#eighty quid

[urban-renaissance]

Well... Alright! YOU’VE GOT YOURSELF A DEAL.

Luck emoji spell

🌠🐰🍀🎐🙏🎐🍀🐰🌠

like charges, reblog casts

[silverfoxstole]

Pictures of toys and books from my childhood have been popping up on my Facebook feed of late, so I decided to take a walk down memory lane and have been reminded of several things that I hadn’t thought about in years!

[thesunsethour]

saw sam fender for €40 in 2022 and now he’s trying to charge €80 for a december gig and his new album isn’t even out yet. well done mate 👍 not paying that

[lescarbille]

481 Pounds of Fine

Landoscar | 23K | College AU

Lando Norris is a boy with a blinding smile, showing the slight gap between his two front teeth and two dimples. His skin is tanned as if he spent the school year travelling the world. His look is the most striking for Oscar, a mixture of blues, greens, greys with hazel glitter, like an ocean. The narrowing of his eyes gives him a mischievous look, a mixture of: “I have never done anything wrong in my life” and “I am the most evil gremlins you have ever met”.

Oscar swallowed.

“So? Please tell me that’s twenty quid, I only have twenty quid on me.”

Oscar shakes his head to take his attention away from Lando, before looking at his screen. Under a flash of pixels, the sum appears, and Oscar can't help but gasp in surprise and lean over to check the sum.

“You're fined four hundred and eighty-one pounds.”

---

Lando has lost books and Oscar is a cute student who work at the library.

[aziraphales-library]

first off TYSM FOR THIS ACC AHH ITS BEEN SO HELPFULL <3

do you know any fics with touch-starved Crowley struggling to get used to the amount of affection Aziraphale shows him?

anyways love you all byee

We have a #touch starved tag that you will want to check out! Here are more fics to add to the collection...

Demons need hugs too by apeiiron (NR)

The thought of losing Aziraphale, his one constant, his one love, his everything, is too much to bear. Crowley wants to hold him more than anything, but he's too intimidated by the what-ifs to try. Aziraphale did it for him.

My Dear and Only Love by Sarah_hadeschild (G)

“I like your hands,” he said, plainly. Aziraphale huffed out a laugh. “Do you?” “‘Always have.” Aziraphale regarded him for a moment as recognition dawned on him. The things was, Crowley loved to grandstand. He loved to act braver than he was— more callous. That way, when things went awry, he had no one to blame for it but himself. Aziraphale knew this. And because of it, he knew that if he didn’t look out for Crowley’s heart, then no one would. AKA Thanks to a well-timed Valentine's gift, a touch-starved Crowley is about to get everything he desires. Well, almost everything.

Charred Feathers by KannaOphelia (T)

The wings burst through, a flurry of feathers and ripping fabric. “Damn. Thought they’d be enough room. That was a Tom Ford under-vest, would have cost me eighty quid if I’d actually bought it.” “Of course you stole it, you vile fiend,” Aziraphale said automatically, staring at Crowley’s well-groomed wings. They were black, and tidy, but it wasn’t a pure, midnight black. More a very dark, almost shabby grey, for all their beautiful condition. He was beginning to have a horrible suspicion about those wings. He reached out, and very gently brushed his fingertips through one, not letting any healing power through yet. “Made it. Y’know.” Crowley mimed snapping his fingers. “You’re wearing knock-off flannels?” Aziraphale demanded, tone high with outrage. He let his other hand come to the other wing, stepping closer, as Crowley snorted with laughter. Aziraphale had been right. Crowley’s feathers were smooth and perfect and undamaged, and at the same time, they were charred black by fire.

The Touch of Your Hand by EdosianOrchids901 (T)

After a moment of casual contact in Rome, Crowley realizes that he’s touch-starved. He dreams about holding Aziraphale’s hand or—even better—hugging him. But Aziraphale is an angel, and Crowley is a demon. And demons don’t deserve hand holding or hugs…do they?

Velocity by dragon_with_a_teacup (T)

Aziraphale can sense Affection whenever that emotion is near. Yet he has never looked for it within himself whenever Crowley is near. It should be impossible, an angel feeling such things for a demon; why, then, would it have occurred to him to look? Why would he have thought to analyze his bond with Crowley—a bond forged throughout the centuries through a convenient work arrangement—for anything beyond mere camaraderie? Yet now, his favorite angelic ability turns inward for the first time, and at last, he sees: He’s been such a fool.

