#yusuf looks like he has fire in his eyes

[negotiumcrucis]

One of my favourite pictures of Yusuf 🔥🔥🔥

[youssefguedira]

K or N for Joe and/or Nicky

K. On the edge of consciousness.

Yusuf wakes slowly, so slowly that he can’t see and isn’t even sure he can open his eyes, only half-sure he still has eyes, and that’s how he knows there’s something very, very wrong. He can’t move, can’t hear, can’t even smell anything. He doesn’t remember exactly what happened to him, but every part of him is burning, and he’s fairly sure the weird aching sensation in his head is his skull knitting itself back together, which. He really, really didn’t need to know what that feels like. 

There’s a scraping in his chest when he breathes in, but at least he’s breathing. 

Where is he? He could be anywhere. He could be in the middle of the street, could have been dragged away from the fighting from someone who had seen him breathing through a wound that should have killed him immediately. When he wakes, what will he find? Will they have taken his weapon? How long has he been dead? 

Will Nicolò be able to find him, if they are separated? Will he even try?

Slowly but steadily, he starts to hear something: a high pitched whistling that sounds like it’s coming from deep inside his own head. The darkness begins to lift, leaving flickering amber lights across his vision, and a shadow in front of him. 

There’s a voice, too, one that sharpens into words as Yusuf’s hearing begins to return. He doesn’t understand their meaning, but the cadence of them and the voice itself is familiar. 

“Are you awake?” Nicolò asks softly, switching to Arabic. 

Yusuf tries to make a sound in response. Whether it’s audible he doesn’t know, because the only noise he can really make is a rasping exhale, but Nicolò hushes him anyway.

“Do not… you can be slow,” Nicolò says. He’s more comfortable with the sounds of the language now, but still doesn’t always string sentences together well. “We are safe. I am here.”

He’s made aware of where his hand is by the feeling of Nicolò reaching for it. Yusuf manages to make an actual sound this time, but still can’t form words. Nicolò squeezes his hand gently. 

“I am here,” he says again. 

Eventually, Yusuf’s skull seems to piece itself back together fully, and his vision sharpens, letting him see that they’re backed into the corner of the two remaining intact walls of a house ravaged by fire, Nicolò crouched in front of him with his sword in hand. There’s a trail of blood leading to where Yusuf is lying now, and a section of the room that has collapsed. He can piece together enough. Nicolò would have had to drag him over here.

This time, he manages to make a sound, even if he can’t quite form words. Nicolò looks down at him over his shoulder, and there is blood on his face and in his hair, and only then does Yusuf notice the bodies in the room. 

“Okay?” Nicolò asks. 

Yusuf manages to nod, and it sends a spike of pain along his spine. Nicolò turns slightly to look at him properly. 

“You are almost done, I think,” he says. “You did not… you were asleep for a long time. I did not know if…”

“Nicolò,” Yusuf finally manages, hoarse.

“Rest,” Nicolò says. “I am here.”

(letter asks)

[materassassino]

For the prompt ask: hoodie for Joe/Nicky 😉

This one got a bit long, actually... It works though.

One word prompts!

---

Somewhere in the Altai Mountains, 1402

They are travelling east again, weary of the never-ending woes of the Mediterranean and Europe, and because Quynh wants to eat what she calls ‘proper food’ again – there is only so much Nicolò can do with imported spices that have lost their potency from travel (when they can afford them). Why they chose this accursed northern route instead of some sensible ship from Jeddah Yusuf will never understand, but Andromache mistrusts the sea in general, and Quynh will go where she goes, which means Yusuf and Nicolò have little choice. She also wants to show them Karakorum, which they have yet to see.

Winter is not close, but there is a chill on the air, especially now evening is falling and the shadows lengthen. Andromache scouts them a place she deems worthy for camp that night (though she is rarely very discerning, and Yusuf would swear she could sleep on a bed of gravel with no complaint), and they settle. Yusuf joins Quynh to fetch water, Andromache tends to the horses and Nicolò starts their fire and starts to prepare their food. It is a well-worn, familiar routine, each night in the wilderness the same as the one before.

Quynh is busy telling him about the time Andromache got herself in a spot of bother with some Gauls in Armorica when they get back to camp, and Yusuf is trying very hard not to trip over he chokes on his own laughter. Andromache scowls, and if the light were better, Yusuf would wager he saw the slightest embarrassed flush on her stoic cheeks.

“Not that one again,” she grumbles, removing her horse’s saddle and blanket. Quynh grins, something sharp-fanged and delightfully wicked.

“You just hate it because it ends with you in a pig sty!” she says. Yusuf wheezes helplessly.

That is when Nicolò sneezes.

Yusuf stops laughing immediately, sets down their filled waterskins and puts his hands on his hips.

“I told you to wear your cloak!” he grumbles. Nicolò has the cheek to roll his eyes, even as he wipes his nose on the back of his hand.

“I am fine,” he retorts, turning back to the fire. He sneezes again.

“God give me strength,” Yusuf mutters, raises his eyes to the heavens and waving his hands beseechingly. He stomps over to their pile of saddlebags and begins rummaging, but he soon stops.

“Nicolò,” he asks, “where is your cloak?”

They all see the way Nicolò’s shoulders tense, creeping up guiltily by his ears.

“Come to think of it,” Quynh says, pursing her lips, “I have not seen it since the village we passed through two days ago.”

Yusuf levels Nicolò with a long glare. “Nico?”

Nicolò rubs the back of his neck. “I think… I think I forgot it. At the inn.”

Andromache guffaws. Yusuf groans. Nicolò is usually so meticulous, but in fairness they had beaten a rather hasty retreat after Andromache got into a fight with a merchant over the treatment of his horses, so it is entirely likely it was simply lost in the whirlwind madness.

“We might not see another settlement until Karakorum itself,” Andromache says, drumming her fingers on her knee. “And it will only get colder the further up we go.”

Yusuf sighs, getting to his feet and fumbling with the clasp of his own cloak. He throws it over Nicolò’s shoulders and sits heavily beside him.

“Do not be stupid, Yusuf,” Nicolò says, shrugging the cloak off. “You need it!”

Yusuf waves him away, dismissive. That causes Nicolò to scowl.

“Well, if neither of you wants it…” says Quynh edging around the fire with a sly look.

“Leave it!” the two men snap in unison, and she darts back, hands raised defensively even as she laughs.

“Share it, you idiots,” Andromache snaps, shaking her head. “We’ll turn one of the spare blankets into a new cloak tomorrow.”

Yusuf and Nicolò both look at her, and then at each other.

“That… seems wise,” Nicolò concedes, and Yusuf muffles a snort of laughter.

They end the evening beneath the same cloak, huddled close together. There is, Yusuf muses archly, little difference with the night before.

--

Geneva, August 2022

The clouds roll in from almost nowhere, spilling down from the mountains. They don’t herald rain, but they cover the sun and an uncharacteristic chill shrouds the city. They’ve been scouting out potential new safehouses – it’s good to add to the rotation, and it’s time Nile got a few under any of her various shiny new aliases. The prices are eye-watering, but there’s always something to be found somewhere, especially further outside the city.

There’s a slight bite to the air now, just enough to cause some goosebumps. Nile tugs on the cardigan she’d draped over her shoulders that morning, covering her bare arms. Andy does absolutely nothing, because she refuses to let the whims of Mother Nature bother her overmuch. Nicky untie the hoodie from around his waist – unfashionable, as always – and zips it up, sticking his hands in its pockets.

Joe sneezes.

Nicky looks at him, in his optimistic breezy linen shirt and shorts, and raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t even need to say anything as Joe scowls at him.

“It was sunny until a moment ago!” he protests the unspoken accusation.

“Yeah, but the weather lady said it would get cloudy!” Nile pipes up, withering slightly under Joe’s glare.

“Should’ve paid more attention,” is all Andy says with a flippant smirk.

Joe simply folds his arms petulantly and stomps on ahead, attempting to brave the sudden chill. He doesn’t last long before he’s rubbing his arms, and the walk back to the hotel is thirty minutes.

Nicky sighs, and unzips his hoodie again. He drapes it over Joe’s shoulders, completely ignoring Joe’s pout.

“I don’t need it!” he says, about to shrug it off and hand it back like a stubborn fool. Nicky levels him with another long, hard look, and Joe meekly puts it on properly. He allows Nicky to adjust it fastidiously and zip it up, his resigned façade cracking entirely when Nicky plants the most fleeting of kisses on the tip of his nose.

