#seven o clock wallpapers

[legends-of-time]

The Strength of a High and Noble Hill (Outlander)

Chapter 40: Life Goes On But The Threat Looms

Masterlist

Life goes on after the Gathering and the lighting of the cross. Those who had come back with them from the Gathering continue to carve out their new life at the ridge.

Arch Bug has been hired as the factor of the Ridge while his wife Murdina settles in as housekeeper at the Big House. There's also Billy Aberfeldy, his wife and daughter who are both called Ruth are nearly in their own cabin after having to live in cramped conditions in the Big House and two other families. One of the families is Geordie Chisholm's, from Ardsmuir, brood. His wife, his elderly mother who narrowly escaped being trampled by Da's high-strung horse, Gideon, when travelling back to the Ridge, and his seven sons. His younger sons, Thomas, Anthony and Toby Chisholm, ranging in age from five through eight, are quickly dubbed "the spawn o’ Satan" by Mrs Bug.

Marsali also becomes Mama's new assistant. Brian knows his mother should have the help and support that he and Ellen can't always offer, particularly after Mr Farrish's death because of his wife's well-meaning but murderous methods she used to treat him before bringing him on death door to the surgery meant no hope of being saved.

——

"Dr Rawlings?" Brian questions as he looks at the paper his mother had handed to him. The title reads 'Dr. Rawlings recommends' with a list covering the rest of the page. "Do you think it'll work?"

Mama huffs. "It has to. If I have witness anyone else die from supposed cures that's actually killing them because of a 'reputable physician'." She rolls her eyes causing Brian to smirk slightly. "I'm making lots of copies and distribute them to our settlers. Ellen has helped me."

"Want more help in writing more about not to do?"

Mama smiles. Grateful for the help, she hands Brian a pen and paper. Brian sits down and starts helping her copy the list.

——

Brian looks around the hallway as he follows his parents in the Big House. With all the men diligently working around the clock, it is now safe to walk around upstairs and the basics of it are done. But there is still a lot to do to get it finished, like carpeting the floors or putting wallpaper on the walls, etc. What will one day become bedrooms are just empty spaces with nothing in them. They don't even have doors. Except for one.

The three of them stop outside of one room that has a finished door, painted white with maroon trim and a silver doorknob.

"What's this?" Brian questions.

"It's yer new room." Da casually states.

He raises his eyebrows, not understanding. "What? What do you mean? What do you mean my room?"

"Go inside and see for yourself." Mama adds.

Brian is trying to remain cautiously optimistic as he slowly turns the doorknob and opens the door.

"Wow," is all he can say at first. Inside is an upgraded version of what he had in the kitchen.

Not only is it twice as big but there is a new bed as well. On the wall across from the door, which is wallpapered off white, is a large window that looks over the back fields and has curtains that are the colour of the door's trim that at the moment are drawn back. He no longer has only a small dresser for his clothes. Now, he has a tall and wide-standing wardrobe for just himself that is dark wood with intricate patterns carved out in it. He takes one step at a time going around the room, wondering if this is real.

"Well, lad? Does it please ye?" Da needs to know.

Brian looks back at them. "It more than pleases me. I can't believe this. This is actually my room?"

"We figured it was time you had a bit more privacy and space rather than being held up in that shoebox of a room." Mams tells him.

Brian grins at his parents. "Thank you."

——

...yet the threat still looms

When Da had gotten his order from Tryon to hunt and kill Murtagh, he figured the safest place he could be was on the Ridge, since no one would ever think he would be hiding out there. He lived not even a half mile from the Big House in his own larger lean-to. He didn't ever dare come to them, but Da, Brian, and the rest of their family made several treks out to see him. But now that Tryon is getting much more serious about taking down the Regulators, Brian is glad that Murtagh has moved on.

Governor Tryon introduced Da to Lieutenant Knox at Ellen and Roger's wedding, explaining that the lieutenant would assist Da with his search for Murtagh. Everyone was worried about how Da could possibly hold off on finding his godfather with the redcoats breathing down his neck.

"What are you going to do?" Mama asked her husband.

"If it's a manhunt Tryon wants, it's a manhunt he shall get." Da responded. Short and sweet.

Da tries sending Tryon's men on a wild goose chase, but things are still getting very heated. The regulators are lathering the Militia men with tar and feathers. Tryon is at his wit's end and Brian knows it is not going to end well.

——

December 1770

Far too soon for anyone's liking, it comes time for Da to leave again, now taking with him the men of the Ridge. This included Brian, Mama, Fergus and Roger. Lieutenant Knox wants them to gather the men of the Ridge to aid in enlisting for the militia, for Tryon's army against the Regulators and to show the Regulators their numbers.

Because of Arch Bug's advanced age and injury to his hand, he is ineligible for service in the militia and thus can be depended upon to mind matters on the Ridge in Da's absence. The Lindsay brothers prepare to join them on their journey. Rabbie Cochrane, while he's too old to join the militia Da has been forced to gather, some of his eleven grown children scattered across the mountains will be mustered.

A dozen militiamen from Fraser's Ridge are travelling with them including John Quincy Myers, Isaiah Morton, brothers Kenny and Evan Lindsay, Geordie Chisholm and Ronnie Sinclair. The plan is to recruit men along the way, with a stop at Brownsville first, and take them to Hillsborough.

"Captain Fraser, permission to approach?" Ellen calls to him. She has already said goodbye to their parents, Fergus and Roger.

Brian turns from his horse to her. "Granted." He chuckles. He's glad for his sister's jokes considering how nervous he feels though his shooting skills have improved.

"You ready for this?"

"Absolutely not."

"Stop. You're gonna do fine. Da's gonna be right there with you the whole time. He's not going to let you do anything he doesn't think you're ready for." Ellen reassures.

"I'm just praying that the numbers we form will make the Regulators surrender before there's any risk of that." Brian says, chewing his lip anxiously.

"With Murtagh leading them, you know that's not going to happen. He's determined to kill Tryon himself."

"Any chance a captain can get out of having to fight in the actual battle and can just cheer the troops on from the sidelines?" Brian asks only half joking.

Ellen lets out a, "Ha! I would love to see you try to convince Da of that. But if that doesn't work," she puts her hand on his arm, "please stay safe. Hide behind trees and rocks or whatever is closest, and just stay alive no matter what."

A third person then joins them, announcing themselves with, "Brian?" It is Ruth Aberfeldy. She has long curly blonde hair and brown eyes. She is shorter than Ellen but just as slim. She is the kind of pretty and the sort of bubbly and flirty personality.

Ruth glances at Ellen and is almost surprised to see her there. "I apologise, Mistress Mackenzie, fer interruptin' yer conversation."

"Not at all. No need to apologise."

"I will leave the two of you to finish your goodbyes." Ellen says to them. She touches his arm. "Be careful, got it?"

Brian nods in reply, flashing her a grateful smile. She gives Ruth a kind smile, Ruth curtsies then Ellen walks away to find Marsali.

Ruth turns back to Brian. Brian is more than a bit miffed at his time with his sister being cut off but smiles pleasantly at her.

"Miss Aberfeldy." He greets, bowing his head.

Ruth blushes and gives a quick curtsy, biting back an idiotic grin. "I, uh, I-I wanted te wish ye luck on yer endeavours. I’ll be prayin’ fer ye, fer God te keep watch over ye and keep ye out o’ harm’s way. An-and the other men, all o’ them, o’ course too."

"That's very kind of you, Miss Aberfeldy."

Ruth nods so quickly that Brian wonders if her head is going to fall off before leaving. Brian sighs before turning to look at the rest of the group all mounted on their horses and ready to leave.

A moment later, the militia leaves. Brian looks back to Ellen, Marsali, the kids and many Ridge residents watching them go. Brian is reminded that for them they are really fighting.

——

A/N: Please leave comments on how you're enjoying this story and what you think.

[wordcharming]

The Descent

Welp, the unthinkable just happened—I slipped on a banana peel and fell into well. It's not as terrifying as it sounds down here though.

On the slow-motion descent, my body felt light as a feather and was thrust into the well casing which was covered in Willy Wonka's lickable wallpaper. Did I sample some? You better believe it—tart orange gave my tongue a tingle, sour lime had my cherry-red lips puckering and sweet corn filled me with intoxication. After what felt like 10 minutes, a most delicate landing left me on the padded ground.

As I took in my surroundings I noticed seven tunnels, each illuminated by its own hue of ROYGBIV. To my surprise an invisible New Orleans jazz band started to play (from the Y tunnel I think) and an obese man in a periwinkle tutu, sequined cyan leotard, opaque tights and pointe shoes floated down from the path I'd just traveled—left then right, hovering here and there to sample the delectable wallpaper. My eyes followed like those of a Kit-Cat clock.

The man wore the longest rainbow false eyelashes I'd ever seen, and they complemented his bulging emerald eyes and shimmering fuchsia shadow beneath pencil-thin black eyebrows. Twinkling with copious amounts of body glitter, he began to pass wind to the tune of "Rhythm is a Dancer." I kept on staring, mouth agape, until the tooting faded into more of a soon-to-be-deflated balloon sound.

Upon catching my eye, he was red-faced. "Heavens! ...Whoopsie... Excusez moi. ...hello, darling, I'm Roy G Biv. You didn't tell me you were coming! I'm so embarrassed. I didn't even have time to clean."

"Um, uh, do we know each other?" I replied.

"Well, yes and no. No in the sense that you haven't met me in real life but yes because you dreamt me up last night. You don't remember your dream?!"

"Nope, sure don't."

"Well that's neither here nor there. But since you decided to come we might as well celebrate. Follow me!"

He flitted through the Y tunnel, as "When the Saints Go Marching In" crescendoed, and I followed. With each uncertain step I took, chunks of Roy's costume glitter snowed upon my head so that by the time we reached the party room I too resembled someone who belonged onstage.

I shook my head as if I were a dog fresh out the bathtub and stepped inside when the room came into full view.

It was brightly lit in shades of yellow and felt like a fantasy land complete with a multicolored checkered floor, rotating disco ball and clowns on roller skates doing tricks on the adjacent wooden dance floor. I couldn't believe my eyes. To the left of the room was a DJ booth where a mime was spinning vinyl, and to the rear a long empty table that appeared to seat at least 50.

Roy fluttered over to the table, and with the snap of his fingers he summoned a cornucopia of decorations. There was a balloon-printed tablecloth, confetti strewn about, a party hat and golden goblet at each place setting, scattered noiseblowers, heaping bowls of ice cream, platters of donuts and in the middle a large three-tier cake with sparklers on top.

"How in the—" but before the question left my mouth, Roy had shouted, "Attention, attention!" which caused a rollerskating clown collision. With the scratch of a record, Mr. DJing mime made an exaggerated O face and then cradled his cheeks in his hands. All eyes were on Roy as he continued.

"Thank you my precious clownies," and with a nod toward the DJ booth, "Mixmaster Mime." "Tonight we're going to party because it just happens to be everyone's unbirthday! Come now, gather 'round the table so we can celebrate."

By the time everyone sat down the jazz band seemed to emerge from the hall into our room.

I stared at my reflection in the golden goblet which spoke to me in an ominous tone, "Should've worn your hiking shoes." Shifting my gaze from left to right I realized no one else could see what I was seeing. They were all too busy gorging themselves on desserts.

Without even thinking I bee-lined for the DJ booth where I'm standing right now tapping the microphone and telling this story. "Is this thing on?"

[kiwibomb]

hangyeom lockscreens!! please like or reblog if you save it!! 🦊

[t-o-m-hollands]

Locksley Hall - Part II

Summery: Tom doesn’t know quite how it happens, but one moment he’s working as the gardener at Locksley hall, and the next he’s run of to marry the lords daughter, a girl he hates. Set in England, 1920.

Word count: 5500 (sorry...)

Pairing: Tom x OC

A/N: Again, this is heavily inspired by the first part in Atonement – Ian McEwan, but the plot is different.  

Music wise: For Madeleine’s parts I listened to Old Money – Lana del Rey and for Tom’s part I listened to NFWMB and Work Song - Hozier.

R E A D   P A R T    O N E   H E R E

Gideon’s cottage - 1920.

Tom is awakened by yet another expensive automobile driving up the road and past his cottage. His brain works slowly, still half asleep, one foot in a dreamland where he’s chasing someone in a labyrinth made out of peonies. Slowly he wakes his body by moving his toes, and then his fingers too, before stretching his arms over his head, letting out a tired groan. His body feels warm and his limbs lethargic and slow, as they do after a particularly long nap. For a long while he lays there, eyes half-closed, staring at the dust aimlessly drifting in the sunlight.  

Another car passes by outside.  