An Exercise In Trust by organizechaos (T)

It’s been eleven years since Armageddon and Heaven and Hell have been conspiring to restart it. Meanwhile, Aziraphale and Crowley moved in together, got married, and are overall really happy. When their former bosses finally confront them — attacking with an object that will take centuries worth of memories from the ineffable pair — something goes a little wrong in the process… Crowley takes the full hit. (Basically, it’s just about +37,000 words worth of Crowley being a confused mess at why Aziraphale’s finally reciprocating his love)

- Mod D

[maladaptiveobsession]

kinktober day 1

pegging - kylar

pegging: a sexual act in which one anally penetrates another with a strap-on

contains: reader with vagina, gn reader, male kylar, dom/sub dynamics, sadomascochism, slapping, spanking, degradation, pegging, painal

synopsis: kylar and you try out the new strap-on he picked out; aka kylar being a slut for painal and degredation

words: 457

Pounding into Kylar’s hips, you’re finding the strap-on to be well worth the eighty quid it cost. You had taken him to that adult shop down on Elk Street the day earlier, being so gracious to let him pick the toy you’d be ruining his hole with. The masochist chose the most intimidating figure out of them all; eight inches and nearly as thick as his arm. With his ass up and face buried into the bed, you wondered if he regretted it.

Kneading his dark hair between your fingers, you roughly pulled his head back. Drool, snot, and tears dripped down his face, his eyes glued to the back of his head and his tongue falling stupidly outside of his mouth.

“Look at you, all stupid for me. Disgusting slut.” He trembles at your words, only responding with whimpers and moans.

“You like being treated like this, don’t you? You like being treated like my personal toy to break and ruin? Answer me, slut.” You order him, harshly spanking his behind, eliciting a groan from Kylar. Slapping his face, you demand for him to use his words.

“Yes! Yes! I do! I do!” He obediently replies, voice raw from screaming underneath you for so long. His eyes flit up to yours for a brief moment, searching for approval.

“Did I give you permission to look at me?” You slap him again.

“Keep those disgusting eyes off me, you hear?” You force his face back into the sheets, leaning over him to abuse even deeper depths. His ass burns with each thrust, your pelvis crashing painfully against his rear. It hurts so bad, but he doesn’t want you to stop. He just wants your attention, even if that means you rearranging his insides and degrading him. He loves this side of you, so cruel and unforgiving; this side of you that only gets to see. He’ll take anything you have to give him, it’s his to have! Only you can treat him this way, only you can abuse him so. He’s yours! Only yours!

Pleasure crashes through his mind, his seed spilling onto the sheets below. You can feel him tremble and shake beneath you, slowing your pace as he rides out his high. Caressing his hair and body, you sing soft praises.

“Good boy, such a good boy. You did so well for me. I think you deserve a treat, hm?”

You slide out from his weeping hole, guide him onto his back and then remove the strap-on entirely. Teasingly slow, you position your glistening pussy just above his face. He gapes below you, panting in anticipation, hands hovering, waiting for permission to touch.

“You wanted a taste, didn’t you? Get to work.”

[sturnioz]

Help why are Sonny angels so much.. I found one that's like 40 quid for one, ONE

ok im gonna be real.. i thought they would be more expensive than that. like forty quid is still expensive as fuck to me but like.... i was lowkey thinking seventy or eighty quid cos of how popular they seem to be...

[panelshowsource]

hiya!! have you heard anything about Sandi's new book?? i love the title (Friends of Dorothy 🥹) but that's like all I know... i stumbled upon it's existence on accident and was wondering if I should bump it to the top of my tbr list!

hello!!

i haven't heard much about it — in terms of whether it's good, i mean, but initial comments are rolling in as we speak and they're very promising — but i did pre-order a signed hardback from waterstones (i believe the total after shipping was 32 quid), which are still available!

i'll probably have read it in the next month or so, so i can post my thoughts when i'm done! for whatever they're worth :') it sounds promising so you should read it and lmk!!

here's the synopsis for anyone curious!