“Oh my God,” Nile says. “That’s so adorable it’s disgusting.”

[bonnie131313]

I've been trying to resist this since I first heard about Yusuf Dikec but it's impossible.

"This is a bad idea."

Harold just sighs.  "You have said that several times now, Mr. Reese, " He reminds the former agent.  "We have all agreed with you that it is a bad idea.  Unfortunately, none of us seem to have a better idea."

"Finch is right," Shaw adds.  "If I go in there's the same issue with potentially being exposed. And, I  can't get into the men's dormitory like you can."

"I know," Reese frowns.   "But anonymity is one of our biggest advantages."

"Well, we might be able to do something," Shaw considers for a moment.   "Clothes and hair can be pretty effective disguises."

Harold does that perplexed bird thing and John just sighs again.

"What did you have in mind, Ms Shaw?" Finch asks.

"See if you can find Reese some eyeglasses,"  She hops off her chair and grabs her jacket.   "Something nice but a little more frumpy than fashionable.   Also, don't tailor the uniform too much."

"Where are you going?" Harold asks.

"Beauty supply store," She calls back over her shoulder. 

Reese has to admit that Finch and Shaw have done a great job. He's supposed to be a former soldier turned divorced father and he looks it.  The clothes fit but are just a tad loose.  Some discreet padding gives him a bit of a paunch but he still looks fit enough to be a blue collar worker.  The glasses are sensible but not flashy.  

The hair makes the biggest difference.  His slightly silvered hair is now more gray than dark.  

"It'll wash out," Shaw had assured him.  "Might take a week or two but you'll be back to normal pretty quick.  Try not to scrub too hard until this is over."

John settles himself in his lane along the firing line.  He eyes the competitors' equipment doubtfully.  The ear protection makes sense to him, no need to risk hearing loss.  Still, his simple earplugs are more than enough.  Why spend money on fancy electronic earmuffs?  The glasses are kind of silly though. Easier to use both eyes when aiming.

One hand, he reminds himself.  This is an air pistol with almost no recoil.  He doesn't need two hands to hold the gun steady.  Better to keep his left hand in his pocket so he doesn't accidentally make a mistake.  

"I thought I told you not to win?" Harold had sounded exasperated.  

"I had to stay in as long as the number was in," John reminds him.  "Besides, no one remembers who comes in second."

"You're a meme," Harold had groused.

"They're already moved on to that  pole vaulter with a big dick," Reese assures him.

"This was a bad idea," Harold complains.

"Yeah," John agrees.  "But I got a cool medal."

[fondofeveryprickle]

My AO3 Wrapped 2023

Welcome to my AO3 Wrapped 2023, where I take a look at some of my favourite fics from 2023 (one bookmark per month). 

There were so many amazing fics in 2023, so many new people and friends I met because of fanfic <3 So here’s to a very good 2024, full of words and worlds!

Let’s go to the fics:

January-

The Fine Line Between Hormones and Home by seekingmoonscapes (Bad Buddy: The Series)

In an almost canon universe where the only difference is that it is omegaverse, Pat is an omega, and Pran is an alpha. And during one of his heats, Pat is at home, and decides to ask Pran for a shirt with his scent to help with his heat. But instead, he asks Pran for help in other ways. Fic where the porn IS the plot, everything is super consensual, and sexy and hot. Alternating POV, so on Pran’s pov we get to see all the pining.

February - 

If Never Again, If Every Day by gallifreyburning and takiki16 (The Old Guard)

This fic was wonderful from beginning to end. For reasons, 2021 Nicky goes back in time to Jerusalem and his first death at Yusuf's hands. Meanwhile, 1099 Nicolò goes forward in time to 2021 and meets Joe. It's heartbreaking and loving and funny and so full of love. Nicky and Joe miss each other even when around their younger versions. But the love they feel for each other is stronger than that. Wonderful story, happy ending.

March - 

Wooing the Water Tribe by lenaballena (ATLA) @dameferre

Sokka has been living in the Fire Nation as Zuko's second in power and his best friend and everything. When Katara comes to visit, Sokka thinks Zuku is courting her. And he realizes he is also in love with his best friend. Lots of pining. There's absolutely no courting of Katara. It's also really funny. My heart broke for Sokka at some moments.

April - 

The Grand Unified Theory of Shen Qingqiu by 00janeblonde (SVSSS)

WIP - This story is all fluff and no angst, like the tags say, slice of life and it's wonderful. SQQ dies at Maigu Ridge, and is offered to acquire the Game Plus, where he can go back to the past with his cultivation and memory intact, and try again. Doing that he discovers that he is actually the real Shen Jiu reincarnated, and he can try to recover memory markers to be able to restart the "game" even before than when he first "transmigrated". His friendship with YQY becomes strong, LQG also becomes his friend (it's really sweet how he wants his friends back). Everything is very soft. Absolutely great teacher SQQ.

May - 

but for me, there is a storm by Authoress (Haikyuu!!) by @kiribakus

An epic pacific rim au. Hinata and Kageyama are both cadets who want to be Jaeger pilots, but they cannot get along. So they work really hard because they are their last hope to pilot a one of a kind Jaeger - a Kaiju/Machine hybrid. They solve their problems in the beginning (and then later they have more problems). Hinata and Kageyama are not the only main characters, other characters are also very important and have their own storyline and pov. This story is heartbreaking as well. There's MCD, and it made me cry so hard I got puffy eyes. It's a wonderful read, and very well written.

June - 

The UA Analyst Kid by RogueVector (BNHA)

Izuku meets the UA teachers before getting OFA and they see how good his analysis is, so they start to train him (together with some other heroes). But some things don't change and Izuku still meets All Might and gets offered OFA. This story is funny, sweet and with amazing relationships. Izuku is OP with his intelligence and training. All the teachers and heroes are so supportive and good. A really feel good story.

July - 

Deku? I think he’s some pro… by Clouds (BNHA)

After All Might told Izuku he can't be a hero, he finds himself in a forum used by some underground heroes and offers his analysis to them, since he can't be a hero, he will help them. The underground heroes think Izuku is some kind of retired pro when they ask for help analyzing some villains and all, and when they finally meet face-to-face they all decide to practically adopt Izuku and teach him to fight so he will have a chance to be a quirkless hero. It is amazing! Also, the relationship between Izuku and the underground heroes is more like friends than teacher-student, and it's amazing that way. (some All Might bashing - be warned)

August - 

Mobius by Foxquills (BNHA) @fox-quills

WIP - I love this story so much!!! Third-year Izuku is sent to the past because of a quirk accident, to the time both Shouta and Hizashi are third year students at UA. Problem is, according to Nedzu, time is constant, or a loop, so he can’t change anything in the past, and everything that has happened, will happen again. He becomes fast friends with both Shouta and Hizashi, and starts crushing on them as well. Both Hizashi and Shouta also start crushing on him. It is lovely. There’s pain. It’s awesome. (also omegaverse).

September - 

Factory Settings by Anonymous (Good Omens)

Post season 2 au, because Crowley follows Aziraphale to heaven. Things happen, and instead of Crowley, there is Raphael, without any memory of all the time he's lived as Crowley. Heaven and Hell are at it again. Aziraphale has no idea what to do, and he misses his Crowley. Muriel is a sweetheart. Both Aziraphale and Crowley/Raphael povs. Great story, feels very much canon.

October - 

Justice in Defiance by Foxquills (BNHA) @fox-quills

WIP - Aizawa is a hero turned villain who kills both heroes and villains alike. And one day Izuku finds him right after he kills someone. They fight. And now Izuku needs to know more. What made Aizawa turn????? To do that, he will also need Hizashi in his corner. Absolutely lovely story!!!! The povs are amazing. The feelings and pining are perfect.

November - 

If I Must Starve (Let it be in Your Arms) by Igneum807 (The Witcher)

So think about the softest story involving Jaskier and touch-starved witchers, and this is the result. During his travels alone, when he and Geralt go their different ways for a few weeks, Jaskier meets Geralt's brothers, who are just as touch and companionship-starved as Geralt was before meeting Jaskier. It's super soft and tender.

