#so often when goodsir tries to do what he thinks is right someone with more power tries or does prevent him to do so

[abrahamvanhelsings]

"goodsir is neoliberalism bc he tried to kill those guys blah blah blah" they kidnapped him and then they made him cut up men to be consumed as an act of control and pure humiliation by threatening to kill probably the last man he still liked in that party, forcing him to be complicit in an act he is viciously against, and to be complicit in the survival of the very men who betrayed the whole expedition and who are using him like a tool. and then the guy he's trying to protect comes up to him to sob and monologue at him about cannibalism and religion and acts of survival and belief as some kind of justification for the fact that he's an absolute pussy ass bitch who'd rather lie down and take it than stand up in the face of acts and circumstances he finds abhorrent. and goodsir was supposed to not be a cunt abt that? lol

[solomon-tozer]

Goodsir/Gore (sfw, 700 words)

I scribbled this down yesterday after the pairing was suggested (thank you!), it wanted to be more than a little kiss...

-

He's noticed that Gore only comes to find him when Doctor Stanley is elsewhere. The lieutenant used to poke his head into the sick bay, wearing a grin as he greeted them and then reassured them that nothing was amiss—he was only seeing how they were doing. He doesn't come when Stanley is around now. He seems to only want to talk to Harry, checking he's alone or not too busy and then making himself at home on one of the chairs. He watches as Harry works, chatting amiably and generally being such pleasant company that Harry has stopped wondering why Gore does this and lets it happen. He looks forward to it, even, catching himself smiling when Gore invites himself into the sick bay and greets him like an old friend. It gives Harry such a warm, pleasant feeling to know that Gore seeks him out, and genuinely seems to care for what he does and has to say. Stanley's manners can be so caustic, his interest in Harry so limited, it makes a wonderful change to be around someone who smiles and laughs so easily, asking him about what he is doing and all he wants to do. The stories Gore tells in return are quite wonderful too, far more humble versions of tales Harry has already heard from other offices. He seems almost shy sometimes as he tells them in the way he looks up at Harry, as if seeking a favourable response. Harry's not always sure he gives the right one, but he tries, because he's come to find himself very fond of listening to Gore speak, and Gore seems very much to enjoy being listened to.

The first time Gore asks him to call him by his Christian name, Harry's tongue becomes insensible. It makes him flush, looking down and trying to agree as Gore—as Graham—smiles warmly at him. He already knows he won't call him by his name often. It feels too intimate, like something he isn't worthy of. Gore insists, though, so he tries, and finds that in the privacy of his mind he can't help calling him Graham from now on.

The first time Graham presses his hand to the small of his back, guiding Harry to leave the sick bay ahead of him, Harry jumps. The touch is like a brand, even though the layers he's wearing. Graham apologises for startling him, seeming genuinely sorry, and Harry fumbles for the words to insist that it's really quite all right. Graham's smile seems too tight, until Harry reaches out and places a reassuring hand on his upper arm. This time, Graham accepts his promise that all is well, his smile softening and reaching his eyes.

After that, Graham touches him more often.

It's usually so casual, nothing anyone would think anything of, but Harry feels every little point of contact. It eases whatever tension may have been lingering, anchoring his attention so fully on Graham that it's hard to remember for a moment that anything else exists. When they're alone in the sick bay, Graham is bolder, pressing into Harry's space to look at what he's pointing to on a diagram, reaching out to help right his sleeves, or brushing an errant curl from his brow. Graham's gaze lingers with those touches, gentle and pleasant, all of his face smiling with handsome softness. It makes it hard to remember what Harry was doing, to pull away and turn back to his task. He finds himself smiling in return, his heart both light and labouring, Graham becoming his task.

When Graham confesses that he should like to kiss him, his hands having just smoothed over Harry's collar and lingering there, Harry's world goes perfectly still. He finds himself dazed with wonder, just a whisper short of laughing at the strange, joyous notion. The easy familiarity that's grown between them is something he cherishes, all the more because he never expected it. He didn't expect this either.

He wants it, though.