Downstairs he can hear Mr. Higgins doing the washing up. If he concentrates, he can hear the guests from the ball chatting and laughing up at the manor. If he concentrates further still, he can hear the blood pumping through his system, steady and slow.  

The whole world feels slow. Like the air in the room stands still, despite the wide-open window. It is mid-July, and the heat feels oppressively persistent, there is no escaping it. Only now, as the clock is nearing eight in the evening, does the world seem to cool. All morning he’d worked in the garden, preparing the grounds for the ball under the watchful eyes of old Dowager Locksley. When she was finally satisfied that there wasn’t a dead leaf, not a single weed, nor an unwatered rose in sight she’d sent him off, ready to attack the kitchen staff instead. He’d walked down to Locksley bay. There he’d rid himself of his sweaty, earth-stained rags and he’d swam until his body felt cool again before returning to the cottage for a long and well-deserved nap.  

He stretches again and groans. He desperately wants a smoke, but his pack of cigarettes along with his lighter is all across the room, thrown on the cluttered desk along with countless of books and an old typewriter that the library had given away. The letter M was irreversibly lost and therefor it had been deemed useless. He’d taken it with great gratitude, glad to have something he’d normally wouldn’t be able to afford. It had amused him, typing long passages without using any word containing the 13th letter of the alphabet. In a strange way it thrilled him, that some words in the dictionary simply became forbidden for him. Suddenly out of reach.Words like magic, monarch, melancholy, magnetic, maddening, maiden,  

Madeleine.  

Finally he gets up, walks across the room and sits down by his desk. He lights a cigarette. Staring out the window he watches as yet another car makes it up the driveway to join the ball.  

The sky outside is lilac, and the first evening breeze makes its way through the grass like a wave in the ocean and he prays it’ll make its way through the window to cool his head. He inhales deeply, but the sinking feeling he’s had in his stomach all day stays where it is.  

And half of his mind is still in his dream. 

Had he been better at drawing he’d drawn her hands, soft and small compared to his calloused ones. Maybe if he’d draw them, he’d be able to get the picture of them out of his mind. Those hands, gracefully holding a cigarette as her eyes, dark and deep and framed with long lashes, observed him with great disapproval as they’d discussed poetry. She always looked disapproving when she was observing him. She’d worn a evening gown in the finest silk, and his ratty jacket over her shoulders, her normally perfectly pinned hair falling down in cascades over her shoulders. It had felt strangely intimate, seeing her like that, so undone and wearing his jacket

Swearing, he puts out the cigarette. He’d been distracted, not noticing how it’d burnt down to the butt, burning his fingers. He doesn’t light a new one, but leans back in his chair, runs his hand through his hair and tries to calm his breathing.  

It hadn’t always been this way.  

Once upon a time, they’d been friends, hard as it was to believe now. They’d defied gravity when they’d climbed the great oak three behind the cottage. He’d taught her how to swim in Locksley bay, held her up in the water and told her to fill her lungs with air in order to float. She’d taught him how to read. His teacher in the village school had called him slow, so she’d sneaked out books from the library, and with patience of a saint she’d taught him how to recognise each symbol until he could make sense of the words.  

She’d been his first kiss.  

It had only been a small peck on his lips, lasting not more than a second, but it counted. He counted it. 

She’d find him in the greenhouse, crying over the trashing he’d gotten from Mr. Higgins for attacking Francis Locksley. Silently she’d sat down beside him, her long dark hair in a braid and dressed in her Sunday best, having just been to church. She’d taken his bruised knuckles in her hands and she’d kissed them, before kissing each tear streaked cheek, and then ever so briefly, she’d pressed her lips against his. He had felt like a knight, being awarded by the queen for his brave service. He hadn’t known what to make of it, but she’d held his hand in hers and he’d leaned his head against her shoulder and for the longest time they’d stayed that way until he’d forgotten all about stinging bruises and tears.

He lights another cigarette and another car drives up the driveway.  

The sky is now a dark blue, the last evening light turning the leaves in the trees golden. Earlier that day Mr. Higgins had put out lights all along the drive way to the manor house and they now lit up the summer evening. 

Against the evening sky he sees a bird shoot up, rising to the sky.

Once when they’d been children they’d found an injured songbird in the woods. He’d watched as Madeleine with the gentlest of fingers picked the bird up. He’d watched as she held the wounded creature in her hands, as she observed its broken wing. She’d looked at him then, her dark eyes sad, and she’d told him they’d have to help it heal.  

So they’d gone to Gideon’s cottage and he’d sneaked her in, while Mr. Higgins worked in the garden. She’d placed the songbird on his bed. While she was kneeling in front of it, as if in prayer, he’d taken out bandages. He’d watched as she’d gently wrapped it around the bird’s wing. She’d looked at him, and told him to sing. She’d said that it would make the bird feel safer, that it was what she used to do to baby Beatrix when she was crying.  So, he’d sung a song to the poor harmed thing, while Madeleine patted its head.  

For seven days the nursed it, making sure the wing healed as it should. It had been their secret. She’d snuck out of classes with her governess and he’d faked being ill until Mr. Higgins let him be home from school and they’d sat in his room, and he’d sing for them. They kept the bird in a box, on the lid of which he’d put air holes in, and she’d placed her cardigan in the bottom of it, making sure it was soft to sleep on. They’d feed t worms Tom had dug up in the garden and Tom would sing to it every night.

In the end the songbird had healed, and they’d released it in the woods again and watched as it flew away, awkwardly at first, nearly toppling towards the ground before it found its strength again, slowly rising until it was only a speck of black in the distance. He’d held her hand, biting down hard on his bottom lip to keep himself from weeping, while she had cried openly, pressing his hand in hers. They’d hid in the labyrinth until late that evening, far away from nanny and Mr. Higgins. He’d sung her songs until she’d stopped weeping.  

Tom stands up, puts out his cigarette and stretches out one last time. Then he walks out, leaving his memories in the smoke-filled room, heading towards the pub. 

*

The Wild Boar, the village pub

“You ever think about headin’ out of here?” he asks his friend.  

They’re in the village pub, The Wild Boar, throwing back beers. A Victorian pub with murky green wallpaper, beer-stained velvet booths and worn mahogany wooden floors. The atmosphere is always good and someone is always singing. Harrison, who most days works in the bar but is enjoying a rare day off, calls it his home.  

“What, go somewhere else to drink, you mean?”

“No, no, I mean like leave Milchwood, go to London or something, head somewhere else you know”.

Harrison gives him a puzzled look and Tom can tell he doesn’t feel the same. They’re both comfortably leaned back on each side of the booth. Around them the other patrons are talking loudly, discussing this and that, enjoying their Saturday night and the unusually warm summer weather.  

“No” Harrison answers in the end “no, I mean, it’s home, yeah?” He drowns the last drops of his pint, waving to the bar for another before looking back at Tom, “you feel like leaving?”

“Dunno, maybe, sometimes” he says. “’is just, some days I want nothing more than to head out to Milchwood station and take literally any train away from here.” He takes a long gulp of his own pint.

“Well, why don’t you?”

It takes some time for Tom to answer. He keeps his eyes on the dirty window in front of him. Far away he can just make out the silhouette of Locksley Hall. They are all up there now, the lords and the ladies, having a ball.

“’s just hard to leave you know.” He takes another gulp of beer as the bartender places another pint in front of Harrison. “Spent most of my time in France wishing I was back here and now” he waves his hand in front of him, as if this would explain the strange sinking feeling he’d been walking around with lately. “Now it feels like it all stands still, like I’m just walking around, waiting for something to happen.”  

Harrison gives him a worried look “but what’s keeping you here then?”  

“Dunno, it’s just, it’s hard to leave”.

He doesn’t have ties to this place the way Harrison does. He has no other family part from Mr. Higgins. Mrs. Higgins had taken him in when he’d been nothing more than a baby, but she’d passed away before his fifth birthday. He hardly remembered her. Mr. Higgins had kept him on, and despite his stern ways he’d been kind to the boy, and taught him all he knew of gardening and thus ensuring that Tom would have a future secured. But Tom knows that Mr. Higgins wouldn’t mind if he took off, that maybe he’d even expect it.  

“Yes, we saw ‘em, didn’t we Billy!” Owain Murphy’s loud voice booms from the booth beside theirs.  

“Yeah” Billy concurs, nodding his head and staring down into his glass.  

“Yeah, we saw ‘em, all ‘em gently folks up at Locksley Hall”.

“Yeah” Billy nods again.

“They say the ‘eir is being married off!” Owain bellows.

Billy is too busy drinking now to agree.

“She looked a vision, didn’t she Billy?”

Something twists uncomfortably in Tom’s stomach. He drowns his beer and nods to his friend. It’s time to leave. The night air is cool and he takes deep breaths of it as he steps outside. They walk and chat for a while, before hitting a fork in the road, saying their goodbyes and promising to meet up for another pint the next day they then part ways, Harrison walking to the house he shares with his parents and little sister, and Tom steers his feet to Gideon’s Cottage and Locksley Hall.  

He can see the lights from the building, hear the piano music even from outside. Across the lawn people are taking some fresh air, surely they’ve been dancing for hours. They’re all dressed in their finest clothes, heavily bejeweled. Tom closes in on Gideon’s cottage, and he can’t wait to throw himself on the bed and sleep for a few hours. Tomorrow is Sunday, the day for resting, and he’s free as a bird.  

A flash of white moves in the corner of his eye and he looks over.  

By the enormous rhododendron bush stands Lady Madeleine Locksley, wearing a silky white gown that somehow plays tricks with his brain; for when he first lays his eyes on her, it looks to him as if she’s wearing nothing more than moonlight, the diamonds from her tiara glistening in the night.

For a moment it feels as if he’s actually gotten the breath knocked out of him. Owain Murphy had been right, she did look a vision.  

A man joins her, his hands clasped behind his back. He’s tall and blond and even from this distance he can tell she’s bored with the conversation, but she politely goes along with it.  

Tom walks into the cottage, closing the door behind him.

*

The cliffs of Locksley bay

The Atlantic Ocean spread out in front of her, wide and far and impossibly blue. She’s standing on the cliffs beside Locksley bay. If she were to turn her head to her left, she would see the docks with the boats lined up one after the other, each more impressive than the last. It is summer, and high season for travellers. Would she instead turn her head to her right she would see the bay, and the people playing in the water, lying in the beach and soaking up sun. Enjoying themselves and cooling themselves off in the unusually warm weather.  

But she keeps her eyes far ahead.  

Out on the water she can see sailing boats slowly drifting over the landscape. It’s not a good day for sailing, not even up here on the cliffs can you feel anything more than a gentle breeze. The heavens are almost violently blue, not a cloud as far as the eye can see. In the sky seagulls fly, screeching as they go and she inhales deep breaths of the ocean air. She feels so far removed from them all, the people on the boats and the ones on the beach. 

Her lungs feels tighter, there’s a scream in them that needs to get out.

She takes a step closer to the edge.  

A pair of arms grabs hold of her and pulls her in against something hard. “What are you doing?!” A familiar voice inquires angrily in her ear.

He pulls them both a few steps back, away from the edge, before turning her around to face him. Anger clear on his face. His chest, still close to hers, is heaving.  

“What are you doing?” She asks, not quite managing to match his level of animosity. His hands are still holding a firm grip around her arms. She pulls herself free and takes a step back, trying to create some distance between them, though she swears she still feels the heat radiating of his body, his scent, which she’d briefly inhaled, surrounding her.

“Were you going to jump?” he asks in a serious tone, his warm brown eyes intensely searching her face for something.  

“No” she says, voice firm, and he relaxes somewhat, though he still looks angry. That frown, seemingly permanent on his face whenever she’s around. “But it wouldn’t have killed me if I had, people jump from here all the time”

“Sure, but not young heiresses”.  He sounds almost sarcastic and she can feel her blood nearly boiling. Her diamond heart beats faster in her chest.

“Have you?”

He observers her for a heartbeat, like he’s searching for something in her face. The long days spent working in the garden has given him a nice tan. His brown hair looks windswept and he’s not wearing his usual uniform of muddy trousers, suspenders and a dirty white shirt. Instead his clothes look washed and clean; he’s wearing his Sunday best, linen suit trousers, clean white shirt and suspenders that don’t look quite as worn. His arms, well developed from all the hard work, fills out his shirt in a way that makes something inside her flutter, and she hastily looks away.  

“Yes” he answers in the end. “Yeah, me and Harrison jumped it last year”.  

“Yet you’re so against me doing it?”

He’s silent for a few seconds, and she can tell he’s weighing each word carefully. “I just, I didn’t take you for a thrill-chaser, is all. It surprised me”.

Now he’s avoiding looking at her.  

“So, how was the ball?” he asks eventually, having to fill the stale, strange silence.

“Long” she answers and sighs. “Awfully long, and dreary”.  