December - 

Cultivate: Slow Life on a Monster-Infested Mountain by NeonGhostCat (SVSSS) @neonghostcat

When SY transmigrates, the System tries to put him on SQQ's body, but SQQ is aware and is able to stop it from happening. The System then gives SY his own body, but something goes wrong with the system and SY is decided to not get involved with the plot, or with Cang Qiong Sect, and specially SQQ. He finds an abandoned mountain, with an abandoned house there and decides to stay there until he is strong enough if SQQ finds him and wants to kill him. Obviously things cannot be that simple. Now he is stuck on the mountain he can't get out of, every full moon night there are monster attacks and one day LQG appears on the Mountain, how can he get out of helping with the plot now? Shen Yuan is absolutely perfect on this fic. I love how he deals with the mountain and its beasts and plant-life. Liushen is the softest you'll see. Slow burn, super domestic, feel good story.

~

Enjoy your readings!

[reginamillls]

why are you covered in blood? + joenicky if it strikes a vibe

IT DOES STRIKE A VIBE

I'm typing this on mobile so sorry for the mistakes ALSO you know me so have a snippit of an AU that came to my mind with the plot

* * *

The forest is quiet, eerily so.

It's long since grown used to Nicolo and considers it one of it's own. It does not still for him like it did when he first arrived some fifteen years ago.

Nicolo and the forest are connected.

He knows his forest, and he knows that whoever runs within is not a danger, but that they are in danger.

Nicolo moves to prepare his bow, but the trouble finds him first.

The person crashes into him, and the sharp smell of blood fills his nostrills and his eyes flash.

"Why are you covered in blood?" Nicolo asks, alarmed, trying to take in the stranger's injuries in the setting sun. He looks up, and knows that they will be out of time soon.

"Sir please-"

The stranger groans, and collapses in Nicolo's arms. He sighs. There isn't much time left before dark.

He heaves the stranger onto his shoulders and goes to his cabin.

The cabin is small but old. Nicolo had come to it when he first came to the Forest and found sanctuary within its walls. He's made it his own over the years, repairing it and making it comfortable.

He isn't a medic, and this isn't a place of healing, but Nicolo will do his best.

The cabin only has room for one bed and Nicolo lays the stranger down on it's only blanket. He will need to take his furs out should the stranger be cold from blood loss, if this was indeed his blood.

He hurries to light a candle, letting it light his way as he goes to the washbin to get fresh water. He pours it into a bowl and grabs a rag.

Nicolo says nothing as he begins to wipe away the blood from the man's face. He would turn on a fire, but if the man was running from something, Nicolo doesn't want to give away their position.

The candle is more than enough light for Nicolo. Most nights he doesn't need it at all.

The flickering light dances across the man's face and even through the blood and grime Nicolo can make out the stranger's handsome features. He has a full beard, soft and well groomed, and there are freckles across the bridge of his nose. His eyes are scrunched, revealing laughlines that should be lit up in a smile but are only deepened with pain.

Nicolo keeps his touch brief, cleaning away the blood. There are scratches across his neck and chest, his clothing torn from his journey in the woods. The callouses on Nicolo's hands catch at the fine fabric.

This man could be noble with such fine clothes.

Lower he finds a worrying wound and Nicolo's fingers brush against it-

The man gasps and shoots up. A glint of metal flashes in the candlelight and Nicolo's neck is on the other end of a blade.

A blade that he is very familiar with.

Nicolo backs away as if burned and his hands go up. There's a phantom pain across his face as he remembers the last time he had seen the blade.

The Dragon Blade of the Crowned Prince.

Prince Yusuf al- Kaysani.

"Who are you?" The Prince hisses in a language that had been foreign to Nicolo fourteen years ago but has now become as comfortable to him as his own childhood's tongue.

The Prince stares at him as Nicolo fights to beat his own silence. His gaze flickers to the scar across Nicolo's face, but the man's eyes show no spark of recognition.

Nicolo moves to speak but the man groans then and the blade in his hand shakes before he drops it.

"Where am I?" The Prince grits out and he's tugging at his hair.

He stares up at Nicolo then, his dark eyes shine in the candlelight, reminding Nicolo of the dark sky at night.

They're filled with tears, wide and terrified.

"Who am I?"

[guttersniper]

@rvolving as yusuf said: a hug to say sorry, maybe after they fail to save someone mutt must have liked 😢

hug prompts.

they'd started a fire with mutt's matches and what whiskey remained in booker's flask. dinner had been cooked, cleared away by the time he distances himself a few paces away. he's grateful that none of them follow him, knowing each other and their proclivities by now as if they were their own. eyes numb and almost catatonic in their remove, it is more than evident to any who know his tells that he has vanished away within himself in an effort to combat his wounded grief.

he imagines a shared look, though. wordless, but words passed. nothing can stop those.

before mutt heard yusuf's approach, he can tell it's him, he knows their gaits, his knee bounced rapidly. done so to stave off the shakes that could've manifested elsewhere, like in his hands, his shoulders. his hands clasp together and rest against his mouth. they were the only barrier between him and the bloody aching he felt forming a ball in his throat, constricting. he stills, forcing more tension into his tight muscles, when he's no longer alone.

yusuf crouches in front of him. one hand is gently placed on top the younger's wrist, limp on his thighs. their heights aren't equaled, but it does allow them to look at each other straight. for once, mutt's taller.

mutt swallows, squeezing his eyes shut when he feels them begin to sting. tears collect at the lower lashline. it has been many, many years since he has allowed himself to cry. he does not know how to go about changing his own permissions. when at last he speaks, it comes out a whisper, and still he cannot look at yusuf for his shame. " they'd trusted me. "

he feels a warm hand cradling one side of his face before the fingers move to rest right below his chin. prompting him to finally snap his eyes up, mutt looks at him for the first time. " that's probably what they were thinking about. when they died. how i should've been there. and how i wasn't. "

it isn't your fault. he knows he isn't alone in this grief. and yet, he has placed the entire burden on himself. he abruptly stands. it is a nasty, ugly thought that says he could punch yusuf to get him to leave him alone. for the split second, he considers it, before yusuf closes the small distance between them and draws him to him. he's whispering, sweet and gentle and comforting nothings low enough only to be heard by his ears.

it takes a little while before mutt returns the gesture. he curls, slightly, into the familiar width and breadth, and his arms knot tightly around his frame with unforeseen fervor.

[branmac9]

Just another day in New Hope for Krux Phebo. Running and playing hide and seek with the other children. Lots of crates among the Geodomes and hydroponic tents to hide in. He pulls his supplementary oxygen mask down a bit breathing in the fresh smell of pine and plants.He sees his father Hara smile and wave in his brightly multicolored sweater. Life is good for these hard working communal settlers. In ten years or so the air should be fully breathable with all the work the folks of New Hopes small but dedicated folks have put in.

Then suddenly fire rains down from the sky. Everything is burning. The smell of burnt flesh permeates the air. The intense pain of the plasma burning him alive is to much to bare, Krux passes out.

Suddenly he awakes in a start. His left arm has been replaced by a robotic arm. His right leg below the knee has been replaced with robotic parts. Not only that half his head is covered in a chrome plate, one eye is seeing in a red that focuses like a gun scope. His nose is gone replaced by an iron plate, most likely to help him look less disfigured. Panic and vertigo hit like a sledge hammer all at once. Then Thoth the sage a trader that would visit New Hope on occasion looks down on him with a warm smile. He speaks “ you know your going to have to pay me back for all this work I’ve done to you” the he laughs blowing out the vapor from what ever stim he’s smoking.

Damn! another night terror. Krux wakes up covered in wetness. Looks like he’s shorted out his right leg again with his own body sweat. Over Twenty years and the night terrors still happen. Thoth died in a salvage mission gone wrong a few months back. Depression and loneliness are setting in as well. His only company for the last month has been TR-5 his all to serious combat bot. A melon sized mechanical ball that follows him everywhere floating over his left shoulder. One of Thoths creations. Time to get up and fly the ship Thoth left him (the Three of Diamonds) to the location of a derelict space craft so he can get that plasma servo for Yusuf Toshi on Lameria Station. He doesn’t want to run out of those various stims and drugs that keep his all to weak body going (the none mechanical parts). And hopefully have enough credits left over for food, fuel, and maybe a lady for the night. Been awhile since he’s seen another person let alone touched one. And maybe possibly he can pick up a lead on the pirate chief that destroyed his life all so long ago. No name he just remembers that space suit cover in furs and reptile skins with the four horned space helm. A giant brute of a man if that’s what he was at all. The vow of revenge is what drives him on day after day hopping for a break someday he will get his vengeance! My

[steelcityreviews]

REVIEW: An American Hymnal: Forgiving and Healing Through Music...