Graham makes it so easy to nod, to say yes, to let it happen. It's strange how right it feels, how much like home and comfort. Graham kisses gently, absent a smile for a moment, until Harry leans into the touch and it returns full force, Graham slowly pulling back to beam at Harry. He looks happy, as happy as Harry finds himself feeling, and the knowledge that he's done that, brought Graham joy, makes Harry's heart skip a beat. Carefully, he leans in to kiss Graham again, and with the touch feels something nameless fall into place.

He knows, from then on, that they are something to each other too precious to name, or to ever let go of.

[mifhortunach]

@thaliatimsh​ - im so sorry!!!! a vague ‘riffing off of (tm)’ what i was saying? (trying to say) last night  - but Mostly// word splurge everywhere :/ - unsure if theres either a/t Clear or!! tbfh a/t of worth here, but yk :T :S !

thaliatimsh said: I thiNK you are RIGHT re: distance n i wonder. … why. Considering distance in gibson bein murdererererd scene… tins of mystery… (like a week previous MAX). I wonder. Why. Im not very good at bein clear anyway im. Fffff.

=> fgksdhfg, idk if youve had the same thought w this as i have, or mabs,, its lead to/from the same thought but like. Hickey’s plan was always probs gonna end/hinge a lil on cannibalism? [‘Lads Gotta Eat! People Made O’ Meat!’; Hickey’s Personal Sledge Hauling Song, 1847.] Ofc they all already know tht the cans are making them Weak & WEird™ .

so im Not getting confused!!! Just #FAx: at some point theyre gonna run out of food With Them, so Options~: 1) take tins proffered by crozier, 2) somehow they manage to find game! 3) boys were made for eating

So assuming tht no ones gonna keel over anytime soon, theyre deffo gonna have to kill /Someone/

Once gibson ‘runs out’ [[ :(( ]], they gotta go back to tins, or they gotta get another Body p much. ppl who CAnt be ate!: Hickey (ofc), Diggle (For Now/, until Armitage gets his HACCP qualifications), Goodsir (butchers are hard to train up, lads might get queezy chopping up their M8s)

Gkdsfhgk, distance as a food preparation method, a book by cornelius (EC) hickey !! - is what im TRYINBG to get to as my point !!! jfc, idek

but idk if thats rly necessarily a v strong (or tbf, Accurate) Take yk? i gotta think it over, & leave this pot boiling someplace else temporarily or smth

=====================

[[i think,, what i meant w/ Deliberateness, as much as i like. ½ tried to articulate it there last night (& now having read over a lil of tht, have v little clue WHat Exactly i was trying to be saying there tbfh), is that Of Fckn Course// hickey is deliberately setting him Apart “DELIBERATE isolation of hodgson during that scene (plate, cutlery, separate space, different /meat/)” like u said!! But i think up Til tht point, its one of those weird cases where its not being Enforced~ as such? [tht might just be my own reading tho? Which are.. while Not ~Notoriously Off-Base? But often taking the ‘’wrong part’’ of a thing as the important element, or just straight up Confused, rip lmao]

Like /Like/. The Hodgester™ has just turned up into a place already filled w dudes who are all a lil asshole-ish & starving! - & enough of them are running from a hierarchy issue, rather than a deep abiding love for EC, i suppose? Uhm - && they all wanna Be There (for want of a better descrip/). So, i was ½ at it thinking(?) abt if it was mayhaps (originally) one of those things where u accidentally(?) isolate yrself from the rest of the group bc u dont wanna bother/intrude/dont feel welcome [The Sk00l Feelingz] & thru that slight gap you end up falling thru the cracks as twere & /Actually/ becoming Set Apart. 

&& like. Idk, on #mutineers side; hes just turned up! Hes Hierarchy!! & yk still,,, Officers/Men Divide~ the line drawn in the 6ft X 4ft ice-cave separating the messdeck & the wardroom ! which despite no longer /Rly/ being in place now, or honestly nearly as much as gone post-walkOut, has gotta be subconsciously embedded ? dunno [tbfh, im word vomiting rly Badly// now - i think u were & Are!! Right abt it, & yr fic Felt Right// abt it!! Which means it may as well be True & Canon & Real, etc: Often Always thinking abt the different ways of saying lieutenant, oof :( ] ]]

maybe what i mean is like; I'm Not Sure! (personally :S ) if it started out Accidentally, Deliberate Banal, or Deliberate Malicious, yk??