“Poor girl” he teases, but she wonders if there isn’t real malice underneath. “And how is your betrothed?”  

She narrows her eyes at him. “James is not my betrothed” she says, trying to keep her voice calm. He’s got his hands in his pockets, an arrogant look on his face and she wants to scream at him.

“Huh” he says, “I heard you were being married off”.  

“Well, I’m not. Not yet”

“So, what’s he’s like, this not betrothed man of yours”

He sounds so nonchalant, and it’s making her skin itch with irritation. “He’s nice, actually”.

He scoffs, “nice?”

“Yes! He’s very nice, unlike certain people! And he gave me a book of Wordsworth poetry”

Tom snorts “you hate Wordsworth, you always have”  

“How do you know?” She asks, annoyance clear in her tone.  

“You told me” he answers, and he sound so certain of himself.  

“Yes, when we were children, I might have changed my mind since!”  

“You haven’t though”.

“Funny isn’t? All the things you remember?” She tries to sound superior, but she’s not sure she accomplishes anything. He’s still standing there, hands in pockets and a devil-may-care smug smile on his face.  

“You find him dull”.

“How do you know if I find James dull or not! You’ve never even met him! Maybe I find it fascinating to talk about dog breeding and horses!” you scream at him. 

But he just smiles wider. “I was talking about Wordsworth. You find Wordsworth dull. But clearly I hit a nerve”.  

She’s so angry she’s speechless. From the village they hear the church bells ring.  

“We should go” he says and nods to the path back.  

“No”

“Lady Madeleine, -”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Well, it is your title”.

“Oh, like you give a toss about people’s titles! I’m Madeleine and we used to be friends, or don’t you remember that part?”

“Alright Madeleine” he says slowly, like he’s talking to a particularly petulant child, “we better head home now, they’ll want you back for dinner”.

“I don’t want to” she says stubbornly. “You head back. I’m staying here to watch the sunset”.

“They’ll just sent me out to look for you if you´re not there for dinner, let’s go”.

She takes a deep breath and a step backwards, towards the edge. “You know, I’m so tired of everyone telling me what to do all the time, were to be and what to think, and how to feel”. She takes another step backwards and the smugness on his face is soon replaced with worry.  

“I’m so tired of people telling me that I can’t do things when they have no issue doing it themselves”. She takes yet another step back and as he reaches out for her, realising what she’s about to do. She turns around and runs toward the edge.  

“No Maddie, don’t!”  

But she’s already taken the leap.

*

Locksley Hall

The next morning she wakes early, though it feels as though she’s hardly slept at all. Memories plays behind her closed eyelids from the day before. The cliffs, Tom’s arms grabbing hold of her, the argument, the jump, the fall, the splash, the sinking, the searching for the surface. And then, a hand grabbing hold of her, pulling her towards the light.  

He’d jumped in after her, had thrown himself of the cliff in his Sunday best without any hesitation.  

He’d always been the better swimmer, he was the one who had taught her after all, and luckily it hadn’t taken him long to find her beneath the surface.  

They’d swam ashore, dragged themselves up in their heavy, wet clothes watched by the bathers who looked at them, some agog and some in chock. (“Is that not lady Madeleine?”)

He’d been furious, practically steaming with anger. It hadn’t mattered how many times she’d tried to talk to him, tried to apologise, he’d only ignored her and kept steering his feet forward to Locksley Hall. Only when she tried to thank him for having saved her did he respond.

“Don’t” he had uttered, his resentment almost palpable.

They had been walking through a path in the woods, sun shining through the canopy, painting the whole world a bright green colour, and she stumbled after him, keeping her eyes on his wet white shirt, his suspenders holding of his soaked beige trousers.  

She too had grown angry then. Had tried to argue with him. Tried telling him that he was overreacting, that no one had forced him to jump in as well, that it would have been better if he hadn’t, that they both knew he wished he hadn’t and suddenly -

She’d been pressed up against a tree, his face just centimetres from hers, both their chest heaving with conflicting emotions, his arms on either side of her face, in the most beautiful trap.

Madeleine untangles herself from her many sheets and blankets and walks to the window to pull apart the curtains and let in the morning light. The grounds outside are empty, no one is yet awake. It must be very early indeed, for even Gideon’s cottage seem peacefully quiet.

She opens the leaded window and drags in deep breaths of fresh air, but her lungs still feel too tight. She fishes up a package of cigarettes from one of the pockets of her silk robe and with trembling hands she lights one. Everything is set now. She is to marry Sir James Hatfield, and settle down at Hatfield house in all its ugly Tudor glory. It didn’t matter if she smoked in the house anymore, she wouldn’t stay here much longer.  

With picture perfect certainty she imagines married life with Sr Hatfield. Endless conversation of the breeding of horses, hunting and dogs. Her life spent doing things the way they have always been done at Hatfield house, keeping up with the traditions of a family she has no interest in. And then, several blonde little children would come along. All boys, all taking after their father in looks and manners.  

Her life would surround around them. She would be Lady Madeline Locksley no more, but instead, Lady Hatfield. She would have to leave Locksley hall, leave Benie,  

leave Tom.

The thought startles her, and she gets up from the window ledge, starts walking aimlessly round the cluttered room.  

Using her empty tea cup from which she’d drank her evening tea the night before as an ashtray she puts out her cigarette, and with hands trembling more than ever she lights another, before throwing herself back on the bed.  

Tom.  

Who surely hated her now. The achingly long moments when he’d trapped her against the tree plays again in her head. She’d seen so many emotions on his face, his chest heaving from all of it. First there had been anger, then confusion and then, unless she wasn’t entirely mistaken; because god knows her experience was non-existing in the area,  

- lust.  

But he’d torn himself free, and marched off, without looking back. And she’d stood leaned against the three, feeling like a planet spinning out of its axis, struggling to remember how to breath again.

When she walked into the great hall she’d been met with her mother, Benie and granny. Upon seeing her, they’d all gone completely silent, the only sound to be heard the water dripping off of her, landing on the newly swapped floors.  

“Oh Madeleine!” her mother had eventually burst out “what’s happened?”

She had told them she’d been at the cliffs, and that Tom had come along, but then her granny had interrupted her. “Are you telling me” she’d asked in her superior voice “that you were ‘hanging about’ the cliffs with the junior gardener?” The disapproval in her voice was evident.  

“No” Madeleine had answered, trying to keep her voice steady and calm. “I’m saying that I was there, and he was there, he annoyed me, and then I jumped off the cliff”.

Dead silence again.  

“You, you did what?”

“I jumped off a cliff. And then he saved me. And now, I really must change, so would you please excuse me”. The wave of emotion that washed over her had surprised her, but suddenly she’d been holding back tears.

““Madeleine, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, but you need to go and get changed, right now. Sir Hatfield is invited for dinner, and you will behave yourself and you will conduct yourself accordingly” her mother had told her in her sternest voice. So, Madeleine had nodded and walked up the stairs, choking back on tears, her wet clothes leaving a trace of water in her wake.  

And she’d changed and Alice had done up her hair and she’d joined the others for dinner. And she’d sat beside James at dinner and listened to him lecturing her on various dog breeds and she’d smiled appropriately. Then, after dinner, he’d taken her aside. Professed in a dry tone his admiration for her and asked for her hand in marriage. He’d told her that he’d already settled things with her father. She had smiled and complied and tried to press down the feeling of nausea in her stomach, tried to ignore to scream growing ever larger in her lungs.  

She stands up again, puts out her cigarette, takes one of the many dresses scattering the floor and slides it on. Then she’s out the door. With silent steps, as to not wake anyone, she makes her way down the corridor, and then down the grand staircase and the foyer and out the door. The pressure in her lungs grow tenser and tenser and her feet move faster and faster, until her naked feet are sprinting over the grounds, the dewy grass cold under her soles. When she finally reaches the greenhouse, she’s sobbing.

This had always been her secret place. Not even Tom had known about how she’d used to come here when things became too much, when things would build and build inside of her until she had to let it out. Like it was a living, moving thing in her chest, begging her to set it free. Knowing that the old greenhouse was the only soundproof place in all of Locksley Hall it became her safe place to let it out, she’d always steer her feet here. When she’d been to boarding school, and then in Canada, she’d been forced to try letting the scream free under water, no other place felt safe enough, but it hadn’t felt the same.  

She slams the door shut behind her and then she lets it out. Nearly bending over from the force of it she shrieks, for as long and as loud as she can. Her eyes pressed shut and trembling hands in fists. When she finally stops it still seems to echo in her ears, and she feels exhausted. She’s breathing as if she’s just run for miles and miles. Slowly she stands up straight again, unclasping her fists. Opening her shut eyes.

Tom.  

Standing in front of her, looking shocked and horrified, hands and shirt muddy. He must have been in here for some early work before the heat gets too intense. 

They stand there, for a long time, just staring at one another, her screams still echoing in her mind. And then, like she’s a wild animal, he slowly walks towards her. Taking her hand in his, an arm around her waist, he gently guides them towards the pond, on the side of which he helps her sit down. Bending down in front of her, so that he’s on his knees, he looks up at her, a strand of brown hair falling down, framing his face.

It’s so tender, the way he looks at her. So unbearably tender. His earth-stained hands clasped around hers, placed in her lap, calloused and warm.  

“What happened?” He asks, voice soft and low.

She doesn’t know when it started, too distracted by his gentleness perhaps, but she realises then that she’s crying, two tears falling from her cheek and landing on their hands.   

“I’m just being silly” she responds, but her voice sounds hoarse and dead even to her own ears.

“I doubt it, what’s wrong?”  

“I, I” she begins, her lungs feeling tight again “I have to marry.”

His kind eyes blink up at her, and for a moment she swears he holds on tighter to her hands.  

“But you don’t want to.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. “Why do you have to?” His thumbs stroke her trembling hands and it feel and it is the gentlest thing that’s ever happened to her.  

“There’s no male hair. So, if papa dies before I marry, we’ll lose everything”. Her voice is hoarse from screaming and she wonders if he finds her pathetic, but in his eyes she only finds sympathy, and maybe a fair share of pain.

“But you don’t have to marry Hatfield?”

She shakes her head, and more tears fall. “No, but he’s the best option. I can’t afford to wait”.  

Silence for a while as he observes you.

Then,  

“What if I’ll marry you?” his voice is steady, but his eyes are fixed their clasped hands.  

“What?”

“I’ll marry you” he states and looks up at her again. She stares at him in disbelief, for surely, he can’t mean it. He continues. “I know it’s not a good option, but the estate will be safe, and you won’t have to marry Hatfield, you won’t have to leave Locksley Hall.”

When she just keeps staring at him in silent disbelief his cheeks turn pink. “I know I haven’t got anything to offer; you know I don’t. But -”

“Alright”. Her answers comes without her thinking about it and it seems to catch him off guard. “But, are you sure?” she asks, worried that he doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into.  

“Yes, Madeleine, I’m sure” he smiles, his hands continuing to gently stroke her hands.  

“But, but” she starts, feeling almost dizzy. “But why would you want to marry me?”

“What?”

“Why would you help me? It would change your life forever.” She keeps her voice serious, knows that it’s of utmost importance that he understands the importance of this.  

He seems struck silent and for a long while his brown eyes stare up at her in disbelief. “Well I, I mean I would, I” he starts, letting go of her hands and standing up, placing them his pockets instead. It is like he’s trying to look as nonchalant as he usually does.  

Turning slightly away from her, eyes fixed on the koi fish in the pond he then continues. “Well, I’d get to live in Locksley Hall, wouldn’t I? I’d be the lord of the manor. No more hard toil in the garden”.  

“So, mostly self-interest then?” She says, not knowing whether she feels more relieved or disappointed. More than anything she feels light headed.  

“Yeah” he agrees, eyes still fixed on the pond. “It’s self-interest".  

Silence spread between them. This is new territory that neither one knows how to tread.  

In the end she stands up and he turns to look at her again, something like worry in his expression. “We, well we’ll have to discuss this. If it’s to happen it needs to happen soon.”

“It is to happen” he says, firmly, but then his cheeks turn pink again. “As long as you want it to”.  

“Well then” she says, a small but genuine smile on her face. “It can’t happen here; Gretna Green is our only option. We have to come up with some excuse so we can leave for Scotland for a few days”.  

He nods, but he too looks more relaxed now. “I’ll think of something”.  

“So much to be fixed” she says, mostly to herself. “Wedding dress for example, though the wedding will be so small only something simple will do.”

“Could you” he begins, and he avoids her eyes again. “You could wear that dress you had on at the ball” he asks awkwardly, fidgeting slightly where he stands.  

“Oh, yes of course” she says, just as awkward. “If that’s what you want”. She smiles at him, and he smiles back. Its embarrassed, but it’s tender too.  