He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love…. - Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Music provides humanity with many things: a universal language, a range of emotional responses, and, for many, a light in the dark. Terra Bruce Productions understands how music functions in our every day lives and how to channel it into not only a history lesson but a deeply personal story dealing with the importance of forgiveness as well.

The show introduces us, rather abruptly, to Father Paul Barry (in a captivating performance by Connor Lucas) who has left his home in Ireland to move to America, determined to help others. On the busy streets of Chicago he encounters Dinah, an unforgettable jazz singer (and a beautiful and layered performance by Ruth Acheampong), leaving Paul with a decades long lasting impression. We follow their journeys through melding various genres of music from gospel to rock and roll of the 50’s and 60’s, and face the injustices of society throughout, many of which still resonate strongly to this day.

Director Courtney Brown and the creative team behind An American Hymnal showcase some of the best use of projections I have witnessed in ages. The projections set the scenes beautifully from the stained glass of a church to the devastating fires of the Chicago riots (which targeted black urban areas following the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. in 1968). These projections do not detract from the efforts of this exceptionally talented cast who work fluidly to transition scenes and keep the story moving. At times, the stage at Theatre Aquarius almost feels too big for the more intimate moments between characters, but it also demonstrates how isolating and empty moments in life can be and the staging utilizes this well overall.

As we journey with Father Paul, we are introduced to several familiar songs like Morning Has Broken (best known by Yusuf/Cat Stevens), His Eye is On the Sparrow (a stunning gospel song recognizable from Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit), Only You by The Platters and the powerhouse performance of I Believe (a pop song from the late 60’s, envisioned here as a march and protest song). There are some standout moments from Steve Maloney as the rockabilly baritone Carter Johnson (who channels an entertaining heartthrob Elvis vibe) and the ensemble continuously shines in the aforementioned I Believe and The Three Bells, among others. There are no small parts within this show and the ensemble proves it throughout as they dance, sing, play multiple characters and change set pieces effortlessly. Bravo.

The leads Lucas and Acheampong are both exceptional in their own right. Lucas is gut-wrenching in his moments of despair. His soaring tenor was impressive in several songs (especially during His Eye is On the Sparrow which gave me chills) and Acheampong’s stubborn dreamer energy is authentic and inspiring with her incredible vocal prowess in I Believe and Wade in the Water.

The audience will connect with several of the themes here, the strongest being that of learning how to forgive and perhaps even more importantly, to be forgiven. There’s no escaping the religiosity of it all but forgiveness goes beyond monotheism and takes a very hard look at how to move on and learn from one’s mistakes, hardships and loss. The musical selections only hammer these themes home and are carefully reprised in the second act, taking on new and more profound meanings.

An American Hymnal is a deeply moving and impactful history lesson reflecting on moments that still resonate today. It also provides wonderful connections regarding how music shapes and changes throughout history. It reminds us that without gospel, we would never know rock and roll. Without mistakes, we would never know forgiveness. Without loss, we would never truly understand or appreciate love. All these things and more make this new musical a must-see. The only true criticism I have is that it isn’t playing in Hamilton, ON for more than 3 days. I highly recommend seeing this show. You will not be disappointed.

FOR TICKETS AND MORE INFORMATION, PLEASE VISIT:

THEATRE AQUARIUS BOX OFFICE

[valiantsword]

     “ i do, “ arthur nods at the question of the sword, barely catching it amongst all the touches.  gods, he missed his wife.  he’d never stopped grieving her, lancelot, or even myrddin.  to think she tried to spread their story or, at the very least, attempt to correct the undertones authors were trying to sell.  suddenly, the blonde chuckles to himself.  had he followed his heart sooner maybe he would’ve found her because that above all over things, makes sense.  there’s a comfort in thinking she tried to protect him even though she thought him gone.  his approach to the whole thing had been rolling his eyes and avoiding it at all costs.

     “ it’s not the same as you remember.  that blade has been reformed and reforged several times over the years but i still think of it the same way. “  arthur’s head jerks up at that.  pulling his hand from hers is incredibly painful, even though she’s right there for him to take it again his heart aches at the space.  sitting inches from her is far too much.  but, he needs to be practical and he needs to be slow.  if not for her sake then for his.  it’s like warming yourself up after the intense cold, too much at once could damage something vital.

     “ this, though, “ he pulls the ring and the necklace from beneath his tunic.  up and up and up, over his hair until it’s a coiled bundle in his hand.  for a few seconds (or possibly even moments) he watches the firelight dance across the thick chain.  in it he sees the stretch of time between the battle of camlann and that very moment.  he sees the anger in those first few years leaving his family behind.  he sees the attempt at becoming a farmer and the way he’d given up on living for a good few decades.

     reaching out, he lifts the necklace over gwen’s head to let the chain rest on her shoulders.  better the ring  on her than on him.  all he does is get sad over it, anyway.

     “ i’m sorry for mordred, “ the immortal presses his eyebrows together.  although, words do not come close to encompassing the level of disappointment and sadness that fills his chest.  did he raise a son as power hungry as his sister?  how could lancelot just stand by while gwen gave up everything in her life?  his jaw clenches so his anger can settle between his teeth.  as his nostrils flare he turns away to look at the fire.  in it he swears he can hear battles raging.  metal clinking against metal.  the pound of hooves across the dirt.

      “ whenever i felt lost i looked to the sky and asked for your guidance. “  in order to combat the anger arthur tries to pull himself back to the conversation.  the initial instinct is to tell her about yusuf and nicolo but the chances of them being in the same place and time was considerably marginal.  news of two people fighting to the death over and over and over again would’ve hit her ears had she been in the vicinity at the time.   still, he was sure it was a thing the three of them could bond over when they met.  “ it wasn’t the same, as you can probably imagine.  but i tried very, very hard to tell myself the things you would tell me.  i… “ arthur brings himself to turn back.  “ i never stopped loving you.  I hope you know that. “

Others like us. She still doesn't know what to make of it—she has spent more years than she could ever count trying to answer the question, has turned to every god and all of their priests and found nothing. There are no magicians who can tell her why she cannot die, no poets who can give her the answers she needs, no alchemists who could undo what's been done. She would like to say that time's been cruel, but in truth, it's only been indifferent. Arthur's fingers trail along her hand, and she lets out a little sigh of contentment. The real cruelty, until now, has been her memory, sharp as ever, and the realization that so much lost to her would not fade. Now, it makes her shiver, to realize that his touch is exactly what it was then.

The hand not held in his reaches up, and she pushes his hair back from his eyes. "It's good you weren't alone," she says finally, sincerely, and she trails her index finger along the curve of his cheekbone, the slope of his nose. "And that you've had purpose. You never enjoyed aimlessness. Though I wish you could have found purpose without war." She laughs quietly, gently. "You still have the sword, then?"

There's something comforting in the thought of it. The idea that some piece of their lives has survived so long (something besides them) sets her at ease, makes her feel a little less mad, as if the physical proof that they were there, once, is enough to soothe her. Her finger moves to the line of his jaw, and when she's made a study of that she sets her palm flat against his chest, directly over his sternum.

"I have kept to myself, for the most part. Even without this—" Affliction? Curse? It seems less a curse now than it did a year ago. "—without being in this state I would have left Camelot. Mordred asked me to step away. I had ruled as his regent, until he was ready, and the longer I remained, the more it undermined him. Lancelot remained as his advisor, and swore to me that he would protect him. I planned to retire to a convent." She wrinkles her nose in disgust at the thought; a thousand years has hardly dimmed her distaste for the religion. "I wandered, instead. Settled where I could and moved on when I drew attention. I spent some time as a midwife. Went to Jerusalem and stood against the Christian invaders. Studied alchemy and medicine where I could. I traveled. I learned." She pauses, as if unsure whether or not to confess this, then says, voice soft, "And I told our story. You were already becoming a legend. I tried to correct the errors I could, though I have been ignored in favor of a more fanciful narrative more times than I can count."

Her lips quirk into a smile, though it's almost shy. "I often imagined you with me. Particularly when I first learned to swing a sword. There were times I swore I could hear you laughing when I swung too hard and knocked myself over. And when I goaded the learned men into a fight—I heard your laughter then, too."