After much searching, Amber and Stevie find the perfect house — a bit shabby but with potential — in Grimaldi Square. Just the two of them; a place where they can start their lives together. Recently married, they want to begin a family (with the help of their gay best friend, Jack). Despite the rundown pub across the way, the overgrown garden and a decidedly nosy neighbour, it's the house of their dreams. But they are not alone in this dream. Upstairs, squatting on an old red sofa, is the former owner — eighty-year-old foul-mouthed, straight-talking, wise-cracking Dorothy — and she's not going anywhere.

speaking of books — if anyone's already finished the new richard osman book give us a shout!! send me non-spoilery thoughts 🥹

[alchemisland]

Crust Punk Scene

Thinking back to my days as a crust punk

It was cans everyday before I smoked skunk

Looking back can’t imagine what she thought, mum

I smoked, screamed, pierced myself and battered drums

All my mates over all the time doing what they couldn’t

At home, always people explored shadows they normally wouldn’t

Around me, in this sense I am satan’s sudden student

Said don’t need no education but I’m not the type to bunk

In Ireland we call it mitching, tell you true I never played truant

That game I never played through it, I did do it though

Leaving school, true to my word there, they’re all fools

Drooling on desks, whole thing an out of control April Fool

I rue a man to put a rule on me, do one man, judge ruling on me

Midway through fifth year I elected to leave, selected my reprieve and none could refuse me

I worked in my dad’s while my mates went to school, few quid for the pocket, mostly for booze

The rest I spent on looking punk as fuck, bulletbelts getting delivered bulk

I had more anger in me, and more rips in my clothes, than incredible Hulk

Carry No Banners from Galway became Cut The Reins, went Galway a lot 

Lovely spot but cut the rains

At the Spanish Arch drinking cans all day

They call this place ambition’s grave

Nightlife to rave about, suddenly you’re fifty and never got out

Use the old sessioners as a lesson on what not to be, less than pensioners but close

These licentionnaires with greying hair at college parties plying wares

Only kiss they get result of double dares.

Spent plenty hard cash perfecting my look

Moon in Leo outlook, out with the old room for my new look

Never out unless looking good, flooded with looks my bulk

Onlookers audibly say fuckkkkkkk, like The Wire’s Bunk 

I only cared about being the punkest punk, no giving fucks

More binfrequenting than local fox

Some shouldn’thavesent in sentbox.

Everyday in full costume like an habitual monk

The way you do when you’re young

I wrote punk’s dead in marker on my sleeveless parka shirt from army surplus

I had a navy nike hat with an immortal patch on, buckle had rust

Never saw it again when I left it on a Greyhound Galwaybound GoBus

Frayed with wearing, greyed with caring, grade unerring it was my A hat

I had studs and metal bits glued onto all my jackets

Nothing flair lacking

Nothing’s fair that age

Started using red dax wax to sculpt my hair into liberty spikes

Until my top tips signalled to the rising moon like IRA pikes

No rules except what to think, wear, listen to and how to act

Didn’t realise I was signing a pact, I’m listening to Filthpact

Crusties barely wash after enacting the No Showers Act of 10 years back

Their baggy clothes are filth packed

Like wallowing pigs they’re filth backed

At crust gigs no pints are sold

It’s bold but might get one water to pour in a six pack

Posh father daughters playing at homeless, LATFO lmao

Caught between a rock and NWOBHM, more piss smell than OTO

Bake sale

Pit hair like lichens sprouting my cut off Amebix merchandise

Dreads dirt-caked, Latvian army boots in bad shape, looking like piltdown man

They shout crust as fuck existence in can-strewn Cabra kitchens

They form bands called Nuclear Axe Wound or Mandatory Deexistence

No distance between bands, scene is small and incestuous 

Every second punk kid here attended Wesley, half played rugby

Dad’s in the ministry like Weasleys, but they’re punx see

Purposely didn’t take their pocket money, funds beneath their dignity

Rather play for beers, be dirty and have nits, playing on the streets

Dirty knees kid calls himself a magpie, watches train hopping documentaries

A total crock those demo tracks you sent to me, 4 track ra-punk 

Shit be the scent of me, all kak perfume, two birds and eighty blokes per show

Lops off locks and let grease wind dreadlocks, acquire shocking forehead stick and pokes

Squat the world, he jokes, his dad’s place is on millionaire’s row

Fucked up at the front of the show, milling elbows

Dreadlocks like a dingleberry lasso 

Buckfast purple lips and unwashed teeth on show

Your uncle has a spare rolex, everything gold like butter

Your patch says train robber, another says cradle2gutter

You all absolutely deserve each other.