“Meet me at the fountain tonight?” he asks, and that strange fluttering sensation she’d felt when he’d pressed her against the tree makes another appearance. “To discuss how we’ll do this?”

She nods “yes, I’ll see you then. I better get back now, or Alice will notice I’ve left when she brings in breakfast.”  

She turns to leave, but changing her mind mid stride she turns back to him. When she reaches him she stands on the tips of her naked, now muddy, feet. She presses a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you” she whispers.  

***

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***

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[whatisahyunjin]

Can you write a cute Felix x Idol AU! Fem Reader fluff with #20, pretty please?

#20 "is that me on your wallpaper?"

lee felix x idol!reader

genre: fluff

word count: 0.6k

masterlist

a/n as y'all can see i'm enjoying writing a little too much than i should these days

...

You were on your way to JYP’s organic restaurant to have lunch with your groupmates. Two hours ago, the group had called you over from the practice room as they knew how invested you got into dancing. And you being you, had lost the track of time and left the practice room twenty minutes late.

You sat down at the table while answering a few questions about what you were going to have from the buffet. 

“I’ve been calling you since two, where were you?” your leader asked.

You smiled sheepishly, “I was practicing for the upcoming special stage and my phone-” 

You looked around yourself and searched through your bag, finally coming to the realisation that you had indeed forgotten your phone in the practice room. Some other group could be practicing there now but you needed to get your phone, it was your lifeline. 

"Guys I’ll be back in a few minutes.” You jogged to the elevator and went back down to the floor you came from.

As you neared the Michael-Jackson-themed door, you could already hear the music playing from inside. You were still not very comfortable around the other senior artists in your company except a few members of Stray Kids so you got noticeably nervous as you opened the door.

Inside the room was someone you knew, yet that didn’t stop your heart from racing. Lee Felix, your suppressed crush from trainee days, was dancing gracefully in the middle of the room. That was until he noticed you and gave you a shy smile.

“Hey,” you said softly, inviting yourself into the room, “I left my phone here.”

"Oh yeah it’s on the table wait-” Felix went over and grabbed the device, then walked over to you.

You took it from him and then, carefully shielding the screen from his view, you checked for any notifications. Indeed you had many, apart from the eight missed calls from your leader.

You sighed and smiled up at the boy who was still stood in front of you. Both of you didn’t know what to say, so you just muttered a quiet thank you and a goodbye as you turned around. Felix, with all the courage he could muster, grabbed your wrist to stop you from going.

"Wait!”

You looked at him with curious eyes and a red face as you waited for him to say something.

“I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy and you were getting a lot of notifications but is that me on your lockscreen?” Felix was blushing as well for he didn’t know if it actually was him.

You internally facepalmed at your choice of lock screen. Sure, you hadn’t kept his complete face as your lock screen. But if the boy saw the image of his own lips and freckles on someone else’s phone, he’s bound to get confused.

You thought of lying. But then again, he definitely knows it’s him and it would bring up more questions and confusion. So you just confessed.

With your eyes on the ground and your wrist still in his grip, you said the words that were trapped inside you for so long, “I like you, Felix, ever since you bought that Americano for me on my first anniversary as a trainee in this company. It’s okay if you don’t feel the same, I’ll just...leave I guess.”

You glanced at him and chuckled nervously as he cleared his throat, his blush becoming even more prominent, “No! I like you too, I just- I don’t know, I got really excited when I saw your lock screen.”

He gave you a small smile as both of you stood there awkwardly.

“So? Seven o’ clock at Soul Cup? We can get something to drink and then talk in the artist’s lounge?” Felix asked, swinging your arm from side to side.

"Sounds good! I gotta go now, the girls are waiting,” you said, coming closer to Felix.

You stood up on your tiptoes and pecked his cheek, leaving him at a loss for words as you exited the room while answering an angry call from your leader.

♡

[saucybastards]

@softmalldrifting​ responded to this post with:

💦 for lucas! please >:)

YOUR ORDER IS UP NEXT.

The folks are out checkin’ in on an aunt he can’t remember havin’ spoken to in years, over in the next town. Probably gonna be gone until suppertime; if not, they’ll let Zoe know.

Zoe herself, mean-the-while, has gone off to bring a few things over to Uncle Joe’s place, like a swampy Li’l Red Riding Hood. Likely to be gone, too, for a couple hours.

That means that for the time bein’, Lucas owns the place, and there ain’t no way quite like this to actually feel like you’re actually in your damn house: sittin’ right there on the living room sofa, lounged back with yer knees kicked as far apart as your pants bein’ around them will allow, undies wriggled down enough to get the front a’ you free and out into the air down to the balls, first dishrag you swiped from the kitchen on the way over wadded up in your hand and going to town.

Haphazardly set on the coffee table before him, his laptop’s got its volume cranked up to eleven streaming a porno he’s got all the important bits of committed to memory. God knows he don’t even need to have it on at all; livin’ in a house where you only got so much privacy due to the company managing to make a bigass farm estate feel cramped as hell, you learn to make due when blowin’ off steam - keepin’ your jerks nice and fast and urgent and squeezing more and more while reachin’ your thoughts out in a million different vaguely sexy directions at once till bam, they come together ‘n something pops, and that steam’s wafting off.

Buuuuuuut it’s a luxury he’s sure taking, both outta a measure of spite and ‘cause whoo it’s refreshing.

It gives ‘im something to take his time with; play pretend with.

Not to mention time himself with.

His lips are barely parted; the very tip-most of his tongue probes just behind his teeth as with little, round sweeps of his thumb, thin cloth swabs once around the tip, likewise, of his dick - again. Again…

...He tips his head into lolling back, sipping in a breath, swabbin’ on. Lets fog begin to spill on into his eyes. Heeeeeeeeeere it comes…

In breaks the sound of a hitching moan, and in kind he lets a low sound curdle out of him almost gator-like as he sets to polishing.

Keepin’ it in time with the soft beats of the audio under continued hitches of a lady’s voice and savoring the synchronized landing of his cloth-wrapped fist against his hips. He steadily blows out a cloud of rising steam, vision foggin’ up further in favor of the floaty mental image of hittin’ it from the back; one moment, her hair’s long ‘n red, the next, black n’ cropped, but any way, ‘s gettin’ the job done.

Can’t see much of a thing through the buildup of that good cleansin’ humidity, anyway. He blinks slowly - eyes shutting, shaping a slow, rough exhale into a couple go-get-’em whispers of oh yeah, oh yeah… to himself -- making himself sniff as, in another moment of anticipation, he tightens his hold and twists his mouth over gritted teeth as he slams his hand down the length of his dick, the beat-hit sharp and the burn all nice and doubled for the chasing as --

...Ohhhh, theeeeeere that part comes, the girl givin’ a nice whiny twistin’ up wail…!

The warp of his face shapes further into a teeth-grittin’ bitten-locked grin and his brow and the bridge of his nose scrunch tight as everything begins to go faster, get sharper. The pace of strokes and sounds of skin slappin’ and juices sloshing that he’s keepin’ up with - matching where he can and then some, grip not even well voluntarily tightening on every downward stroke and skimmin’ back up lighter off every strike; the speed and shifts of that mental image of a shape rockin’ in front of and underneath ‘im; the hisses and rattles-in of his own breath.

Grinnin’ jaws part to squeeze out a yeah…! between himself and the beats - he snaps ‘em shut again, pressin’ the rest o’ that thought out in the mental scene while sound plays on.

...Hohhhhhhhh, you like that, right…?

Right…

...Pffffshit, even that begins to peter thin and got lost as the girl in the audio lets out another long, twisting-and-spiraling-up wail --

He twists a shivering back till his hips are off the couch and his ribs’re against the cushion, nostrils flaring and twist of his face back to a grin-free determination, and eyes rolled high-and-back to get more of him checked-out-for-focus behind their lids.

Come on…!

Every sound out of the girl in the audio, now is a whine - no break between the hits.

He whines, too - one tiny little catching noise in the upper back of his head; his teeth clench tighter, his back twists tighter, and he falls right out of step with matching, a beat-beat-beat-beat-beat-beat-beat-beat and a mental picture playing at roiling, roaring speed --

 -- Come on…!

 -- One stroke makes him whimper again and set off his nerves quivering and his hips twitching and jerking - the whine prolongs as his mind clamps down onto that, yeahyeahyeahmore -- ! as he repeats and repeats and repeats and repeats, back bending deeper to give right on into it -- …!

His hips bob in midair, knockin’ up to meet every strike of his fist down; his head burns and he whines again at it; hisses in the wake of it, drawin’ in a doglike snarrrrl in the wake of that with his mouth continuing to twist…!

 -- He strikes another nerve.

It lights up the front of his brain and has his eyes snappin’ open to look on into it and his mouth open to huff out a gasp like it’s an answer.

 -- He needs to give it some more buzz.

His hand fixes in place. His thumb swabs again, up and down and again and again along the underside of the tip, teasing that bright even brighter and hotter until -- …!

-- It bursts and pools, streaking his vision and breaking out a breath that he’d pinched held in the instant, long and hot and woozy and ragged.

Another swell-upward of his hips begins to fall, shakin’ like his back all the way up into the middle, as he finishes coming into the rack, massaging his dick all the way down to rest, still feelin’ the burn and the pulse of hot blood.

Once again, his hand stills to a hold. Loosely.

...He lets ‘imself lay all-but-limp where he’s sittin’ otherwise. He blinks, sleepily; lets himself catch his breath, lazily, with pauses in between. 

Somewhere in the… far-away of just lemme cool off, the porno’s still playing. The girl’s gettin’ real loud, now.

His eyes switch under half-lowered lids to the grandfather clock. It’s only been seven minutes.

The girl caterwauls. He can’t say he’s feelin’ anything.

A flick’ a vision to the hand in his lap. He did a good job coverin’ up; that rag’s mostly dry. Could probably drop it right in the wash without nobody gettin’ on his case.

A flick, unfocused, to the wallpaper. The light ain’t even dim yet.

His breath begins to slow. So does the girl’s.

...It’s going to be a looooooong, loooooooooong couple hours.

[darkworkcourier]

sometimes u just gotta come to terms with the fact that you want to be in a marston/escuella sandwich (AND THANK YOU AHHHH)

also [bangs pots and pans together] nerds! in! love! i mean it! this is so cheesy in parts that it’s ridiculous!!

and this is p much a threesome at this point, but with everyone going p slow and learning about each other. yaaaay for communication!

- - -

“He’s not gonna show up,” you say, matter-of-fact.

Javier sighs through his nose and glances out through the curtains again, peering through the dark and watching the mud-slick road in front of the hotel. It’s raining hard, drumming a constant drone on the roof. You watch as the gaslight outside is warped in the raindrops running down the windowpanes. “He will,” he insists, and not for the first time.

What you don’t discuss is how nervous both of you suddenly feel. You see it in the tense line of Javier’s shoulders, and in the way he looks out the window, craning his neck. He’s trying not to fidget too much, but you’ve noticed the half dozen ways he’s tried to occupy his hands. Whittling on some wooden object that hasn’t really taken a definite shape yet, cutting up an apple into neat, clean slices, and even trying to harness some kind of focus to read a dime novel you picked up at the general store. 

As for you, it’s not much better. You’ve taken to the bed--possibly the largest bed you’ve ever been in--having napped off a long, rainy afternoon. The wallpaper on your side of the bed has been thoroughly studied, and you’ve had your turn with the dime novel as well. For the past few hours, it’s been nap, read, study the walls, and repeat. Honestly, it’s been a waste of a beautiful bedroom and a massive, comfortable bed.

Javier makes a discontented noise before closing the curtains again and striding over to the bed. He’s stripped down to an undershirt and his pants, suspenders hanging down from his hips. At the end of the bed, he shimmies out of his pants and kicks them aside before collapsing onto his side of the bed with a defeated grunt. “Gave him the room number and everything,” he says, more to the mattress than you.

“Well, even he couldn’t count on the rain from goddamn Revelations. Cut him some slack,” you say, reaching over to stroke his back. 

He sighs again and turns his head in your direction, body still prone. There’s a pinch in his brow as he stares at the wall. “You don’t think we read this wrong, do you?”

“‘Course not. I mean, unless you needed to be reminded that he got himself off to us fuckin’ in the woods.”

His mouth quirks up on one side. 

The two of you lay side by side, and you’re sure that your minds are occupied with the same thing; John Marston, and what he has to be thinking right about now. 

Both of you made your offer pretty clear. First, at the cabin, when Javier asked John to join you. And again, later at camp when John wouldn’t keep eye contact with you and kept stammering his way through conversation like a nervous schoolboy. That time, you rested one hand on his shoulder while Javier smiled. Stay with us, you had told him. We want you to. We’re sure.

