he intones, voice slowly rising until it reaches a full-on Manc roar, "it's 'whore', it's 'cunt', it's EUUUURRRGGH!"

The band collapse with laughter. Life in Oasis is still the same old soap opera isn't it, Liam?

"Course it fuckin' is. I'm Jack, our kid's Vera. Alan's fookin' Beppe from Eastenders. Gem's Boycie from Only Fools And Horses and Andy Bell's fookin' Neil from The Young Ones!"

There's a nagging thought, though, that perhaps it's high time it wasn't. That now more than ever Oasis have got to get serious and prove they're still worth the attention of the nation. It's time to deliver, and - as we said at the start - so far the signs are good.

Their fifth studio album will be called, heroically, 'Heathen Chemistry'. And if they're not quite under new management, then at least they've turned into a co-op. The sessions started a year and a half ago when Liam, Gem, Andy, Alan and Johhny Marr (they share managers) booked a studio for ten days and, in a Noel-free zone, came up with a bunch of demos which, according to Andy Bell, "sounded like 'The White Album'"

As well as 'The Hindu Times', the finished LP will include Gem's fearsome Stooges-like thrash 'Hung In A Bad Place' - as heard at the recent Watford and London Royal Albert Hall shows - a strident blues howler called 'Force Of Nature' sung by Noel (complete with the chorus, "I'm smoking all my stash / Burning all my cash") and a further pair of Noel-penned tracks entitled 'Little By Little' and 'Stop Crying Your Heart Out'. There are also three songs written by Liam.

Yes, you read that right. Three songs. Forget the jibes about Oasis being Noel Gallagher's solo project, Liam's finally coming into his own, but why the wait?

"If I could have written them before I would have," he shrugs. "But I was too busy singing, being the frontman or whatever it is that I am. I was just too busy getting off me tits and singing songs. I had no time to pick up a guitar because I was too wasted or running around causing chaos. So I took a step back and thought, 'Right, I want to make music.'"

Did it come easy?

"'Born On A Different Cloud' came well easy. I just did that at the piano. I had three different parts and these guys helped me put it together. It's pretty spacey. It goes into a chant. It's a Manc odyssey. 'Songbird' came easy too. I just came into the studio playing it on two strings."

Andy intervenes. He's aware that Liam's interpretation of the word 'easy' isn't the average one.

"Basically, how it works is this. He comes into the studio and strums an acoustic guitar every day for six months, and he'll be singing without any words, just going 'la la la' over and over again. Then eventually the words start to come and he's got a line or two. And then, after about a year, he's got the song."

Liam: "I'm fookin' slow, man. I'll be a solo artist by the time I'm 90!"

Having been afforded a sneak preview of 'Songbird' in the offices of the Big Brother label prior to our meeting, it's a pleasure to report that it's a gem, an acoustic love song laced with a barbed wire melody built for hearing on summer lawns at midnight. For the cynics who criticised Liam's solo songwriting debut 'Little James' for its 'Plasticine / tambourine' rhymes and neglected to notice its sucker punchline "We weren't meant to be grown ups", it's payback time - not so much one in the eye as a fully-fledged shiner. People are gonna be surprised.

"I like beautiful things," says Liam. "It's not all dark in Liam World. I take me shades off every now and again and have a look at the world and see some nice things."

Andy: "That's what I like about Oasis at the moment. For me, even looking at it still as a fan, they're back to being what they're best at, being uplifting..."

The fans certainly seem to agree. Between July 5 and 7, Finsbury Park in London will host a three-day Oasis festival. With the band having sold 80,000 tickets within an hour of them going on sale, it's clear that as brand loyalty goes, theirs isn't one that's in decline. If anything, the opposite's true. Was it a deliberate move to come back with a bang?

Liam: "Well, if you've got a load of people who want to see ya, you've got to invite everyone round your house and put a party on. You've got to be a good host and that's what we are. These are the fastest-selling gigs we've ever done. They're gonna be mega.... (Pounding fist on table) We are gonna fookin' have it at those gigs, because the kids deserve it for still being with us."

What does he put their continuing appeal down to?

"We've never been about a career, that's what matters. And I know where we're at. I know it's not what it used to be, but we still matter to people. I still want to be the biggest, of course I do - playing to 80,000 people in America - but in ten years' time we'll still be here, still fookin' rockin' and putting on shows. That's what counts. We're still more important than U2 or REM or anyone..."