Hanging around the closest we have to train tracks

Pretending you’re leatherclad raiders outta Mad Max

Spent my inheritance on cans, family won’t see me again

Until I’m in dire need of a lend, I also attend Christmas and holidays

Driving mammy around the bend, arrived for Thanksgiving dressed like a Fallout raider

They have saved up but secluded my money until I grow up, few years finding myself

Finally settle into a position at Dad’s firm, dad’s firm on this decision, I’m binding myself

To his millions.

Yes me boys that’s me gone, striking out west goodbye Muirsin Durkin.

[oqmemphis]

why does this story sound exactly like a particular variety of tumblr microfiction

[cw: violence and drug use, transcript under cut]

But before I go, I'd like to leave you with this thought. I'm aware that words can mean different things in different places. For example, in Glasgow, the word 'entrepreneur' means someone who'll kill your ex for eighty quid. But what about the word 'superstition'? I'd say I'm highly skeptical of most superstitions. I don't believe that drinking the blood of virgins keeps you young -- I just like the taste. I suppose the only belief I have that could be classed as superstitious, at a push, is that you can predict the future by examining the spilled entrails of an animal. That's why a couple of months ago, naked as the day I was born, I adorned a goat with ribbons and bells, doused it with sacred oils, kissed it on the forehead and slaughtered it with a hand axe in my garage. As I knelt among the hot guts of the still-twitching goat, I saw a problem: there was a small toy truck lodged in the upper intestine of the goat. The omen was clear: there would soon be a catastrophic collapse of Britain's trucking sector. As I'm heavily invested in both the UK road haulage industry and a variety of people-trafficking schemes, I had to do something. I needed to focus. So using a basic honey and CBD oil base, I mixed a 50/50 blend of ketamine and MDMA, and washed it down with four Red Bulls and the remains of a Wall's Viennetta which I found at the back of a garage chest freezer next to what looked like a human hand but that I may have been hallucinating by then. By the time I returned to something approaching rationality, it was too late. My phone was already sending me alerts about the lack of British truck drivers, focusing on how difficult it would be to quickly train the replacements, as simultaneously urinating in an empty Lucozade bottle while suffocating a hitchhiker with your other hand is a skill that can take years to learn. I had to do something, and quickly. I needed to focus. So using a basic honey and CBD oil base, I mixed a 30/60/10 blend of mescaline, peyote and PCP, washed down with some water I found sitting in an old hosepipe and some strips of goat liver that I flash-fried on the garage floor using some lawnmower fuel. By the time I returned to something approaching rationality, I was already twenty minutes late for recording my film review podcast, Focus on Film (Location). I'd arranged to have a chat with Laura Simons, who'd worked as assistant location manager on Christopher Nolan's Interstellar, which is one of my top ten thousand films of all time. I needed to focus. So using a basic honey and CBD oil base, I mixed a 30/12/18/40 blend of heroin, Xanax, mushrooms and fentanyl, and washed it down with some semi-fermented goat urine which I sucked straight from the bladder. By the time I returned to something approaching rationality, I found myself with my head caught sideways in the abdominal cavity of the goat. And six days after I first led Snowflake into my garage, I was freed by a traumatised postman, to whom I would like to apologise. And I'd also extend that apology to Laura Simons. Laura, thank you for arriving on time to our meeting at Caffe Nero. That naked man tangled in strips of animal hide and screaming about the British trucking industry was me, but I can see why you felt the need to taser me. Goodnight.

[torlibram]

I looked at my watch. 10:03. He was late. He was never late, I could set my watch by his appearances. Well, my calendar, anyway.

Every Sunday morning, while I was taking the kitchen trash out to the dustbin, in he would pop with a crackle of static and a cheesy visual effect from an eighties straight-to-video sci-fi flick. The effects were strictly for show, he has told me several times, apparently people don't take you seriously if you just appear out of nowhere.

Jef (he has corrected my spelling any number of times, these days I spell it with two f's and a silent q, just to wind him up) says he comes from the future where things are a bit more apocalyptic than they are now. He represents an organisation trying to monkey about with the time stream to prevent the apocalypse from happening.

I asked him once whether preventing the apocalypse would stop his people developing time travel and therefore not coming back to prevent the apocalypse, but he just shrugged and said he just does the remote exploration and leaves the fundamental rearranging of the continuum to the boffins.

He's been popping up by my bins on a Sunday morning for months. We have a bit of a chat, I generally bring a mug of tea and a packet of biscuits out with me, and I let him know the same information every time: who the president is, what utter fuckup is plaguing the world this week and so on. I have tried to get him to trade information from his time for the information from mine, but no dice. A bit of research in his archives and I could put a wad of cash on the right horse or cup final and be quids in. I mean, he's had enough biscuits off me that he owes me a lottery win or two.