[youssefguedira]

got lotr au on the brain it seems (for @spacegirlsgang <3)

Yusuf finds Nicolò in a small alcove not far from where the battle still rages on, sitting against the wall with his bow resting beside him, his eyes closed. He looks just exhausted as Yusuf feels, but they do not have long to rest - they sleep in shifts for a few hours at a time. It’s nowhere near enough, but it will have to do. They’re losing more and more soldiers every minute, and the enemy is moving closer and closer to the fortress’ wall.

It is quieter here, at least.

Nicolò opens his eyes as Yusuf approaches. The dark circles under his eyes are not new; before Helm’s Deep, they had almost lost Andromache, and before then, the hobbits, and Booker, and before then, Quynh. Yusuf is tired of losing people, and he knows Nicolò is too. But they cannot rest yet, at least not until this battle is won.

And if they lose, well.

Nicolò doesn’t say anything, but moves his feet to make room for Yusuf at the other end of the alcove. Yusuf takes the offer.

“How much longer do you think we will hold?" he asks, just to break the silence.

“I cannot tell,” Nicolò says. “If we can keep them from reaching the wall, there is hope, but…”

They cannot hold out forever. And somehow, the enemy’s forces just keep coming.

“How have you fared?” Nicolò asks, turning the conversation to a slightly lighter topic.

“Twenty-eight,” Yusuf says.

Nicolò hums. “Thirty-five.”

“Come on. You expect me to believe that?” Yusuf asks, feigning outrage; it gets the shadow of a smile out of Nicolò, the closest thing to one that Yusuf has seen from him since Andromache made her way back to them. He’ll take it.

Nicolò runs his hand over his hair - his braid has loosened since Andromache did it for him earlier, to the point where the flyaway strands are beginning to fall into his eyes. He reaches behind himself and undoes the tie holding it in place, running his fingers through it to tease some of the tangles out.

His hands are trembling as he does it, but Yusuf doesn’t mention it. Nicolò curses softly as he drops the tie, and then drops it again a moment later.

Finally, he seems to accept defeat, and looks up at Yusuf. “Will you…?”

He doesn’t finish, but Yusuf holds out his hand for the tie and gestures for him to turn so his back is to Yusuf, facing the opposite wall. Nicolò is perfectly still as Yusuf runs his fingers through his hair to untangle it as best he can, separating it into parts once he’s done.

They are both silent, at first, then: “Tell me something,” Nicolò says.

“About what?”

“I don’t know. Your home, maybe.”

"Khazad-dum?” Yusuf asks. “It’s…” It’s funny, sometimes: his job revolves around finding the right word for things, yet he still struggles. “It’s beautiful, Nicolò. There are- there are places where you can see the veins of gold or silver or diamond in the stone, where the ceilings sparkle like the night sky. There are waterfalls deep below the earth, even gardens. One of them” - he smiles at the memory of it - “one of them, when the sunlight filters through the stone just right, the water becomes like liquid fire. In all my travels, I have never seen anything like it. My sister, when she was young, she thought it became real fire.” The thought of Amira brings a sharp twist of homesickness, and he trails off.

Nicolò is quiet for a moment. “I’d like to see that, I think,” he says. “Someday. If we win this.”

“You can come with me, then,” Yusuf says. “When this is over.”

He doesn’t see Nicolò smile, but he hears it anyway. “I’d like that.”

Yusuf smiles, too, and ties off the finished braid. “There. All done.”

Nicolò reaches behind him to touch it, stands and turns back around to face him. “Thank you, Yusuf.”

“It was nothing," Yusuf says, even though they both know it wasn’t.

Nicolò offers him a hand. “We should go.”

Yusuf is tired, and aching, and homesick. But he takes Nicolò’s hand anyway, because the battle’s not over yet.

At least he isn’t alone.

[materassassino]

WIP Wednesday

Am I a week late? Yes. I forgot. I'm sorry. BUT! Today is a Wednesday, so I can make up for it.

Tagged in the circle by @emmalostinwonderland

Sharing a different Old Guard fic this time, one I'm procrastinating because of all the research I have to do for it.

One final, snatched kiss and they step away from each other, the last thing to release is their hands. It is agony to turn away, and Nicoló keeps looking back, over his shoulder. Yusuf, he can see, does the same, until the sun drenches the land in the pinks and light reds of full dawn and the cliffs of the wadi separate them. Finally Nicoló turns away, head bowed. Quynh is surprisingly quiet through all this. Nicoló chances a look at her, and for once there is no glint of mischief in her eyes, just a small, indulgent smile. “We must look quite pathetic,” he murmurs. “It’s young love,” she says, squeezing his arm fondly. “It is new and bright and beautiful and you’ve never felt anything like it before, have you?” Nicoló shakes his head, flushing slightly. No one has ever moved his heart like Yusuf has, changing the very shape of life for him. “It’s easy to lose yourself in it,” Quynh says, and she sounds like she knows how it feels. “It can devour you, drown you in it until you forget who you ever were without it. He may complete you, Nico, he may be the other half of your soul, but you must also be yourself even without him.” The prospect isn’t appealing at all, and Nicoló says so. Quynh’s smile is a little pitying now, and it rankles. “I mean it. When I met Andromache, I knew I’d found the person I would love for the rest of my life. It was perfect, it was fire and madness, and I realised that if I continued like this, I would lose myself. I would forget to be Quynh. So we separated, walked different paths for twenty years. And I remembered who I was, what I could do alone.” She releases Nicoló’s arm and dashes up a boulder on the side of the path, standing atop it like a mighty conqueror. “I was Quynh! Tiger of Au Lac! Scourge of Nanyue! The Heavenly Arrow of Lam Ap! I still am! Quynh of the mighty bow and fast daggers! She who laughs as she kills!” With a snarling laugh she leaps from the rock and lands beside him, and he can’t help but smile at her. “And I am still Andromache’s, as well. When we reunited, it was all the sweeter. Knowing who I was alone helped me love her more.”

Trying to explore any differences between Andromaquynh and Joenicky and also because I want to write reunion sex. This entire fic came about because I had a mental image of Nicky and Joe rolling down a sand dune as they kiss, which amused me.

Tagging uhhhhh @non-un-topo @dangerouscommiesubversive and @veradragonjedi

[normal-thoughts-official]

Ya'aburnee

Joe/Nicky, The Old Guard, Major Character Death.

Ya’aburnee This Arabic term means “You bury me,” a declaration of one’s hope that they’ll die before another person because of how difficult it would be to live without them.

Read it on Ao3

All things happen for a reason.

Nicky has faith in that. He does. He has faith in that as he had faith in the Lord when he put his life to His service, and as he had faith when he took it back for himself.

There's very little of his faith in the Lord that he'd kept after that. He didn't look at the Bible for guidance, but rather at himself. He didn't trust men of faith above all others, but rather looked at them with spite, even arrogance. He didn't hold God above all else, because his deepest worship could only be directed at a man.

But this, this he never doubted. Things happen for a reason. Every pain he'd endured, it strengthened him. The pain of losing his old life, his old family, his old self - hateful, disgusting fighter Nicolò - was just his rebirth into a better- no, a good person, and a happier one. He couldn't fault a fate that led him to Yusuf, nor that gave him so many blissful years to enjoy with him. He couldn't fault a fate that allowed him to drop the sword he held with hate and gave him a chance to fight for a better world instead. He died when he became immortal, but it was that death that breathed life into him, that brought him salvation and the brush of the very sun on his fingertips.

So he doesn't despair. When Andy loses her immortality, he figures that this, too, will be a rebirth. She was dead when she was immortal. Maybe now that she can die, she can also live.

When Joe loses his immortality, he doesn't despair either. He takes his sword and makes a cut into his palm, deep and precise, no more than an experiment, a confirmation.

When the cut heals as normal, that's when he despairs.

*

It happens for a reason, Nicky tells himself. It happens for a reason.

There's a reason Joe can die and he can't. There's a reason they found each other all these years ago. There's a reason the sun rises in the East. There's a reason for the birds to sing, and for the tundra to be cold, and for the trees to grow. There's a reason flowers smell sweet, and there's a reason the sun feels like a comfort when it touches one's skin. There's a reason for the soft summer breeze, and the joy that food brings, and for humans to love.

There's a reason for Joe to get shot in the head, dying before he even hits the floor.

There has to be. There has to be.

Nicky screams.

*

Maybe this is his punishment, he muses.