The Charlatans are an understandable support act, but quite a few people there won't have heard of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.

"Black Rebel are my favourite band out of all the new ones that are coming out. I like that Swedish lot. The Soundtrack Of Our Lives, too - killer tunes, right up my street - but Black Rebel are just fookin' rockin'. I like 'em because nobody dares do rock'n'roll. No-one's got the balls to do it. I'm not really mithered about anyone else."

That's certainly true. When NME asks whether The Strokes' 'Last Nite' video was an influence on Oasis' latest celluloid offering, Liam dismisses them with a swish of his hand: "Listen, the only reason The Strokes do a fookin' video in fookin' black and white is because they look like a bunch of spotty little idiots in colour."

In fact, Liam seems remarkably unconcerned about the competition all around. As far as he's concerned, rock'n'roll's lost its danger.

"Too fookin' right," he explodes for about the millionth time this afternoon. "There just doesn't seem to be any angry music out there at the moment and it boggles me because life's still shit, doesn't matter how much money you've got in the bank. There's still some cunt pissing you off. "(Sings) 'Daddy was an alcoholic'. What a bunch of miserable, moaning fuckers..."

Do acts like So Solid Crew provide that necessary rock'n'roll thrill these days?

Andy: "Well, I can understand kids at school probably talk about them, that they provide that element of notoriety. But I think there's room for guitar bands to do that as well."

Liam: "The music's not dangerous though, is it? That's what I'm saying. I've got a mic and it's more dangerous than his gun... (A pause) I don't mind So Solid, though. I just like the idea of a bunch of fukcin' oiks running around causing chaos. But anyone else? I don't see The Strokes as dangerous, or The Hives. Fookin' Hell! They remind me of the fookin' Monkees! The Strokes the best band in America? Well, it's about time they had a decent band there. They're not remotely dangerous."

Compared to who, Oasis?

"Too fookin' right, man. I'm more dangerous than any cunt. Put me in a room with any of these young fookin' bands today. They wouldn't fookin' walk out alive, and I'd put money on it. And then they can come and see me in ten years' time and I'll still be having it."

Are there any rock stars who do stand the test of time?

Liam: "John Lydon is cool. I saw him at this awards thing and he said that he'd never seen such a bunch of wankers on stage. And he was right. Now if I'd been up there, I would have had to have a word. But he's probably one of the cleverest men in the game. He's still fighting."

And Keith Richards?

"I don't think we'd get on somehow. He thinks he's the only guy who's ever drunk or taken drugs in his life, the only man who's ever swore or stumbled. And y'know, I've done it with the best of 'em. They (The Rolling Stones) don't do anything. Make a record, you lazy bastards!"

Oasis might be on the verge of getting serious again, but with Liam around you can never be too sure how long that's going to last. There's only so much music he can talk about and before long, the conversation has taken a definite turn for the surreal. First up, Mastermind. Liam, it seems, has been invited on. "Fookin' seriously, man." he declares shaking his head and dragging himself back to some resemblence of normal service. "They want me to go on and answer questions about Manchester City. Now it's not gonna look good for me, is it? Sitting in some fookin' black chair while some cunt makes me look like an idiot!"

He's started so he'll finish. From here, we move on to Pop Idol.

Liam: " Listen, I've got something to say about that. People voting for their fookin' favourite band is a load of wank. It's a con. It either happens or it don't. That show is like diarrhoea. It's like sitting on the toilet all day and then (grimaces) something comes out. Then before you know it, there's a fookin' flood. You ought to see my TV, it's covered in spit, 'cos I got that close to it going, '(Mimes head an inch from the screen, incandescent with fury as Will Young croons 'Evergreen') YOU... FUCKING... CUNT!"

Then to his attitude to flying post-September 11...

"I've been on plenty of planes since then. All it means now is that the forms we have to fill in to go there are 20 pages longer. Anyway, I reckon they've got it all wrong. I know who fookin' did it. It was the Scream. I'm gonna send a letter to President Bush telling him who did it. Scottish cunt. Having it large. Skinny fooker Gillespie."

Onto the Queen's forthcoming Golden Jubilee.

"Big-eared bunch of cunts! I don't give a fook about 'em. They should get rid of the Queen's head on the ten pound note, course they should. If they put anyone's head on the new money, put mine on it. That or Prince Charles with a strap-on! Thinking about it though, I might gatecrash that party. No, fook it. I think I'll be having a rather large shit that day."