Anyway. Each time he pops in, it's to check what result the tampering his colleagues further back in time has had. Apparently there's some kind of loop or lag or something that lets them run Shakespeare over with a brewery dray and then check what happens at our point in history before the timeline shakes out up to their present day. So they can nip back half an hour with a post it note saying things like 'Plan 34J caused giraffes in Moscow, but no effect on Primary Outcome' and know not to bother the Bard. It's all a bit beyond me, because I don't remember history mysteriously changing; but then I suppose I wouldn't. As soon as Jef's colleagues change something it has always been that way, unless it doesn't work and they leave a note to tell themselves not to do it. Either way, it makes for some interesting conversations about what they are trying this time.

I don't know why he comes back once a week. As far as I remember from science at school, you get better data from making the same observation at the same time each run of the experiment. Coming back a week later each time means your data could be invalid by virtue of differences over the course of the week. I pointed that out to him once, but he went into a complicated explanation about how time travel can wrinkle space and time and make it very difficult to hit a spot you had already been to and I got a headache.

I do hope he hasn't had an accident somewhen. Maybe his higher-ups have finally found the right event to influence to avert the end times and he doesn't need to come back and check any more. Maybe they finally found the wrong thing and completely negated themselves from ever existing, there's a cheery thought.

10:11. I guess he's not coming this week. I chuck the trash bags into the bin and head back indoors. Time to flip the telescreen on and make obeisance to Pope Donald.

You once made a promise to yourself: if you ever met a time traveler, it wouldn't be a big deal. You’d tell them the date, the most important political conflict, a recent technology, and send them on their way. You now encounter a time traveler nearly every week.

[belannaswlonkderfulworm]

computer people of tumblr could you please assist me?? my brothers monitor broke and he hasn't got the money to buy a new one so i figured i'd get one for him, problem is i know fuck all about computers!! he's an animation student so he mostly uses his monitor for that but he's also a big gamer (think league of legends, world of warcraft type games) so he's need a monitor that's good at that stuff, my budgets around eighty quid but i could probably stretch to one twenty, what are your recs??

[christinescupofcoffee]

After the Gold Rush | Chapter One

I’ve got Alex, Eric, Krist, Joey, Lars, Peter, Chris, Billie Joe, my OCs, Octavius, Ahkmenrah, Linus, Richard, and James. Everyone, say hello to Phileas, which I’m admittedly only writing about because Steve is really cute as him 😅

ao3 | squidgeworld

The warm tropical air was my bed from that point onward. 

Springtime had come to Hawai’i, but the islands were so hot, and the other alternative was to return to San Francisco and be a destitute bum for the rest of my life. Who was I kidding: I had made a bet with Lord Kelvin that I could thumb my way around the world in eighty days, but I had been used by the two whom I had considered to be my friends and my partners in crime. Besides, word had it on the streets of London that Monique had been placed in an arranged marriage: even if I had won the gamble, she would be pushed off into the arms of another man.

I wasn’t going to admit that I was in love with her, not after we had nearly been killed in Lanzhou.

I couldn’t bear to think of her or of Passepartout at this point, not after what happened in China and India, and especially not there after I had taken the final boat out from San Francisco to the Hawaiian islands. Three days, I was at sea, but it was better than trying to make a bet with someone who hated my guts and spend time with people who nudged me to the side. All of the meetings over the summer where I overheard things about becoming the next Minister of Science, and one who would “represent the rapidly growing empire.” I was not the first to admit that I was a greedy bastard and I wanted the entire delicious pie rather than a skimpy slice. 

But during the trip across the sea, I recalled Kelvin’s blank expression, one which told me everything before anyone else, especially Passepartout, had even said a word when I had suggested the gamble: Inspector Fix, the man whom Kelvin had hired to chase after us, after me in particular, had it out for me even before I had begun. It was personal, and one which left me wondering as to whom I could trust: as far as I knew, Monique was nothing more than a patsy, especially since she seemed rather distant from me and somewhat intrigued by the suggestion of an arranged marriage back in Istanbul. 

I had been lied to this entire time, and now I had to start from scratch, on my own, out in the ocean.

Arranged marriages always left a pit in my stomach, and all of the ministries hired by the empire, in particular the Royal Academy of Science, made a mockery of my distaste for them. 