So much blood on his hands, and more deaths than he could ever hope to atone for. And yet, he had found happiness. For centuries, he had known peace in the soft eyes of the holiest man that's been brought to Earth, had been allowed to feel the joy that irradiated from the crinkles in his eyes, had known the happiness and beauty that a life of peace, of love, of union could bring.

And then had it taken from him, to remind him that that was not the path he had chosen.

He deserves it. He knows he does. But still - Joe does not. Joe was nothing if not the most loving, deserving of all of God's creatures.

Divine retribution can't be the reason, then. He cannot believe, cannot trust in a god that would let Joe take the fall for Nicky's mistakes.

*

The closest he can get to understanding it is this: he still has a mission.

Nile, natural leader as she is, nevertheless still needs him. She needs someone who can show her what only centuries of experience can teach. And the world still needs her team to have a sniper, to carry out their missions, to save lives. To make the world a little better, and with it, its people, just as they've always done.

He resents the world for it. How could it not see that Joe was the very goodness it so desperately needed?

*

"You don't have to keep fighting, you know," Nile says, her voice gentle, uncharacteristically so for the girl made of fire that Nicky knows.

"Of course I have to keep fighting," Nicky replies, not looking up from cleaning his gun.

"It's only been a month," she insists, voice still soft, although the edge of irritation gives it a bite that sounds more like Nile. She never had the patience or the willingness to accept what she didn't think was right, and Nicky loves her for it. He had hoped she would never change, but that wasn't for him to decide, either. "It's okay to grieve, Nicky. It's okay to feel."

"I've felt plenty," he points out, because it's true. He felt rage, and despair, and more pain than he could ever fit in his soul, as he failed to get in front of the bullet that hit his love on time. When he had dropped to the ground, Nicky cradled him in his arms, forgetting all about the mission, about the danger they were in, about his own existence as he stared at the already lifeless eyes that held his every joy. He screamed and cried and shook, punching the ground in rage until it was covered with the blood from his unsplit fists. He felt himself be torn in half, excruciatingly slow as his soul, and his heart, departed from him, leaving him gasping like he would when he woke up from a particularly gruesome death.

No other death compared to this.

He felt himself die right there with him, agonizing in every way that the bullet hadn't been. It was like he was being skinned alive, forced to shred everything that made him himself.

Then… He felt determination. He took the body in his arms, and he killed every last soul in the facility, starting with the fucker who had fired that shot. He bathed the body, getting rid of all the metal and blood and pain that did not belong with his love for eternity. He kept the water warm and his touch gentle, then shrouded him and took him back to his homeland to be buried, all in the same day. He calculated the exact angle to Mecca, down to the hundreth and third digit where the count finally ended; dug the grave himself; laid him in it on his side; begged the locals to perform the traditional prayers that Nicky could not; and marked his grave; all with a single-minded focus that he had never felt on any of his previous missions, not even the ones he once believed to be holy.

Then, he felt despair. He wanted to scream and cry, make a scene like he had when he had first seen his love's unhealing body, lie down with him in the grave and wait for his time to come. His love shouldn't spend so much time on his side without Nicky to hold, to stay between him and the door, to protect him. It isn't right.

Then, he felt smothered. He couldn't cause a scene, couldn't desecrate the body like that. And he wouldn't, no matter how much he wanted to, no matter how much he needed to, because his love's wishes came before his own needs, always had.

Finally, he felt agony, as he realized that his job was done and there was nothing more that he could do. He had done it, he had made sure that the body would be taken care of as he would have wanted, and yet, he still was healing, still wasn't allowed to abandon whatever his mission was. The agony was just as cutting as it had been the first time, burning through him until it destroyed all hope, all joy, all faith.

And then he felt nothing.

It wasn't blissful. It wasn't scary. It was just nothing.

It never gave way to any other feeling.

He felt nothing as he killed a whole group of human traffickers, and he felt nothing as the victims hugged him and cried, wailing their thanks again and again and again. He felt nothing as he offered them his water and smiled, attempting to find a common language to reassure them in. He felt nothing as one of the youngest ones, dehydrated and starved, died on the way to the helicopter that would take them to the hospital. He felt nothing as her sister started to wail loudly, screaming and begging for her to come back, to hold on for just a little longer.

He felt nothing as he kneeled by her side, and told her that he knows she's in pain right now, but they need to keep moving if they are to stop this from happening to the others. He felt nothing as she screamed in his face, telling him he didn't understand. He felt nothing, still, as he made the decision to tell her the truth - that he had recently lost the love of his life, and his whole family long before that - because he knew their shared pain would get her to agree to keep moving faster.

"How do you live with it?" she asks, eyes shedding tears like one would shed his coats after getting home. Impersonal and repetitive. Exhausted.

He shrugs. It's not like he had a say in it.

"Don't you have a fucking heart?!" she yells, the weeping turning active and sorrowful and loud again as she cradles her sister even closer.

He feels nothing.

*

He feels nothing when he wakes up every morning and slashes his hand again, just to see if the time has come. He feels nothing even as the wounds closes down as if it never were, same as it did in that horrible, horrible moment.

After the thousandth time, he reconsiders. Everything happens for a reason, he tells himself. Trying to rush his time or figure out when it will come is pointless. So, he decides to stop testing.

He feels nothing about that, too.

*

No one but Nile and Booker can even tell there's something wrong with him.

Not even when they come across an acquaintance from before, who asks him good naturedly, "where's your better half". Not even when a man named José, with hair in the perfect curly texture and eyes that crinkle when he smiles, hits on him at a bar. Not even when the thousands of strangers stumbled upon him staring at the grave for hours and even days at a time.

Each time, he performed perfectly. "I don't know exactly, but I should be able to see him soon", "Sorry, I'm married", "I was just passing by and wanted to pay my respects". Each time, they smiled and went on their way, believing everything he had said.

It was very easy.

It made him feel nothing.

*

Nile and Booker know, of course. Nile still tries to get him to open up, to feel, cry, even if it involves purposefully trying to stir a reaction with sharp words. She was willing to try to make him snap at her in order to help him heal, because Nile's kindness was only rivaled by one person. Still, it doesn't work. No amount of kindness, not even of love, could dig his soul from the grave it was in.

Booker says it's like déjà vú. Nicky tells him not to worry, he won't go crazy and betray them. Booker doesn't even take offense, just silently offers Nicky his flask.

Nicky refuses. He doesn't need help dulling his pain, because he feels none.

*

His new routine is easy. He wakes up, having slept on his back, then gets up and doesn't make tea exactly ten minutes after pouring his first cup of coffee. He cooks for the team, mindful of keeping Nile and Booker's favorites on the menu as much as possible, adds bacon to dishes that would go well with it, and doesn't make tajine. He banters with them good naturedly, smiling and making bets with Booker, and doesn't make weird silences as he waits for an extra opinion to chime in. He goes on missions and doesn't make any harsh decisions that would get him killed, doesn't pass on guns to someone who's not there, and doesn't engage in needless violence.

His friends stare at him in concern anyway.

He doesn't feel bad about it.

*

Days. Months. Years. Decades. And nothing.

Nothing, and nothing to show for enduring it. His routine doesn't change. He doesn't stop fighting, doesn't stop going on missions. Everything happens for a reason, so he must still have work to do.

And yet, work brings him nothing. The world gets better, and they make it a point to keep tabs on the ones they have saved so they don't forget the good they're doing. So far, every one of them has made a difference.

He doesn't particularly care, but he keeps going. He's a soldier walking on broken bones, a corpse among the living, a body without a soul. For the first time in his immortal life, he feels wrong. Unnatural. Like a puppet pulled by strings, unable to signal to its handler that it's still alive in there.

It doesn't bother him much.

*

He had never really felt out of place.

The world kept changing, sure, and a lot of what he had known was gone - but that had been true since he first put down his sword and set off to Maghreb. He had cherished the changes, loving to learn more, loving to have his eyes open to the wonders of the world. Where the others had resisted new technology and centuries later still preferred their axes and swords to guns, Nicky had immediately set himself to learn how to use a sniper rifle and never looked back. When Nicky saw the first ever satellite images of the stars, he felt the exact same elation Nicolò had when he first entered the Maragheh Observatory.

When the world changed, he had found it beautiful. And when he changed with it, he had seen it as an honor.

Now, time moves on, and he can't.