Granted, he had kept stammering, and turned a new shade of red that was almost impressive to see. He hadn’t said no, but as both you and Javier are well aware of, he hadn’t agreed either. Regardless, before you and Javier left for the hotel, Javier had told him where the pair of you were headed, and heavily insinuated on the room number. Javier had reported that John had, again, blushed a fascinating color and had said the word ‘okay’ about seven different ways, each with a different intonation. Once more, not a yes. And once more, still not a no.

But it’s left that part of your relationship open. You’ve confessed that mutual attraction, and it feels like one of those point-of-no-return situations. Even if John outright rejected you (and he didn’t!), it would never quite be the same. 

Javier stretches an arm out so that it’s draped over your waist, and at the same time, lets out a low, frustrated noise from somewhere in the back of his throat. 

“We wasted a whole day on this,” he laments.

“And a really nice bed.”

As if now suddenly aware of this fact, Javier tilts his head up to take in the four poster bed, the plush brocade pillows, and the soft sheets, invitingly cream-colored in the lamplight. “Mierda,” he sighs, his head falling back so that his forehead is pressed back into the mattress. 

You laugh and scoot over to be closer to him, pressing yourself up against his side and kissing his cheek. “Not too late,” you remind him, stroking one hand up and down the divot of his spine. “We still have another--” Cue serendipitous look up at the mantle clock. “--eight hours until we have to leave.”

He peeks back up at you, one eye bright through his hair. “Eight hours, huh?”

“Ocho, indeed.”

“No idea what we could do for eight hours.”

You let out a thoughtful hum. “I have a few suggestions.”

He smiles. “I’m all ears.”

He doesn’t need those much, considering the fact that the next thing you do is nudge at his shoulder to get him to lay on his side. Then, you kiss him deeply, one hand rising to press against his neck, thumb following the ridge of his jaw. It’s the sweetest kind of kissing there is, deep and loving with absolutely no expectations. You keep it slow and almost rhythmic, punctuated only with soft sounds of your mouths pressing against each other, and the low sighs and hums exchanged between you. 

What follows feels as natural as breathing. He gently guides you onto your back, kissing you all the way through the motion. At least you’ve already shucked yourself down to the most basic of underclothes, so he doesn’t have to remove much to get you naked from the waist down. Then, his hand is between your legs, working you up in slow strokes and practiced motions.

You’ve read other sorts of novels--usually the sort you can’t typically buy in a general store--where the characters have some sort of ecstatic expulsion or some other violent expression of their pleasure. The way they’re written typically makes it sound like a painful act. You’d like very much to send a few letters of correction, especially as Javier’s fingers work at you, pressing and rubbing against all the right places, knowing your body the way he knows the strings of an instrument. Play it just so, and it sings.

He’s holding himself up on his right elbow while his left hand plays at you in all sorts of magnificent ways. When he leans back, you open your eyes to see him looking down at you, eyes as warm as candlelight, with a particular kind of happiness that softens any hard line on his face.

Those books only cover the feeling of love so well, and even they don’t accurately capture what you see in Javier at that moment.

Your orgasm comes as a slow, steady roll, like a motion of the tide. Short, shallow waves rise up in you, bright and warm, quickening your pulse and making you moan without a thought as to the sounds you’re making. Javier happily takes them into himself, lowering down to kiss you again, nuzzling his nose against yours, brushing your foreheads. He says something in Spanish, something that you think means, “Let me hear you.”

You’re all too happy to oblige.

When the waves quicken and take on a new depth, you tilt your head back into the pillows, shutting your eyes. The sounds that rise out of you aren’t yours to control. Javier plays them out of you, kissing you through them, down to the vibrations in your throat, down to that divot in your collarbones, until his head is pressed to your chest, listening to you. 

Your hips rise off the bed, and you shudder and sigh. Beside you, Javier makes a hum of contentment before leaning up to kiss you again.

Then, from the other side of the room, a soft and gravelly, “Oh.”

It really is a fine indicator of how occupied you and Javier were with each other. If John knocked, neither of you heard it. You certainly didn’t hear the door open. But the two of you look up at the same time, at John Marston standing there, door shut at his back, looking like a lost child who wandered into the wrong place. He’s absolutely drenched, lamplit water still dripping from the brim of his hat. He wrings his gloved hands in front of him, unsure what to do with them otherwise. And, to your delight, he’s flushed clear up to his ears, visible even in the dim slants of light.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt nothin’,” he says, lowering his head.

“You didn’t,” you reply. Honestly, you have no idea what to say to him in the first place. There’s only a handful of ways to address a man walking in on lovemaking that doesn’t involve him, and historically, those reactions haven’t been favorable. But you do grin, looking up at Javier, his own expression a cross between relief, delight, and some pinch of hesitation. “Certainly didn’t stop Javier.”

“No, I... I suppose I didn’t.” 

Poor John looks like he’d enjoy nothing better than finding a way through the floorboards, clear out of sight. Clearly, you need to do or say something to change that. “More than welcome to change out of those clothes, Mr. Marston,” you say, leaning back against the pillows. “An’ we got plenty of room on this bed if you’re feeling either enterprising or exhausted.”

John bobs his head like a damn horse, surprise still a bright and open thing on his face. That’s certainly one of the things you’ve learned about him over time; he can’t hide an emotion worth a damn.

“Bit of both, actually,” he says, and you’re pleased with his honesty.

You smile and nudge Javier with your elbow. “I’d be inclined to help him out but, well...” You gesture down to your rather stark half-nakedness, causing Javier to grin. “Mind filling in for me in the interim?”

“Mmm, that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make,” he replies, kissing you on the cheek before he edges his way off the bed. Then, he’s standing there in front of John who looks as awkward as can be, blushing like a new bride, dripping with cold rain water. 

But all Javier has to do is pull the hat off his head, setting it on a wicker chair pressed up against the wall. It seems to set off some sort of reaction in John, like he was waiting for a sign that he hadn’t walked into the wrong situation, that the two of you hadn’t set up a grand prank to laugh about later. He’s suddenly surging up to Javier, catching his lips in a kiss that looks painful, his hand on the side of Javier’s face, keeping him still. 

“Damn,” you whisper, but you’re certain neither of them hear you.

You know Javier has a bit of a depository inside of him of feelings for John. He’s done a decent job of labeling them, sorting them with you by his side, trying to figure out if what he was feeling couldn’t just be chalked up to some sort of summer-idyllic infatuation. Watching him kiss John, you’re pleased to know that it wasn’t, just as you insisted. Once he’s rearranged the kiss to something more comfortable, he kisses John with a fiery sort of passion, made of something he’s been kindling for a long while.

And John-- Oh, he is a delight to watch. Part of him reminds you of a colt, all loose-limbed and clumsy, trying to figure himself out in regards to the world around him. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, and every motion telegraphs like a mad scramble. He’s impatient, a pot right at the time of boiling over, wanting everything at once but not knowing how to go about getting it. His hands are on Javier’s waist, up on his chest, tracking again to go underneath his shirt. 

You have to remind yourself that there was a time that you were like that as well. You and Javier didn’t know each other well enough yet, unlike this practiced symphony with a few variations that you do nowadays. John hasn’t been a part of this, as much as you’ve wished he had been. But you have time. Lord above, you certainly hope he agrees that you do. 

Javier reaches up and tugs at John’s belt loops, tugging him backwards in the direction of the bed. 

You clear you throat, and both men pause only to look at you in their periphery. “Clothes off, please,” you say, making a quick gesture over John’s entire being. “You’re a little... damp.”

John only pulls away enough from Javier to take quick stock of himself before a sheepish expression comes over him. “Oh, yeah,” he says.

Javier laughs and helps him out of his soaked coat, tossing it over the back of another chair while John yanks his boots off, and then his pants. Your first thought is romantic, watching him pull his clothes off with Javier’s help, allowing himself to become vulnerable and naked in front of you, as much of a show of trust to you as it is a show of trust to him as well. 

Your second thought is much more practical. You might need to add another day on the hotel room, if only to send to get John’s laundry done.

Once all his clothes are off, and Javier’s shirt as well, he stands awkwardly beside the bed, once again unsure of how to arrange himself. His hands hover in front of his half-erect cock, like an only slightly ashamed Adam. Javier is behind him, a reassuring hand on his back. 

“You sure?” John asks, and you feel that the question is directed at both of you.

“Of course,” you say, at the same time Javier says, “Absolutely.”

Coltish, again, as John slowly places a knee on the bed. He’s a full grown man, but he moves like he’s just grown into his arms and legs. You move aside on the bed to let him take up the middle, and Javier follows suit to bracket John in. He stretches out beside John, one hand splayed out over John’s stomach. “You wanna be on the edge?” Javier asks.

John blinks. “Huh?”

“In case you want to leave or something. Don’t want you to feel like you’re trapped, y’know?”

It’s the kind of consideration that makes your heart feel full and warm, and you smile at Javier over John’s bewilderedness. 

“I... I think I’m okay. Pretty sure.” John then swallows hard, glancing between both of you. “I’ve just never--”

“Done this?” you ask.

He nods, and almost looks ashamed, like it’s standard procedure for a couple to offer to share their bed so openly. You turn your smile to him, and lean your head down to rest against his bare shoulder. You can feel his breath stirring at your hair, can hear the slight hitch in it. 

“Leave it to us,” Javier tells him. He reaches up to stroke at John’s hair, still wet from the storm. “You tell us if somethin’ bothers you, and we fix it. Easy as that.”

“And if you don’t want to keep going,” you add. 

John makes a soft noise through his nose and looks at Javier. “What kinda things, exactly?”

This is Javier’s forte, making an easy segue between talking and doing. You watch the hand on John’s stomach lower to the thatch of dark pubic hair, his fingers brushing over John’s stiffened cock. “How we touch you,” Javier says. He’s being deliberately gentle; too gentle, all teasing. “You tell us how hard we go, or if we need to back off.”

John certainly doesn’t complain when Javier takes him fully in hand, pumping slowly to get him fully erect. If anything, he seems to have been stunned into silence. Happily stunned, you notice.

Not to be outdone, you tilt your head up to kiss John. That’s been something of a fantasy of yours, albeit a tame one. You kiss him rather chastely at first, something like assurance. His lips are softened from the water, and his motions are tentative and testing. Then, once he seems to get a sense of your rhythm, he deepens the kiss.

Javier kisses you in a way that reminds you of fire contained in a jar, like everything he feels for you is concentrated down to this small point, not unlike the light of a lantern. John doesn’t bother to contain how he feels, once he’s sure that he won’t be punished for feeling it. You saw that a bit with how he kissed Javier, passionate and scattered all at once. He kisses you much of the same way, hard as iron one moment, soft as silk the next. You feel his lust at the same time that you feel his quiet fascination with the two of you. He isn’t sure where to place these things, or how to combine them, so he engages in both. 

John suddenly lets out a soft gasp against your lips, and you open one eye to see Javier move in your periphery. He’s gone from John’s side to straddling himself over John’s legs, his head dipped low to take John’s cock in his hand, and then as you watch, his mouth. 

You know as well as he does that you won’t take things too far tonight. As much as you’re both close to John on a friendship level, you don’t know all of his boundaries yet. You haven’t investigated that whole map of himself the way you’re experts on each other. He wants you, that much you’re sure of. If you were different people, you might try to take all his pleasure at once, in one mind-numbing marathon session that would last the whole night. But both you and Javier want this to last. You want to bait the hook with promises of what you’re capable of together, so that John knows he can trust you, knows you’re open to love him, and knows that there’s more to you than just what you’ve shown. In that time, you can learn about him as well.

Tonight, it’s Javier licking at his cock, mouthing at him, letting his fingers learn those intricate pathways of pleasure that are unique to John.

And tonight, it’s you kissing him, letting your hands roam and allowing him to touch you as well. You feel hard ridges of new scar tissue, and low, thin dents of the old ones. You feel his nervous, excited heart drumming against his ribs as you kiss your way down his body, and then back up to taste the sweat and rainwater on his skin. His hands graze over you as well, calloused fingers making long, unsteady trails on your arms, on your back, over your shoulders, and across your chest. At one point, he twitches and rests his head against your shoulder, shuddering and sighing as Javier takes him deep into his mouth, swallowing him down.

You reach up and stroke John’s hair, smiling at him and at Javier, who looks all too pleased with himself. “You like that?” you ask John. He nods against you and you laugh. “You ever thought about him doing this to you before?”

A boundary check. You and Javier enjoy talking your way through sex. It excites you, it excites him. You tell each other your fantasies, and have made good on plenty of them. It’s something you’ve considered with John, not knowing if he would enjoy it or not.

Evidently, he does. He sighs against your shoulder and nods. 