And then off to the World Cup.

"We were in the studio the other day and someone was saying 'Little By Little' will be the anthem for when England beat Argentina and I was like, 'Piss Off!' It'll be 'Stop Crying Your Heart Out' coming out as a single and them lot crying their cocks off in Japan, getting stuffed by some cunts about eight-nil. And then catching the next fookin' plane home.

"'Cos that's what's gonna happen. Everyone thinks that England are gonna win the World Cup, but no way. Y'know, if we do, fair play to 'em, but there's too many fookin' Man. United players in that team for it to be winning the World Cup.

We're on a roll. But suddenly, just as Liam is about to launch into outer space, we're interrupted. Brrrrng! Brrrrng! It's girlfriend Nicole. The milkman's just arrived and it's four o'fookin' clock in the afternoon.

Liam: "What time does he call this? I want me milk and me eggs and me oranges at eight o'clock in the morning like everyone else!"

Maybe he thinks, because it's you, you won't mind.

Liam: "No way, man. I don't have to be in a band, but I do it when I'm meant to, so why shouldn't he?"

If God organised a roll call of the all-time rock greats upstairs in the VIP enclosure beyond the pearly gates you know who'd get the call - Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Sid Vicious, Kurt Cobain. But right in the middle of them, having blagged in with a day-pass, you'd find Liam Gallagher, elbowing them out of the way, making sure they knew some real talent was there. In a Brit rock world that's descended into an apologetic mess in his absence, he's needed more than ever. Right, Liam?

But he's gone, striding up the stairs to the bar, off to mastermind another great night out. Off to flick another V-sign at, er, the status quo. God gave him soul, for sure. But the point is, he is rock'n'roll.

ARTICLE REPRODUCED FROM NME.

[noa748]

NR chapter 69 is halfway (ish) done!! Or maybe more, my goal is 10k words lol but I'm going to find a good stopping point rather than an arbitrary word count. Just not sure when the natural stopping point is yet

Kinda struggling with the lack of action. It's hard to just gloss over the character's internal struggles during the last tour of tethe'alla before the final seal... and I love writing character interactions but I worry that it gets stale for the reader ;_; it's going to be a total shitshow once they get to the tower of mana but I just need to... GET THERE...

Also Brit's birthday falls on this chapter which makes me cackle because I'm immature

[vagueposting-femnb]

My idea for doctor who:

An American companion.

I don’t mean like… “raaaaah murica!!” (At least not genuinely) and certainly not a “the south should have won” type of American.

But like… basic. “Normal” in the sense of not bein a bigot. At least no more than any other companion has been (towards aliens, w the “what’s wrong with it??” Type of talk… doubt I’ll ever be free of that, although I feel like Clara did fairly well?)

I want the gag to be like… 3x they try to be the “driver” but they keep getting into the front left seat expecting the steering wheel… & it ain’t there, until it is. I want the doctor to be so blatantly used to dealin w British/european companions that the American has to be like “uhhh in pounds/gallons/feet/miles/MPH/US dollars?” once in a while.

I also think it would be funny to have a few episodes focused on shit goin wonky on earth, where the American has like… a general knowledge of “event happened roughly this year in area” but like… no actual idea of the area. Like… idk I struggled more than most in history when it came to years & locations, but uh… OH!!! Like that Mt Rushmore gag from that show??? Where it’s like “so & so carved mt. Rushmore…” “where’s it located?” “IDK ECUADOR OR SOMETHING???” Where the companion can detail the event, the year-ish, & then something like… “oooh, I didn’t realize *country* was right next to *other country*!”

Like… the Brits get to laugh at “dumb American” Americans get to relate & also see how it’s funny, and the whole while we’re bringing DW back to earth, back to more “episode stories” over “season stories”

Plus!!! I think it would also be funny if most of those “earth” episodes were still set in European countries & the American can get a bit of culture shock from bein across the pond, with one or two episodes bein in the US bc perhaps they were on their phone in the tardis & went “hey doc, this is weird af bc this wasn’t supposed to happen/doesn’t seem normal” or even just the usual “tardis ends up here” & the companion is like “back in the states? If you’re tryin to get rid of me you’re way off” (bonus points if it’s the right state but still 12hrs away from home… this place is too damn big)