He stands, untouched, as the world around him moves uncaringly. Stuck in the same place, in front of the same grave, no matter how many other places he visits and how many supposed wonders he sees.

Time is just another thing that left him behind.

*

Nile actually offers to set him up with someone.

He can't help it. He laughs, even if there's no joy in the sound. Nile is kind, and smart, and perfect, but there are some things she really is too young to understand.

She is offended. He briefly muses on whether or not he wishes he felt bad about that.

*

Life, to him, becomes nothing but the absence of death. He's convinced it is born out of that absence, much like the absence of warmth cuts and burns enough for humanity to name it cold.

He wonders if that sounds poetic, then shrugs. He was never the poet among them, so it's not like he would know.

*

The sharp sensation as he accidentally cuts himself when he shaves barely even registers, much like the burning of being shot or sliced open. He just sighs, reaching for a washcloth to wipe the trickling blood with.

It is only after several rounds of wiping, absentmindedly wondering how he managed to shed so much blood from one quick cut, that he realizes the reason it doesn't stop bleeding is that the cut isn't healing.

He feels something then.

Relief.

It punches through him, knocking him down to his knees. His time is coming. He's going to die.

Thank you, God, oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. He bows down, forehead touching the floor, sobbing as he rocks back and forth in place. Thank you, oh God, oh, thank you, Lord. His sobs turn into laughter, joyful and deep and cutting, and oh God, he's finally going to die. Thank you, thank you.

It's like the world's been lifted off his shoulders. Like he's finally alive again. His corpse breathes in, soul lodging back into place, broken bones being allowed to rest and put themselves back in position. His cut is still bleeding. He's never felt more healed.

Thank you, God.

His penance is over. Heaven is just at his fingertips. He might even have believed he was already in it, but there's no way there would be a Heaven without Joe.

Joe, he thinks, deliriously. Joe, Joe, Joe. He is floored by the amount of memories and sensations that hit him then. Curly hair shining in the sun. Soft eyes that always seemed to melt when setting on him. Easy, quick, musical laughter that made him feel at the top of the world even when it came at his own expense. Charcoal smudged hands. Soft touches, wiping his tears, wiping his blood. Joe. Yusuf.

Oh Lord, thank you.

When his family bursts in, alarmed by the sound, they find him in that same position. Kneeling on the floor, rocking back and forth, laughing and weeping as he bleeds, hands clasped together as repeats Yusuf's name over and over again. A prayer, answered.

"Nicky? Nicky, what happened?" Nile asks, alarmed, taking in the mess in the bathroom. It is only then that he really registers her presence.

He turns to her, points at his hurt cheek. "It's not healing," he says, and for the first time in three decades, Nile sees his smile reach his eyes again.

[rillils]

Love your immortal husbands drabbles <333 If you're still up for it may I ask for a 'Shy kiss' between Joe and Nicky?

Ahhh omg Patricia!! Thank you so much for this lovely ask, honey! Here's prompt #17. Shy kiss from this prompt list for you. Have some early days, very smitten husbands :3

*

Watching Yusuf from afar has been Nicolò’s favourite pastime for decades now.

It’s the sweetest pleasure he’ll allow himself, learning Yusuf in the same way he has learned about every nook and crack and creaking board of their new home, day after day, one precious detail at a time.

He knows how the sun brings out the gold in Yusuf’s skin; how Yusuf relishes the sound of rain pattering gently against their roof, the way he’ll close his eyes just to savour it. He knows now, how Yusuf’s eyes will gleam with joy for a sunset, and strawberries, and a drizzle of honey on his bread; and how he was never happier than when they discovered a litter of kittens in their garden, and the tiny, scoop-sized things were soon swarming his lap. His smile was so bright, it made his nose crinkle, and Nicolò could have basked in that sight forever.

Perhaps it is only love that makes him notice– the lovely shape of Yusuf’s mouth; the inviting line of his neck, the broadness of his shoulders.

Perhaps it’s only love that makes him pause by the kitchen window, hands still caked with flour and bits of dough, and see wonder where Yusuf is merely scrubbing their laundry over the washboard outside. And if it is, then Nicolò doesn’t mind. He only wishes he could be subtle, the way he used to be – the way he thought he was, before Yusuf proved to him just how incorrect a notion that was.

Even now, Yusuf catches him staring. And though he doesn’t glance back at Nicolò again, all that time he keeps smiling to himself, soft under his beard, as if he were savouring some private secret right there on his tongue.

It’s only after, when they’re sitting in the shade of the walnut tree, sharing dried apples and apricots as their laundry billows on the clothesline, that Yusuf takes his hand.

He kisses the knuckles, pale even in the hottest summer, and when he looks up to meet Nicolò’s eyes, Nicolò nearly shivers from the sudden intimacy of it all.

“I thought, perhaps, there was something you wanted,” Yusuf says. “But I know you enough to know you’d never ask.”

Nicolò’s cheeks colour instantly. There is something he wants, something he always wants–

His gaze drops to Yusuf’s lips before he can help it, and that only makes Yusuf’s smile softer, kinder.

“You can ask,” Nicolò hears him murmur. “You can ask anything of me.”

Nicolò swallows. It’s the longest, most breathless moment before he finds himself whispering, “Kiss me.”

Eyes twinkling, Yusuf obliges.

This is not their first kiss; nor is it the second, or the third. And yet it feels so new. It’s delicate, cautious somehow.

Nicolò remembers the passion of their first kiss, the fire it sparked in his belly, scorching and all-consuming; the way Yusuf pulled him close until their bodies were flush together from chest to hips to knees, and kissed the breath out of his lungs.

That’s not how it is now. No, this is, it’s a slow, gentle heat, like a pot simmering quietly over the fire. It’s as if they’re meeting all over again; two strangers only just getting acquainted with each other; only, it is not a stranger’s, but Yusuf’s hand touching his cheek. It’s Yusuf’s fingers tipping Nicolò’s chin up, his lips kissing worship on Nicolò’s lips; his tongue stroking the soft inside of Nicolò’s mouth, filling up spaces he never knew were empty before.

And he wants to learn this too, Nicolò thinks as he winds his arms around Yusuf’s neck; he wants to find out all the ways Yusuf can kiss him and taste them all, the gentle and the burning and all the in-betweens, until he can name them all, until he knows them, like Yusuf, like their home.

Yusuf pulls away all too soon, but he lingers close, in the warmth of their mingling breaths.

“I thought you would at least say please,” he teases.

Nicolò tackles him into the soft grass in retaliation, but Yusuf only rolls them over, grinning down at him from his vantage point.

“I’ll never ask anything of you, ever again,” Nicolò declares, chest shaking with laughter. His cheeks have never felt so wonderfully hot before. “You’re an awful, terrible, horrible man.”

“Yes, I am,” Yusuf concurs, leaning down with sweet, sweet purpose. “Oh. A veritable menace.”

send me a prompt + ship and I'll write a short ficlet for you!

[eretzyisrael]

Blind musician who became ‘King of the Qanum’

his is the fascinating story of  Avraham Salman, a graduate of the Baghdad music school for the blind. Salman went on to become a professional musician in Israel and to gain an international audience in the Arab world. Feature in the Forward by Jonah Nelson and Esther Warkov:

One night in Baghdad in 1932, a Jewish toddler looked up at the stars and saw nothing but darkness. He was totally blind.

The odds were that this boy would live a life of poverty and begging.

Instead, he became a renowned musician known as “King of the Qanun.” This is his story, exemplifying the enduring contributions of Iraqi Jewish musicians.

Ibrahim Shahrabani was born in 1930 to a family in Baghdad’s ancient Jewish community. At 5 months old, he contracted an eye infection that blurred his vision. As a toddler, he would look up and see a sky full of clouds when there were none. By age 2, his vision was gone.

He was sent to a school for blind children called Dar Mu’asat Al-’Amiyaan — “The House of Consoling the Blind.” It was founded in 1929 by Eleazer Silas Kadoorie, a wealthy Jewish businessman. Most students were Jewish, but children of all religions attended.

To spare the students from a life of begging, they learned skills like basket-weaving and carpentry. Shahrabani was assigned the vocation of clockmaker, but he only wanted to play music. At the time, the school was the only institution in Baghdad where music was formally taught. Working as a musician was considered a lowly profession, so it was something Jews and other minorities were allowed to do, as ethnomusicologist Esther Warkov describes in her dissertation on Iraqi Jewish musicians.