&& Whether its been a gradual progression, or happened much more Starkly when they decided to captainnap crozier, or spatchcock chicken gibson & other stuff? dunno

((i gotta [REally Gotta//] rewatch the last couple of eps, so i get the planning/timing etc right in my head? bc idr if the plan to marry tuunbaq was ‘hatched’ pre or post captainnapping, or if they were related At All -> do feel like the hermitage i mentioned going on has gotta be extended just so tht i can think things into #clarity, as well as actually watch the show again before making up shit, lmao)) 

--- thinking abt: 

possibly hodgester’s confession & inability to kill hickey in contrast w fitzy’s confession & offering up of his body? but idk what that IS or MEANS, or if its even THERE [yr talk of him as,, ‘the average mans james fitzjames’ is,, im Lov,, Truly Banger & Deeply Upsetting :( ]

smth poss to be said abt how Much// of what george says/dialogue is abt food & his big monologue is abt cannibalism & transubstantiation yk? Idk [hodgester, location: North Artic Circle, likes: etymology, religious guilt, languages, musical instruments, food & learning abt how its prepared :(( ] other than, yk, Mood, Big Same There Lads

===

To Conclude, yr 100000% right, Magnus Manson Good Boy, Packed The Plates & Forks

[lafiametta]

So I asked @arcticelves​ to pick between Jopson/Little as barista/coffee addict and Jopson/Little as teacher/single parent (her response, unsurprisingly, was utterly delightful), but then it got me thinking about the scenario she didn’t do, and I just couldn’t help myself, you know? I also should admit to drawing a fair degree of inspiration from @keyofmgy​’s wonderful Goodsir/Silna coffee shop AU, On Infatuation (A Case Study). (Does that make what follows fanfiction of fanfiction? Maybe so... the mind boggles!)

Edward Little was definitely not a coffee addict. 

Admittedly, he always had a cup or two in the morning, before he left for work, and then there was his late morning pick-me-up, often followed by a mid-afternoon refill, and sometimes, on those nights when he knew he would be up for hours with a project deadline, he would stop in at his local coffeehouse for a triple espresso, made as hot and strong as humanly possible. But he wasn’t a true addict, not by a long shot. It wasn’t as if he absolutely required it to function and he could have given it up at any point, if he was forced to. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t a problem, not really. 

Or, rather, it hadn’t been a problem – at least not up until a month ago, when Edward realized his simple habit was beginning to blossom into something that might well resemble an addiction. And ironically, it wasn’t a need for caffeine that was driving his compulsion, but instead a pair of startling blue-green eyes and a dimpled smile warmer than any mug of fresh-brewed dark roast.

He had been on his way home one Friday night, thinking he would run by his usual place for a half-pound of ground Colombian and a flat white, only to discover it shuttered, closed for long-term renovations. A quick search on his phone had turned up a coffee shop just a few blocks over – Franklin’s – and while he had no idea how good their coffee was, it couldn’t be worse than heading home without decent provisions for the next morning. Inside, it had looked like a typical Friday night scene: a scattering of patrons on overstuffed sofas, chatting or reading as they sipped their drinks, as well as a contingent of student-types, staring furiously into the glow of their MacBooks. There had also been some kind of open mic event going on; near the back, a young dark-haired woman was perched on a stool, singing and strumming a ukulele. She wasn’t half-bad, and Edward noticed that she seemed to have a fair number of clear admirers among her audience, including a curly-haired guy with glasses who looked thoroughly entranced.

Edward must have been distracted enough by what was going on with the musician that he didn’t turn to face the counter until he was right in front of it, and then he found himself incapable of moving at all. 

It wasn’t just that the barista standing across from him was insanely good-looking – even though he was – or that he was sporting the most adorable pink-cheeked grin or that his ink black, deeply-parted hair was falling across his brow in a casual, yet completely devastating way.�� 

No, it was really the combination of all those things – along with the fact that his eyes seemed to flash with a sudden spark of curiosity as their gazes crossed – that caused Edward’s pulse to suddenly jump upwards, even as the rest of his body remained frozen into place. 

“Hey... what can I get for you?” 