Kelvin thought I was crazy, anyways. 

But I watched it happen all around me: engagements made in haste bestowed strained marriages, and more so the case during one hell of a journey about the globe. It was all about becoming an elite, and the desire had lost its luster so quickly once I spent my last few quid in San Francisco. The painter set to become the princess of Turkey once she married the prince, another man who nearly had me and Passepartout killed, and I knew it was about to made official once we returned home to England.

As far as I was concerned, however, I had jumped ship from the empire and found myself in the bottom of a bottle of rum on the black sands of an island called Oahu.

My dark hair was disheveled and I had used my overcoat as a tent. At least the sun was out, and the ocean air felt quite nice on my skin.

“I think I’ll stay a while,” I said to myself, and I cleared my throat from the lack of anything proper to drink since I had beached the night before. I unbuttoned my shirt to feel the ocean on my chest: I wasn’t used to the warmth, especially this time of year where England was often slammed with droves of rain and left cool during the evening. I looked up to the sky overhead: I usually had idea after idea when I stood out in the sun, but I had been left dry at that point.

I held my hands to my bare chest just to feel my skin and the beating of my own heart.

How could they have pushed this to the side like they did, this beating heart here, one with lead through his veins and mechanical gears embedded in his heart and lungs.

Okay. Not literally speaking.

But I was the inventor and the one who should have led the way, not pushed forth against his own will. I should have done it on my own terms, but instead, I had played as if I was a slab of meat.

I danced with idiots. Every single one of them, a complete idiot—including myself.

A gust of cool wind brushed over my face and my chest. It wound its way through the roots of my hair and down the crest of my back: still too warm to make me think of England.

I opened my eyes and turned my head for a look at the palm trees lining the sand next to me. My coat lay back in the notch in the trees behind me, but I was in no mood to fetch it and change spots. If anything, I preferred finding myself some palm fronds and lumber to build myself a small house for myself. I showed Passepartout my device which broke the fifty mile an hour speed barrier: I could make something out of the trees. I set my hands down and walked through the hot black sands, barefoot, over to the trees. There was no way I was going to be walking through hot volcanic sand with my boots on.

At least I didn’t have Kelvin yapping in my ear the entire time. He was only head of the academy because his father had bought it for him. And Fix played part of the pig as well, what with being more of a puppet than me and everything.

When I stood under a tree, the fronds protected me from the hot sun: the shade felt good on my head and shoulders, and more so on my chest. I glanced up at the tall palms around me.

I had my pocketknife on my belt, and thus, I could readily strip them off and make a roof as well as a hammock. Coconuts were impossible to break open, which I found out straight away, and thus, they could act as barricades should it ever flood: middle of the ocean, there were bound to be storms of incredible proportions.

I leaned against the trunk of the tree behind me: last I had eaten was on the boat, and I had eaten a great deal as I had no idea as to whether or not Hawai’i had an adequate amount of food. The last I had heard was that the Laplace of France had inflicted so many terrible ailments on the population and killed so many of them all at once. But regardless of that empire’s dirty laundry, or the dirty laundry of any empire, I was genuinely beginning to feel hungry at that point.

I didn’t think I would die out in the middle of the ocean, the middle of nowhere, but I had a feeling that that was my fate.

A rustling in the trees before me caught my attention, and I gazed ahead. A slender woman with dark skin and even blacker hair peeked at me through the trees. I pursed my lips as I struggled not to frighten her.

An Englishman with long shaggy dark brown hair, big soft brown eyes, and a full build: I could potentially pass off as Polynesian. I had been torn to pieces, but I could do it. Indeed, she poked her head out more from behind the tree, and she showed me her long grass skirt as well as her bare exposed breasts with dark nipples.

I could feel my face growing warm at the sight of her. I sank my shoulders and relaxed.

“Oh. Hello there.”

She showed me a little smile, followed by a wreath of little golden-orange flowers in her hands. Gingerly, she approached me, and she lifted the wreath up over my head.

“Around my neck?” I asked her, to which she nodded. I bowed my head, and she rested the wreath about my neck and shoulders. Her fingers brushed against the sides of my neck as she nudged my hair back out of the flowers, all of which smelled wonderful and sweet. She stood upon her toes and lightly kissed me on the cheek.

“Thank you,” I said to her with a break in my voice.

“Aloha mai Oahu,” she greeted me in a voice so sweet that it made me think of sugarcane. “Welcome to Oahu. Come with me.”