Music students at Eleazer Silas Kadoorie’s school in Baghdad in the 1930s. (Photo:The Iraqi jewish Archive)

Shahrabani began to learn qanun, a plucked zither that was popular throughout the Middle East. He eventually memorized thousands of pieces and could perform nearly any genre: traditional suites (called “The Iraqi Maqam”), classical Middle Eastern compositions and Western classical music.

He “has a head full of music,” esteemed Iraqi Maqam singer Salim Shibbeth told Warkov in 1981. “Best in the Middle East.”

Jewish instrumentalists were dominant in Baghdad‘s music scene. Every Wednesday, Iraqi state radio’s on-air orchestra would broadcast to eager audiences. One Wednesday, there was silence, and the prime minister demanded to know why. It was a major Jewish holiday, he was told, so none of the musicians showed up.

For the most part, Jews lived peacefully in Baghdad for centuries. Even after a wave of anti-Jewish looting in 1941 during Shavuot in which 180 Jews were killed, Jewish musicians continued to live and work in the city. As a teenager in the 1940s, Shahrabani joined fellow blind musicians in a traveling orchestra called Ikhwaan Al-Fan, or Brothers of Art, founded by Jewish violinist Daoud Akram. Shahrabani remembered those years as “heaven.”

The school for the blind had long advertised its students’ musical services, and Brothers of Art was soon booked on state radio. The group was also in demand for gatherings of women who felt comfortable unveiled in front of the mostly blind musicians, according to Warkov’s research. Money from such gatherings was funneled back into the school’s budget.

By 1948, the situation in Palestine was boiling over into Baghdad. After Israel declared its independence, Iraq joined an invasion of British Palestine by Arab states. In the Iraqi city of Basra, Shafiq Ades, a prominent Jewish businessman, was accused of aiding Israeli war efforts and was publicly hanged after a show trial.

Tensions spilled over into an orchestra run by Iraqi state radio. Palestinian conductor Ruhi Al-Hamash and Jewish qanunist Abraham Daud Ha-Cohen got into a fight, and Ha-Cohen was fired. Jewish orchestra manager and virtuoso Yusuf Za’arur recommended that 18-year-old Shahrabani replace Ha-Cohen. Popular singers such as Nazem Al-Ghazali then began to hire Shahrabani for their orchestras. He and other Iraqi Jewish musicians prospered despite the tumultuous times and their low social status. “In Baghdad, the musicians lived like kings,” Shahrabani said.

But conditions for Jews were deteriorating. After mass civil service firings of Jews in 1950, Shahrabani and fellow musicians lost their radio orchestra jobs, according to Za’arur’s great-grandson, David Regev Zaarur.

Around this time, Shahrabani was invited to join a state-run orchestra in Jerusalem. The invitation came from Ezra Aharon, an Iraqi Jew who’d moved to Palestine in the 1930s and became a central figure in the creation of new musical genres and ensembles. As the situation in Baghdad worsened, Shahrabani reluctantly agreed to emigrate. He renounced his Iraqi citizenship as required by law, and left Iraq alongside tens of thousands of Baghdadi Jews. He never returned.

Shahrabani began using a different last name in Iraq: Salman. Once he immigrated to Israel, he changed his first name, Ibrahim, to the Hebrew name Avraham. He soon became a salaried member of the Israel Broadcasting House’s Kol Yisrael orchestra, playing under Aharon’s direction alongside classmates from the school for the blind. During the 1950s, the orchestra performed 30 to 45 minutes of live music daily, breaking up Arabic-language news or political programming. Salman played any style required: Jewish liturgical songs, Syrian folk songs, songs based on Andalusian Arabic poetry, modern Egyptian hits and the traditional Iraqi Maqam.

Read article in full

[emjee]

Hey y’all. Have a ficlet based on this post that wouldn’t leave me alone.

It isn’t a problem, Yusuf tells himself. It isn’t a problem because it’s not a concern. It’s not a concern because he isn’t paying attention. He does not notice. He’s looking away. He’s looking away so he does not notice.

“Ah,” Nicolò says, looking up from the sword in his lap. “You are back. I was beginning to worry.”

Yusuf doesn’t know how long he’s been gone. All he knows is that earlier in the evening he took one look at Nicolò trying to get tinder to catch for their fire, tongue poking out as he concentrated on striking the flint over and over again, and immediately excused himself, claiming he was going down to the river to wash. Nicolò had frowned and told him to be careful, as they were losing the light, and Yusuf had all but taken off at a run.

The fire is blazing now. That should spell the end of his worries, but of course it doesn’t, because once Nicolò has satisfied himself that Yusuf is in one piece he returns to sharpening his sword, working the whetstone against the edge. The tip of his tongue is pushing into a dimple at the corner of his mouth.

Most gracious, most merciful, Yusuf thinks wryly at God. Sometimes you give me cause to doubt that second bit.

But, Yusuf reminds himself, it isn’t a problem. He’ll just stop thinking about it. Simple at that. No need to complicate this ever-deepening friendship with the only other person alive who understands what Yusuf’s life now is. It’s not as though he’s given much thought to Nicolò or his tongue or the many uses it could be put to, including but not limited to various scenarios that bring it in contact with Yusuf’s skin or the inside of his mouth or—

Fine, now he’s looking, he’s watching, watching Nicolò’s large, sure hands guide the whetstone against the edge of his blade, watching the tip of his tongue work almost imperceptibly against that dimple.

He is halfway though this terrible decision before he even knows he’s properly decided.

“Nicolò.” By the time Nicolò looks up, Yusuf already has the sword in his hands. “Leave the sword.” He sets in on the ground away from the fire and all but climbs into Nicolò’s lap. Nicolò’s eyes widen but he doesn’t try to get away, doesn’t shove Yusuf off him. Instead his hands come to Yusuf’s waist, and his mouth opens as though he meant to say something but promptly forgot the words. Yusuf takes Nicolò’s face in his hands, looks straight into those unsettling pale eyes he has come to adore because they belong to Nicolò, gives him time to toss Yusuf away with any number of maneuvers they’ve both used on each other.

But Nicolò doesn’t, and his mouth is still open, and Yusuf doesn’t want to wait any longer, can’t keep wondering what it’s like to…

He fits his mouth against Nicolò’s and all but sucks on Nicolò’s tongue. It isn’t elegant, or graceful; it is in fact far from Yusuf’s best work. He takes pride in being a sensitive lover, and hopes—prays, truly—that Nicolò will be at least intrigued enough to let Yusuf make it up to him.

His worries are interrupted by the sudden realization that Nicolò is kissing him back with what can only be called ferocity. The hands at his waist have turned into fists grasping and twisting his tunic, and then Nicolò is using one of those maneuvers designed to dislodge an assailant, except he doesn’t let go, just rolls so Yusuf is under him.

If he’d known how this was going to go, he thinks, as Nicolò all but licks up the side of his neck, perhaps he would have said something sooner.

*

Approximately nine centuries later, Joe awakes to the sensation of Nicky’s finger brushing against his lips.

“Watching me sleep again?” he murmurs, eyes still closed.

“I cannot help myself, sometimes,” Nicky says, “seeing as you are very beautiful.”

“Sweet.” Even Joe doesn’t know if he’s referring to the compliment or addressing Nicky directly; it’s too early for such distinctions.

“For some reason I was thinking of the first time you kissed me.”

“Mmm. That was a good kiss. Sweet,” he says again, and hears Nicky snort.

“It was nothing of the sort.”

That’s enough to get him to open his eyes. “What do you mean? It was—I remember it being, I don’t know. Tender. Beautiful. I wanted you so badly.”

“That you did, and I you, but tender is not how I would describe it. You threw my sword away and straddled me and all but sucked on my tongue.”

Oh, Joe’s completely awake now. “I did not throw your sword away,” he says, sitting up, “seeing as I didn’t feel like getting run through with it. But if you didn’t want me to suck on your tongue you should have kept it inside your mouth—”

“So you admit that’s what you did—”

“Instead of, I don’t know, flaunting it all over creation every time you had to concentrate on something—”

Nicky rolls so he’s flat on his back, arms over his head. “Flaunted it, did I?” He licks his lips.

“You are a menace.” Joe pushes the blankets back and stretches himself over Nicky.

“A menace, hm? I suppose I must be stopped.”

“I suppose so.”

He closes the last bit of distance between them and finds Nicky’s mouth open and ready.