You keep going, enjoying both his sounds and the wet sounds of Javier’s mouth sucking him off. “That night, when you were watching us at the cabin, did you imagine he was fucking you?”

A choked-off noise. You feel his hips buck, and it’s only through intuition that Javier instinctively pins John down.

“Or did you imagine fucking me?”

Choked off again, then a moan. He nods, shakes his head, nods again. You understand, and you smile like a beatific little saint, pretending to be ignorant of how Javier bobs his head, makes the most debaucherous noises that you’ve ever delighted in.

“Both?” you ask.

“Y-e-esss,” John croaks. The word slides through his rough voice beautifully, and you hope you hear plenty more of it.

Self-indulgent as it may be, you press on as you gently tuck some of John’s hair behind his ear. Then, you trail your hand down his face, trying to commit his expression to memory. “How many ways did you imagine this, I wonder,” you continue, admiring the look of hazy wonder on John’s face. “When you grabbed your cock, did you pretend it was one of us?”

He nods, now frantic. It’s amazing how quickly he’s unraveled, and yet not so surprising at all.

“Javier’s mouth, or maybe mine,” you say, and it’s as lighthearted and casual as a conversation after Sunday dinner. “Maybe both of us. Wouldn’t that be nice? Working at you together, sucking you off, licking you, exploring every inch of you.”

“Yes, yes,” John breathes. His hips buck again, and he curls against you, shuddering. 

All that’s left to wonder is how long he’s wanted the two of you as badly as you’ve wanted him.

He comes quick, and almost without warning. Almost is the term that’s operative, because he makes a beautiful series of sounds, and you realize that Javier’s quickly learning how to play John as well. John’s gasping and moaning, twisting away from you before turning back towards you like he isn’t sure where to go. Then, he stiffens up and groans low in his throat, a raw scrape of sound that fills the room to each corner.

Javier leans back but keeps pumping John with his hand. John spends over both of them, over his lower torso in long streaks, over Javier’s hand which only helps Javier jerk him off a little quicker. Eventually, it’s too much for John, and he twists towards you again, gasping and moaning like he’s dying. Javier looks beyond pleased, nodding in a way that seems self-satisfactory before he slides off the end of the bed to get a towel.

The cleanup is fairly quick, as Javier’s more eager to get back in bed with the two of you. You help him wipe John off, and you enjoy the dazed, happy look on John’s face now while Javier throws the towel on the pile of clothes that absolutely have to be washed now. At the very least, you get another day at the hotel out of it, presumably with more preoccupation than you’ve had over the last day. 

Javier sprawls out beside John, one arm draped over his waist and the lower half of his face pressed against his shoulder, kissing a trail downward. 

After a quiet moment, John tiredly looks between the two of you. “That was...” He blinks, and looks up at the darkened ceiling thoughtfully. “I don’t even know what to call it.”

“Nothing yet,” Javier tells him with a grin. “You don’t have anything to compare it to.”

John has just enough energy to look a little indignant. “I’m not a virgin, Javier,” he retorts.

“No, no. I mean, you don’t have anything to compare it to with us,” Javier amends, and presses another kiss to the side of John’s neck. 

“Wha--”

You take the reins on this one, which makes Javier’s smile grow where it’s pressed to John’s skin. “What he means, John, is that we want to do more of this with you,” you say. One of your hands lowers down to brush over half the V of his hips, and he gives a minute shudder while looking amazed at his own reaction. “If you’d let us,” you add.

“It only gets better from here,” Javier says.

John almost looks mystified, but the unmistakable look of pleasure crosses his face and he nods slowly. “Sure. I-- I mean, I don’t know how to do all of... this,” he says, loosely gesturing to the three of you. “But, yeah, I could... I could do this again.”

“Una y otra vez,” Javier says, smiling up at you like you’re sharing a secret.

You are, except it doesn’t feel like much of a secret at all.

You tilt your head down again to kiss John, more or less a pleasant brush of your lips over his. Then, you say, “And we’ve got another seven hours to do just that.”

[writerofblocks]

It’s a Process

[Note: This is an original work I submitted as part of a creative writing class. it’s kind of long, so I put it under a cut. I hope you enjoy.]

Two thousand words. How is anyone supposed to write a story that long? I mean, I know it’s technically possible; this definitely isn’t the first time this teacher has given out this assignment to a class, and it certainly won’t be the last. Page count wise, that’s like… ten, isn’t? That’s not much. Or at least it shouldn’t seem like as much as it does. The last story I wrote was 500 words- if you can even call something of that length a story- and it still felt like a stretch at the time.

At least it’s only a first draft. First drafts are allowed to be flaming garbage piles. And given that it’s due tonight and I only remembered its existence about thirty minutes ago, it’s a safe bet that this draft’s more likely to be a flaming garbage pile than not. Resisting the temptation to throw it all out and make it perfect is going to be a challenge. It’d feel better to wipe the slate clean than try to fix something that’s broken and worthless.

Wait. Stop. Thinking like that isn’t going to help.

What am I supposed to write about, anyway? The teacher said we could write about anything (within reason), but where am I supposed to go with that? Not sci-fi, I know that much. The amount of words I’d need for world-building would take up all the space given. I could write an elaborate fanfiction and disguise it by changing the names, but that just seems tacky. Besides, I already did it once this semester. Never again.

…Too hungry to think further. I need food.

The cafeteria’s a bearable enough place. At least there are a few staples I can get by on if the daily rotation of meals doesn’t work out in my favor. Though pizza every day has gotten pretty boring after a while. Maybe it’s the depression talking, but everything just tastes bland when it comes out of a buffet trough. Hot sauce would be a good way to go to fix that, if anything spicier than pico de gallo didn’t disagree with me. I still don’t know how people can willingly subject themselves to oral torture via condiments, let alone get into contests over who can eat the spiciest pepper in existence. What was it my friend said? Something about how some people are nontasters and need stronger spices to actually feel something and some people are supertasters where everything is intense. Dang, I need to look that up sometime. I wonder if the ratio of supertasters to nontasters or vice versa is linked to specific regions of the world? Would explain why some cultures enjoy spicier food while some can’t stand anything stronger than salt.

There are burritos today. A small blessing.

Write your story. Stop watching that video on your phone, pull out your notebook, and write your story. You’ll feel much better with it done, but you need to actually write the story. You’ve already watched this video ten times already, you know it by heart, why are you watching it over and over again when you have other things you’ve been meaning to get to? Put it away on the count of three. One, two, three. I said, one, two, three four five- damnit.

“We now bring to you on the Inner Brain Radio “Mambo. No 5”, but only the first measure. This will be on repeat for the next three hours.”

Excellent. Hey, can I request something different? Like, maybe some silence, or some thoughts on how I’m actually going to finish this freaking story?

“Sorry, we don’t take requests.”

That’s what I figured.

Damn, this burrito is hot. Why are all the burritos from the cafeteria burning hot? The rice is always overcooked, too. Tasteless. Feels like chewing on actual rice grains instead of, you know, cooked rice. At least it fills me up- won’t have to break my writing stride to get a snack, if it comes to that. And it always comes to that.

…Noise.

Too much noise. Mouths chewing with wet and obscene sounds. Conversations I can’t piece together but try to anyway. What if they’re talking about me?

I can’t tell whether they’re laughing or crying.

I can’t tell whether they’re laughing or crying.

I can’t tell whether they’re laughing or crying.

Need to move. No more people. I’m tired after two classes, how am I supposed to work in the real world? How am I supposed to do anything worthwhile? How am I supposed to grow and be an adult? I don’t feel like an adult. I stopped changing at sixteen and I’ve been stuck in this worthless rotten excuse of a body ever since.

Stand up. Stand up! Prickling in my muscles, everything’s too loud. Beep boop, out of people juice again. Where can I get more? People juice machine broke. Why am I thinking in memes at a time like this, I need to pack up my bag and go.

Out of the cafeteria, into the fall air. I don’t need to think about the path I’m taking. I may not be able to remember meetings, due dates, birthdays, names, anything short-term memory related, or anything that makes me viable and valid as a human adult worth caring about, but by God do I still have my muscle memory! Wondrous miracles!

What should I listen to on the walk home? Oh yeah, I’ve been meaning to listen to this album. It’d be good to listen to something new. Or, I could listen to the same set of songs I’ve been listening to on repeat for weeks now because that’s what’s comfortable to me.

Yeah. Let’s go with that.

It’s getting windier by the minute. I left my good jacket in my bedroom closet- didn’t think I’d need it today. I need to make it a habit to check the weather before I go out, I can’t keep going out under prepared like this-

What on earth is that squirrel doing?

…God damnit. Did it again. I’m just a walking stereotype at this point. I really hate that joke about people with ADHD and squirrels, but it’s true. Maybe that’s why I hate it so much.

I did take my pills today, didn’t I? The section for today is empty, so I must have. Good. I’ve gotten better about doing that.

Walk faster towards home, bow my head against the galeforce winds. It’s not galeforce, I’m exaggerating, but it’s damn windy is what it is. I’m swimming upstream, I’m a carp trying to jump a waterfall. I’m Sisyphus up a hill made out of air. I’m an adventurer on a solemn quest, I’m a badass with somewhere to be, I’m making up things that I am because the walk home is boring and I’d rather be at home under my duvet instead of be out here freezing my everything off.

Finally home. My room’s at the top of three sets of stairs. I’m the crazy lady in the attic. Stick me up here, forget about me. Or it could be that it’s smaller so they make the single rooms out of the space they have. Self reminder- finish reading “The Yellow Wallpaper”.

When I take off my shoes, I need to place them in the shoe caddy. If I do so, it will be easier to find them and they won’t be a trip hazard. Everyone wins.

I didn’t place them in the shoe caddy. Figures.

Set your bag down, pull your laptop and notebook out. This whole day will be a waste if I don’t get something down at least. Sit on your bed and make yourself comfortable. I’m not going anywhere for the next however-long-it-takes, and the desk chairs are too hard for my delicate lil’ butt to handle.

My bedsheets already smell like farts and sweat. I just washed them a few days ago. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.

A thousand underperformances on the back of my neck, constricting my lungs. I’ve barely opened the laptop and already I’m at anxiety DEFCON 2, how am I supposed to start this thing? It’s impossible, why did I put it off for this long, I’m going to fail, I’m-

Wait! Breathe. Breathe in for five, hold for five, exhale for seven. That’s it, just like your psychologist taught you. Still stressed. Thoughts still racing. Howie Mandel, I’m going to use a lifeline on this one. Pick up my phone, flip over to texts.

[Mom are you in a good place to talk right now?] [well, text] [not up for calling atm]

[I am. What’s up?]

[just. kind of stressed out] [I have a story due by midnight and I haven’t started  it yet] [trying not to beat myself up about it. not really working]

[At least you’re trying, right? That’s better than in the past.] [Maybe try doing something nice for a bit?] [Not forever, just something that will calm you down.]

[did I mention its due tonight at midnight]

[I know. But trying to do things when you’re riled up doesn’t work.]

I hate it when she’s right.

[maybe I’ll do some knitting for a bit] [still have to finish that blanket]

[Sounds like a plan <3]

One, two, three four… seven? Fuck, I dropped a stitch somewhere. Time to frog it and start over. Mom’s always astonished when I spend so much time on something and destroy it when it’s not perfect. Like I didn’t inherit it from her. She’s gotten better in recent days, but still. Still. Why do knitters call it “frogging”? Because you rip it, rip it.

…It’s nine o clock at night. When did it become nine o clock at night? Put your knitting away, goddamnit, what are you thinking? The story’s due before midnight, just open your Word doc and go!

Focus. Play with form. Poetry, writing, dance, art, living- it’s all just one connection of motion to another. But at what point does a story become a poem? Or a poem become a story, either or. I know free verse is a thing, will the teacher dock me points if it’s not within at least a certain limit of change? Maybe. I don’t know.

The word counter’s ticking up, one agonizing number at a time. It’s all bullshit, of course it’s all bullshit, I can’t write anything but bullshit. But in the Game of College Classes, all that matters is that it fulfills the requirements of the assignment. Nothing more.

Something something too rhythmic, something something “all writers are failed poets”, something something I don’t know what I’m doing, something something, just as long as it’s something.