Edward’s mind unfolded into a dazzling array of responses, few of which were decent enough to utter in public, much less to a complete stranger. It was impossible to know what to say, until he realized he needed to say something – and for god’s sake stop staring – before he began to look like the stupidest, or possibly the creepiest, guy on the planet. He must have managed to mumble out something reasonable, because suddenly he was reaching for his wallet and handing over his card, although he made sure to stuff a few dollars in the tip jar, too. Even the time he stood to wait for his order seemed far too brief – mostly because he got to watch the barista at work – and in what seemed like the blink of an eye he found himself back out on the sidewalk, a half-pound bag of beans in one hand and a steaming flat white in the other, his name written in jaunty capital letters across the side of the cup. He didn’t bother to wait until he got back to his car to take a sip.

It was probably the best flat white he had ever tasted. 

A post-work visit to Franklin’s soon became a regular part of Edward’s daily routine, at first just involving to-go orders and take-out cups, but eventually progressing to longer stays where he settled in with a ceramic mug on one of the couches by the window. (He had once tried going by in the morning on his way to work, and found that not only was the gorgeous barista not on shift, there was apparently an entirely new crew behind the counter, overseen by a lanky, wavy-haired supervisor, who seemed oddly fastidious about his clothes and in keeping his white knit sweater as free as possible from coffee stains.) In time, Edward got to recognize the regulars: not just the ukulele player and her number one fan, but also the couple who came in and read quietly together, and while it struck him as a bit of a May-December pairing, the two men looked to be entirely devoted to each other. 

And then there was the barista. 

Edward did his best to play it cool, and hoped that he wasn’t coming across like some kind of weirdo stalker. When he went up to order at the counter, he kept it brief; he didn’t want to pressure the guy into chatting, especially if he wasn’t interested. Besides, he reasoned, only a jerk would try to hit on someone when they were at work. It was true that the barista always had a smile for him, a mischievous little quirk of the lips that never failed to set Edward’s heart racing, but it was just as possible that he might be like that with everyone, and Edward the poor loser who couldn’t tell the difference between mutual interest and good customer service.

Even so, he could tell he was beginning to develop an addiction to this place, not just for the coffee – which, admittedly, was fantastic – but for the man who made it for him, whose face he come close to memorizing after nights of careful study, but whose name he had yet to learn. 

One evening, after ordering his regular at the counter, he went to drop off his work bag in an open seat, only to hear his name and drink being called out over the shriek of the espresso machine.

“Double cappuccino for Edward...?”

He had picked it up and was half-way back to his couch when he realized that he must have taken the wrong order, as someone else’s name was written across the side of his ceramic mug. The dark-haired barista gave him a quick glance as he approached the counter, and Edward did his best to ignore the fluttering sensation already starting to take hold in the depths of his stomach. 

“Sorry,” he said, sliding the mug and saucer back onto the counter. “I think this belongs to someone else.”

The barista grinned, two perfectly curved dimples forming just past the corners of his mouth. His blue-green eyes seemed to twinkle – although it was entirely possible that by this point Edward was simply hallucinating by allowing his own personal fantasies to crowd out reality.

“No, that’s definitely yours.”

“But...” Edward began to protest, mostly out of confusion, “that’s not my name.” He pointed to the side of the mug, where a single word was written out in a familiar all-caps script: TOM. 

“I didn’t say it was your name,” the barista replied, as he bit down playfully against his bottom lip. “Because it’s mine.”

“Oh,” was all Edward was capable of replying. He had played out this moment – or at least ones similar to it – in his head so many times, and in all those scenarios, he had always known exactly what to do and the right words to say, all of which had now fled his mind entirely.

“And here...” Tom – and honestly, Edward thought, who could imagine a more perfect name than that? – turned the mug halfway around, revealing a line of numbers written in dark ink. “That’s my number. In case you ever want to hang out some time.”

“Yeah,” Edward muttered, and then began to nod vigorously as the realization of what was happening overtook him. “Absolutely. That sounds great.” He felt a warm, unprompted smile begin to form on his lips. “We could go get coffee or something.”

Tom turned that brilliant blue-green gaze directly on him and he laughed, his teasing grin wide and bright enough to rival the mid-day sun in all its glory.  

“Anything but that.”