I ran my fingers through my hair and followed her into the trees, towards a pathway carved through the bushes. The sticks and sand were hard on my feet, but I had to keep walking.

“I have traveled far,” I confessed. I daren’t tell her that I hailed from England, as I knew that things were raw about those wares.

“You seem as though you have,” she replied, and she walked side by side with me once we reached the trail. “A man does not cross the ocean and not seem as shattered as you do.”

I shuddered at the thought of that. “Do you have anything to eat?”

“There is plenty abound,” she promised me, and she lingered closer to me. If nothing else, I had my eye on her breasts: it was not often in England when women bore their full chests forth: to see her gave me a rush of blood straight to my head. “In fact, I was about to participate in a midday feast when I spotted you on the beach.”

“What’s your name, mind me asking at all?”

“Leilani,” she answered. “And you?”

“Phileas,” I replied. “Phileas Fogg.”

“Very interesting name,” she noted. “Are you English?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” I replied, and I could feel the pit in my stomach once again.

“What’s unfortunate about that?”

“My country as well as the French, the Portuguese, and the Americans have been ravaging your tropical paradise like a slab of meat,” I confessed, and the heavy feeling on my shoulders lifted as the words left my lips.

“Even the most poisonous of oceans have drops that are benevolent,” Leilani assured me.

I showed her a little smile, even as we walked onward through the palms.

She nudged a frond out of the way for us, even though I would have been more than happy to do that for us. We were met with a broad street comprised of hard soil, lined with more palms as well as small huts with grass and frond roofs. A few old women ensconced in heavy fabric sat at a patio right before us: they sipped on what appeared to be rum and coconut milk and talking in Hawaiian, which I knew in my heart I was going to have to learn if I was going to stay a while as I had promised. They looked on at me, and I bowed my head as a result so as to not give them the wrong idea.

I had a feeling I was going to be doing that quite a bit throughout the islands, and more so when I felt Leilani rest a hand on the small of my back. They watched me, but once we had strode on past them, I glimpsed over my shoulder to see their expressions had changed. Perhaps I could relax, and more so once she fetched me something to eat.

Once we had passed several more huts, she let go of me and I tucked one hand into my pocket. I had completely forgotten that Monique had wrote a letter to me on the train ride over the Alps, but she never told me about what she had written to me. I hoped that it would not be any senseless nonsense, especially with Leilani next to me.

Not on my life.

[lescarbille]

Snippet : 481 pounds of fine | Landocar | OS | >22K | College AU |

“Student ID?”

The boy pushes his student ID card on Oscar’s desk with two long fingers. Lando Norris. Art student. At the sight of the date of birth, a senior, like George, Max and Alex.

Oscar gives him a bored look, as he enters the card into the reader.

Then, he looks a second time, in what he could describe as an obvious lack of professionalism caused by his own singleness and lack of sleep.

Oscar doesn’t like to blame his celibacy, but sometimes, in this kind of moment, when he takes a second look at a handsome man in front of him, he decides to blame it.

Lando Norris is a man with a blinding smile, showing the slight gap between his two front teeth, and two dimples. His skin is tanned, as if he had spent the school year traveling around the world. His gaze is the most striking to Oscar, a mix of blues, greens, grays with hazel glitter, like an ocean. The narrowing of his eyes gives him a mischievous look, a mix of: "I've never done anything wrong in my life" and "I'm the most evil gremlin you've ever met."

Oscar swallows.

Lando is criminally handsome, but he's not the type to linger over every man who comes to his office to pay off their fines, and it's not like he'll be seeing each other again after this.

"So? Please tell me it's twenty quid, I only have twenty quid on me."

Oscar shakes his head to distract himself from Lando, before looking at his screen.

Under a flash of pixels, the amount appears and Oscar can't help but gasp in surprise and lean over to check the amount.

“You’re fined four hundred and eighty-one pounds,” he checks the figure a third time, taking off his glasses in the hope that it might make any difference.

[greenycrimson]

Generous? A Tory fucked pig might fly. Here's the current government page for job seekers:

Eighty four quid eighty pence a week. The fuck will that cover? Your leccy? Your heating? Your food? Pick one.

And that's top whack, mind - you'll get less if you have the audacity to try and live with a partner or family.

If you see someone shoplifting food, no you didn’t.

[amphibiangeorgerussel]

who let me spend eighty five quid just on stuff for my tortoise while i was on the verge of a breakdown last night