You’ll never be good enough. This story will never be good enough. You’re unoriginal. And even if you were original, who would want someone who can’t turn things in on time? That’s all you’re good for, menial tasks, just get used up and thrown out when you’re no longer needed. You’re disposable. There are millions of other people just like you, only better because they aren’t lazy worthless garbage. No one likes you. People who say they like you and like what you do are lying. Why can’t you just write what’s in your head? You think you’re better than everyone else at this, but when it comes to brass tacks you just can’t live up to your own fantasies of greatness. Face it- you’re never going to get anywhere with this. You’re never going to get anywhere with anything you do. You’ll just give up as soon as things become even slightly tough; what were you thinking coming here, where it’s all tough all the time? Oh wait, you weren’t, you just go along with whatever someone in authority tells you because you’re a coward and can’t think for yourself without someone else giving the go-ahead. If you’re ever given control you just throw it all away and don’t do shit-

11:50pm. It’s done. Aborted thoughts that pro-lifers would have a field day with, flimsy thoughts, very little structure, absolutely meaningless in the long run, but done, blessedly done. Open your email, send it off to the professor. Write an apology for it being late at night. Send a joke that at least it’s on time. Delete the part that says “for once”- only so much self-deprecation is allowed when interacting with others before they get concerned. Hit the SEND button and try to feel proud, though you know you could have done better if you hadn’t put it off.

It’s late. I’m tired. Time to attempt to sleep. I’ll stay up until one watching videos- I know myself- but at least I need to pretend I’m going to bed or I’ll stay up even later with meaningless distractions

I’ll have to face my mistakes I’ve made with other classes tomorrow, the assignments I’ve put off elsewhere. But this is a victory. A victory that shouldn’t be this hard to get, but it’s a victory. And I’ll take it for all it’s worth.

[crimsonfantrash-blog]

Don’t Forget - Sans x Gaster (Human AU)

Chapter Six - Sunday and Monday

Sunday morning. The scientist awoke to the loud sounds of Papyrus and Undyne playing upstairs, and the sound of sizzling from a pan in the kitchen.

"I'm gonna get you, Papy!!" Undyne yelled.

"No, you're not!!!" Papyrus yelled back louder, giggling. He could hear their feet pounding against the floor as they ran.

He sat up, putting his hand on the back of his neck and rubbing the sore area. Sans hadn't been kidding when he said the couch was uncomfortable. Gaster picked his glasses up, and put them on, looking into the kitchen. Sans was making breakfast, it seemed. The younger male didn't look too pleased to be awake, and he was only wearing an over sized tee shirt and boxers that went down to his knees.

"Oh, hey, you're awake!" Papyrus yelled, which surprised the scientist, and made him roll off the couch, landing on the floor and making an 'oof' sound on the way down. Sans looked over as Papyrus giggled and went to help Gaster up.

As soon as Gaster was back on the couch, he looked over to Sans again, who stared at the scientist curiously. He smiled a little. "Nice bedhead."

Gaster's cheeks flushed pink. Right, his hair always had been hell after sleeping. This sleepover thing was a bad idea, but it was already too late. He fixed his glasses. "Good morning."

"Technically, afternoon." Sans replied. He went back to cooking. "Do you like pancakes?"

"Pancakes are okay. I'm not very picky."  He replied. He rolled his neck, trying to get rid of the muscle ache he had developed. "What time is it?"

"Around noon." Sans answered. He looked over at Gaster, who stared at him. He stared back for a moment before going back to cooking again.

The scientist took in his surroundings, since he hadn't really had the chance to look around the other times he'd been here. It occurred to him that people usually didn't sleep at their co-workers' houses after the other had only been hired for a week. People didn't usually sleep on their employee's couch to begin with. This friendship thing was shaping up to be an interesting thing so far. Still, Gaster found himself wanting to get Sans a new couch. It seemed inhumane to let the shorter male keep this uncomfortable piece of furniture. Plus, it was ugly, and didn't compliment the red wallpaper. It bothered him.

When Gaster looked back towards, he found Sans staring at him. He raised an eyebrow. "Yes, may I help you?"

Sans' cheeks seemed to flush pink, and he looked away. "Nah, was just trying to think of a joke to make about your bedhead."

It seemed like a suspicious, but Gaster didn't care enough to pry. It didn't really matter, in the long run.

~~~~~~~~~~

Gaster fixed his tie before he unlocked the lab, flipping the light switches next to the door, and looked at the wall clock. Seven fifty. Ten minutes before the shift started. His co-worker would walk in the door at any moment.

He worked on a few paper as he waited; complaints from people about the Core, concerns, other worthless documents that would be old news by ten. Everyone in the Underground had a short attention span.

When the door hadn't opened by eight o' five, Gaster became a bit annoyed at Sans. Five minutes late on the first day of his second week. Disgraceful. He made a note to lecture Sans when he got there. When the clock read nine thirty, Gaster started worrying about Sans, more so than being annoyed at him. His phone started ringing, and he checked the caller ID before clearing his throat, and answering. "Yes, hello?"

"Dr. Gaster, I checked the system, and it says your assistant hasn't clocked in to work yet." Asgore said. Gaster worked on documents as the King continued. "Do you know why that is?"

"Mr. Fontz appears to be late. His shift started an hour and a half ago, and he has yet to show up." Gaster answered. He looked at the clock again. Only a minute had gone by, but it had felt like ages.

"I heard there was an increase in crime rate in Snowdin. That is where he lives, correct?" Asgore asked. Gaster tugged at his collar.

"You don't suppose something happened to him, do you?" He asked nervously. There was a sound of papers rustling, and the King muttering.

"I have not gotten a report from anyone in the Guard about anything like that, but the guards in Snowdin are not exactly the hardest working bunch... Neither are the sentries. That whole town is honestly full of drunks, and bums. Which is why we have the most issue with Snowdin."

Gaster stood from his desk, fixing his glasses. "I think I'm going to go see for myself what's going on."

"Okay, but be careful." Asgore warned. "Good luck, Dr. Gaster."

"Thank you. Goodbye." The scientist replied. He pulled the phone away from his ear, and clicked the 'end call' button, before turning his phone off, and shoving it in his pocket.

The ferry ride to Snowdin seemed to take forever, and the Riverperson warning him in tongues wasn't exactly easing his mind. He was really starting to worry when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out. It was a text from Sans. That eased him a bit, until he read the message.

Sans 9:55 A.M.

sorry im late for work somethin happened can u come over plz

Gaster shoved the phone back in his pocket, getting off the ferry, and walking briskly to his assistant's house. When he arrived at the literal scene of the crime, Guards seemed to be arresting someone (he didn't recognize who), and Sans and Papyrus were standing outside the building; Papyrus talking to a Guard as Sans was leaned up against the house. Both brothers looked a bit banged up. Papyrus had a few cuts on his cheeks and forehead, all looking very minor compared to Sans' injuries. A medic seemed to be talking to him, but Sans didn't seem too interested in receiving medical help. Gaster pushed through Guards, sentries, medics, and neighbours until he got to his coworker, who looked up at him

The next few minutes were a blur, but soon the authorities had left and the only people that were there now were Sans, Papyrus, and himself. "What was all that about?" Gaster asked.

"A mean guy came into our house! He tried to take our stuff, and he hurt us!!" Papyrus answered.

"Sorry." Sans said. Gaster took notice that the smaller male had his arms wrapped around his midsection, and his shirt was soaked in blood.

"Sans, let me see your injury." Gaster said.

"It's just a tiny cut, I'm fine." Sans replied dismissively.

"Sans, this isn't a game. Show me."

"Let's just go inside." Sans said. He started limping inside; which just worried Gaster even more. Papyrus had already run inside, so the scientist followed his co-worker into his home. The smaller male limped toward the couch, and Gaster picked him up, making the smaller squeal and flush pink.

"I wasn't joking." Gaster said, laying Sans on the couch. "Now, are you going to show me the damage, or am I going to have to do it myself?"

"Fine, fine...! I'll do it..." Sans said. He looked at Papyrus. "Go upstairs, and straighten your room up, bro."

"Okie dokie!!" Papyrus said. He ran upstairs, and Sans lifted his shirt a little. He had a wound on his side that was very clearly bleeding out. Gaster's hands hovered over the wounds as green magic poured from them to the cut. Healing magic. Sans didn't make eye contact with Gaster as he worked on healing him.

"You could have bled out and died." Gaster said.

"I know." Sans replied quietly.

Despite himself, Gaster Checked his assistant's stats... Only to find that his HP was dropping. Not as if he was getting attacked, but his maximum cap HP had gone down from the usual twenty-five to fifteen. His Attack and Defense had dropped, too... Curious. "Why were you limping?"

"The guy who attacked us kinda... Pushed me down the stairs. I landed on my leg weird..."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Sans." Gaster replied. One of his hands focused on his co-worker's leg, pouring healing magic into it. Healing magic could never do quite what a hospital trip could, but he had a feeling Sans wouldn't be able to afford a hospital bill.

Based on the dark circles under Sans' eyes, and the fact that he looked like he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open, Gaster assumed Sans would need some good old time and patience in order to recover from everything that had happened this morning. He didn't bother the smaller male as his eyes closed and his head dropped, his breathing evening out and becoming rhythmic and slow.

Once he was sure his magic had done everything it could for Sans, Gaster pulled his hands away. He fixed his glasses as his gaze rest on his sound asleep assistant. Even after all that, the smaller male seemed determined to keep his hair in his face. If that wasn't the definition of stubborn, he wasn't sure what was. He sighed. Boy, wasn't today interesting so far?

((Woooooo finished this

Just a quick note that chapters are gonna be slow in the making, probably until the end of July. I'm visiting my home town right now, so I don't get on Wattpad/AO3/Tumblr very much. I think this is the most amount of time I've written this week alone.

If you have fanart, feel free to send it to me on DeviantArt, Tumblr, Instagram, Kik, or Facebook. Feel free to inbox me and ask me for my username on the specific site/app of your choice.

-Felix))

[kltiago]

Talent: Diary of an Heiress - Yeah I Love Your Hustle Baby

My eyes flew open the next day at 8:56am.  I normally didn’t wake up before nine, but all the excitement of meeting with Larissa messed with my internal clock.

I couldn’t wait!  It was a little overwhelming to think that today was the day my life was going to change.  So there I was, lying in bed staring up at my ceiling while I considered what to do.

Should I call Larissa and make an appointment to come by, or should I just go over?  She did write her address on her card…  I tossed my covers away and decided to get dressed.  I was going to go see Larissa right away.  Why wait getting my life on track?  I had been waiting so long already.  And by the time I finished getting ready her office would probably have been open for a while.

I hummed to myself happily while I showered.  I could feel it in my bones: today something great was going to happen.  After all of those failed auditions my career wasfinally starting to go somewhere.  Today: a new manager.  Tomorrow: an Oscar.

Okay, maybe I was getting a little ahead of myself: by this point I would have to wait for next Oscar season, but how could I not feel so excited about this?  If you weren’t thinking positively when you were constantly hearing ‘no’, which you interpreted as ‘you’re ugly, fat and untalented’, eventually a girl might turn suicidal.  I had been waiting to get famous since I was three years old, hadn’t it been long enough?

But perhaps caution should be taken?  A girl randomly offering to be your manager did seem a little too good to be true, but… I really wanted it to be true.  So I ignored the voice in my head named ‘Harsh Truths’ and pushed forward.

I slipped into some dark, skinny 7 For All Mankind jeans and a white Hanes tank top.  According to Tyra Banks, simple is the route models should go regarding castings.  Or ‘go-sees’ as they’re called in the business, which I learned through watching at least seventeen seasons of America’s Next Top Model.

I figured I would dress similarly, that way I could show Larissa and whomever she worked with that I could fit into any mold they wanted.  That’s what makes a good actress: versatility.  I didn’t want to be too overpowering walking in wearing Prada.  I wasn’t Meryl Streep.  …Yet.

When I finished putting my makeup on, enough to make my skin flawless, but not too much that you could tell I was wearing makeup, it was only 9:23 am.  Well, that was fast.

I had never gotten ready so quickly before.  More effects of my bursting excitement, which was nuts and very telling of how serious I was about getting famous.  I wondered if I should do something to pass some more time before I drove over… but I actually had nothing to do other than go see Larissa, so I was drawing a blank on possible activities.

After flipping through the last two months of Vogue, re-straightening my hair and eating an apple for sustenance, I checked the clock once again: 9:38am.

I leaned against the refrigerator with my name on it and sighed from my gut, letting the stainless steel cool my nerves.  How come time moves so slowly when you don’t want it to?  Whenever I was at Hot Yoga on Thursdays, it was over before I could master the vasisthasana advanced left pose.  I decided not to wait and headed out: I would drive really slowly.

I went out to my garage and got into my black BMW.  My Range Rover wasn’t right for this sort of meeting.  I wanted to seem like a professional, not a rap artist.  I input the address into my navigation system and checked myself in the rearview mirror as I waited for the automatic garage door to open.

The whole drive I was singing at the top of my lungs to Lady GaGa’s The Fame album, chosen since I was currently on my way to super stardom.  The computerized voice of my navigation system would randomly notify me of turns amid GaGa’s smooth vocals.

I was so lost in the music I didn’t even notice that the longer I drove, the sketchier the neighborhood became.  I swerved to avoid a homeless man pushing a cart full of discarded objects down the middle of the road and he flipped me off, calling me a ‘Scaliwag’.  I decided to turn down my stereo and take a look around.

To my immediate right was a broken down shack covered in random graffiti that I would have assumed was very abandoned, but the new car in the driveway told me that it probably wasn’t.  To my left was a house with three pit bulls chained in the front yard and a sign that read, ‘Polise: I DARE You!’

How did they misspell police when it was written on the side of their cars…?  Where was I?  Did I put the address in wrong?  I took out Larissa’s card and compared it to the navigation display to make sure.  Nope, this was the right street…

Finally I pulled up to the apartment complex my navigation told me was Larissa’s: definitely not what I was expecting.  I thought she would work in a fancy office made of glass with minimalist architecture and a fountain of constantly running water that made a lot of noise but I didn’t know where the fountain was.  This appeared to be some kind of subsidized housing.  Not very ‘Hollywood’.

Maybe Larissa gave me the wrong address?  Maybe she had been joking about being my manager and this was some cruel prank she decided to play on an out-of-work actress?  But why would she do that?  She had said I was pretty…

I parked my car along the curb between an old Volkswagen with a large crack spanning the entire length of the windshield and a rusted navy Honda with a silver passenger door. As I walked up to the front of the building I glanced from side to side, taking in my surroundings.  There was nobody in the streets, which only made me uneasier.  It was like everyone was hiding from something… or someone…

I inspected the names on the buzzers and came across an A. Healy.  Larissa’s last name was Healy so I assumed that would be her or someone she lived with, maybe her sister?  I hit the buzzer and waited for a reply.

“Hello?” came Larissa’s groggy voice.

“Hi, um, this is Divinity, we met last night?”

“Oh,” said Larissa, sounding a bit surprised.  “Okay… one second.  …I’ll be right out.”

I probably should have called first.  This was dumb: I was coming off like such an eager idiot.  Oh well, too late now.

A few moments later, Larissa came down the stairs in the lobby.  Her dark hair was up in a top knot and she had on a pair of gray baggy sweatpants, a tight-fitting Pink Floyd t-shirt and a beat up pair of Uggs.  Not exactly what I had pictured her to be wearing at work.

“Hey,” I smiled widely as she opened the door for me.

“Hello.  I wish you’d called first I would have mentioned… all this,” Larissa coughed.  “Is that your car?” she motioned to my BMW.

“Uh, yeah it is.  …Why?”

“You can’t leave it like that, we’ll cover it with the tarp.”

“The… tarp?” what was she talking about?

“Yeah, someone will definitely steal a car that nice around here.”

“Oh, well I have an alarm system.”

Larissa scoffed.  “In this neighborhood, if your alarm is going off, it’s already too late.”  She walked past me and headed around to the back of the building, motioning for me to stay put.  Moments later she returned holding an old torn up tent under her arm.

“We’re covering my car with that?” I asked nervously.  What if it hurt my car?  Or got it dirty?  What was happening?

“Relax, the inside is totally clean.  Unless you want to just risk it and let Maurice have a go,” Larissa warned.  I didn’t know who Maurice was, but I understood by her tone he was someone to be avoided.

After helping Larissa cover my car with the tarp, I watched as she armed an intricately designed defense system involving strings and a bell that attached to a second floor apartment window.

“Is that… your apartment?” I asked as she finished up.  I had no idea what else to say in the moment.  What did one say after watching a girl camouflage their car like you were behind enemy lines in Afghanistan?

“Yeah, let’s get inside, I don’t like hanging around out here for too long.”

“Why not?” I asked.  Larissa shrugged in response.  There was a loud popping sound that caused me to hop into the air like a nervous cat and bump into Larissa, who remained perfectly still.  “Did a car backfire?”

“Probably not,” she held the door for me to go inside.

Judging from the lobby I made the assumption there was no building superintendent or if there was, that he rarely paid attention to his duties.  There were more cracked floor tiles spread out along the ground than there were intact.  The tacky floral wallpaper was yellowed with age and had begun to peel and tear at random places.  Fluorescent light bulbs either flickered weakly, didn’t light up at all or were missing from their sockets altogether.

It was becoming more and more obvious to me that Larissa was hiding something.  Actually it was obvious when I had pulled up to this Hellhole, but now it was like a neon sign was flashing the words: ‘Crack Den’.

“Larissa, what’s going on?” I finally worked up the nerve to ask.

“Let’s talk inside, people in this building are fucked.”  She led me up to apartment 203 and we paused in the hallway as she unlocked the door.

I noticed while waiting there was a dark stain on the carpet in front of the apartment across the hall.  It disappeared under the door and resembled dried blood.  And judging by the size of it, whoever was bleeding probably did not survive.

I swallowed the thoughts of any murder that may or may not have taken place there and followed Larissa inside.  She armed the seven different locks protecting the front door from potential intruders.

As I stood in her small one-person apartment all I could think about was the homeless shelter my mother brought me to one Christmas when I didn’t get what I had asked for and she wanted to teach me a lesson.

I had asked for a pony, which I already had back on the ranch in Texas, but I wanted one in New York too.  In the city, like, inside of our penthouse.  True, it was a little unreasonable, but this girl at my school got a giant Tibetan Mastiff dog for $2500 and I wanted to one-up the bitch.  I complained to my mother and she quickly gave me a lesson in humility, which was why I always tipped so much.

“I thought you were some big-wig manager with tons of connections,” I said noticing a Hello Kitty poster hung up on the wall next to a calendar of shirtless firemen.

“Those belong to my roommate,” Larissa explained following my eyes.  “And I’m not technically a big manager, but I will be.  And I do have a lot of connections, so let’s agree to disagree?”

“You have a roommate?”

“Hello,” a man poked his head out from around the corner and startled me slightly, but only because of the drama I had been through getting up there.  His shaggy black hair hung in his dark brown eyes.  “I’m Roger.  Doing some dishes; I’ll see you in a second.”  I gave a small wave and he disappeared back behind the wall.

“So last night when I met you in the club and you were all dressed up, you were… pretending?” I gave Larissa a worried glance.

“Well, I mean, this is Hollywood!” Larissa exclaimed.  “If you aren’t somebody, you’re nobody, and nobody works with nobody.  You’ve got to fake it ‘til you make it, don’t you know how this place works?  Hilary Swank lived in her car when she first got here: now look at her.  This is the land where one day you’re homeless and the next you’re on everybody’s television: isn’t that what brought you here?”

She was kind of right.  True she didn’t have an office with an invisible fountain or any real qualifications, but neither did I, so who was I to be picky?  Despite her current scrub-attire, I knew she was capable of pulling it together, and she did sound like she knew what she was doing.

“I suppose you’re right,” I said with a slight shrug.  “…So you’ve worked with actresses before?”  Larissa’s roommate Roger emerged from the kitchen and gave an amused scoff.

“Oh, Larissa has worked with some very interesting characters.”  Larissa narrowed her eyes at him, shooting out icy blue daggers, and motioned for me to sit in one of her two loveseats.  She and Roger sat down across from me on the couch, both crossing one leg over the other.

“The people I’ve worked with in the past have often turned out to be… disappointing,” Larissa replied.

“How so?”

“Well there was Maggie,” said Roger, “who went nuts and is now checked into a mental hospital in Silver Lake.”

“She did too much acid one night and had a breakdown,” Larissa explained.  “Don’t worry, that won’t happen to you.  You don’t do drugs do you, Divinity?”

“No, not at all,” I said quickly.  “Like, I’ve been to parties, but I don’t do drugs, I’m not into drugs.”

“Okay well you don’t need to be a nun, just avoid the hard shit, you don’t seem like your body-mass could handle it.”

“Thanks?”

“Then there was Lucille, I loved Lucille, she was definitely my favorite,” said Roger.

“What happened to Lucille?” I asked.

“Lucille wanted to be a singer.  She could dance but she only had an okay voice and face, and she didn’t even know how to write songs, so… it didn’t really work out for her,” said Larissa.

“She was such a good time though, probably a bit too much.  One time she called Larissa to come pick her up from a rave somewhere and when we arrived, she was only wearing her bra and some heels,” Roger grinned ear to ear as he retold this tale.  “She was hilarious.  I would never suggest for anybody to act like that, but if you’re going to, at least own it.  And she owned it.  Owned it.”

“Where’s Lucille now?” I wondered.

“The Diamond Kitten by the airport.  You'll find her using the stage name ‘Galore’,” said Larissa.

Well that was disheartening.  So far, Larissa’s past clients were now a stripper and a mental patient.  “Have you had any successful clients?”

“There was that Garth guy, and, um, Marni?” offered Roger.

“Garth is hardly what I would call successful,” Larissa rolled her eyes.  “He came here to be an actor but now he’s regional manager at Best Buy.”

“Key words being: ‘regional manager’.  Don’t sell yourself short,” Roger nudged her.

“And what about Marni?” I asked, hopeful that maybe she was now somehow involved in the entertainment industry.

“She wanted to be a model but got fat.  But not, like, real-people-fat, Hollywood-fat.  So she opened her own bakery in Venice.  Beach, not Italy.  She’s definitely my most successful past client, at least monetarily,” said Larissa.  “I get free cupcakes if you’re interested?”

“Maybe later,” I replied unenthusiastically.  I could feel my face morphing into it’s obviously disappointed state, but I couldn’t do anything to fix it.  I had hoped Larissa would be able to help make me a famous celebrity, not a chunky dessert-chef.  All of the energizing excitement from this morning seemed totally wasted.

I should have realized earlier that a girl offering to be your manager at a club was probably not the most legit of business interactions.  I should have listened to that Harsh Truths bitch.

I could tell Larissa was noticing my disappointment and I tried to think back to one of Madame Andronotta’s etiquette classes on faking enthusiasm, but I was too depressed to follow through.

I would be a horrible stripper.  What would my name even be?  Starlet?  That would be too depressing.  And I couldn’t bake, so that wasn’t even an option.  Maybe I could start selling microwaves with Daddy?  …Kill me.

“Listen,” Larissa uncrossed her legs and leaned forward: this must have been her serious tone.  “I get this probably seems a little less-than-ideal, but I’m going to be honest with you Divinity: I’m confident you will be different.”  A ginger-colored cat hopped up onto the arm of my chair and smelled my face.  I could tell Larissa was annoyed by the timing of this sudden development but she did her best to ignore it.

“How?  You don’t even really know anything about me,” I said, ignoring the cat that dropped silently to the ground and disappeared behind the couch.

“Fair enough,” she replied, “but I have a hunch.  So how about we get to know you and we can see if that hunch is correct?  So tell us about yourself.”

“Okay.  Well, I’m from Texas, but I grew up mostly in New York.  My dad owns a company, so he moved us out there so he could be close to the head office.  I didn’t go to college, but not because I’m stupid or something: I knew I wanted to be an actress and it’s not like you need to go to school for this.  I’ve done acting classes, though.”

“What company does your dad own?” Roger asked curiously.

“Sanders International.”

“Wait… like… the refrigerators?” Roger clarified, his jaw dropping with Larissa’s.

“We make, like, stoves and blenders and other stuff also,” I replied.

“Holy fuck, you’re an heiress,” Larissa sat back in awe.  The way both her and Roger watched me you’d think I’d grown another head.

“Yeah, but you knew I was well-off when you saw my watch at the club, remember?”

“I knew you had money, not that you’re fucking Paris Hilton,” Larissa gave Roger wide-eyes and he immediately returned them.  “Okay, listen up Divinity, you are officially my client, I don’t care, you don’t have a choice.  I am 100% confident I can make you famous, and at the same time, make myself a serious force to be reckoned with in this industry: I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like I’m some charitable saint.”

“You sound very sure of yourself,” I said.  To be honest, it felt amazing to have Larissa be so excited about me.  Not like all of the casting people I had met who saw me as another blonde girl.  This was how I wished everyone would react to my presence: awe and excitement.

“You’re basically halfway famous already, now you need the right person–me–to help really get your name out there.  I know exactly how to sell you to studios.”

“How to ‘sell’ me?  I’m not a prostitute,” I joked.

“You’d be surprised.  In this city, it’s kind of similar,” said Larissa.  “But first things first: you said last night you had a manager but you were thinking of changing.  Did you sign a contract with him or something?  Because that is a problem I would need to start dealing with right away.”

“No, no contract,” I replied.  “I met him on Craigslist, we communicate through email.”

“Stop right there, has he been inside of your house?  Does he know where you live?” Larissa demanded, a rush of nerves running through me.

“No, we only contact each other through email, it’s actually sort of weird,” I replied.

“Sort of weird?” Larissa repeated, “Okay, cut contact with him immediately: we obviously need to teach you about Internet predators.”  She smacked Roger across the shoulder, scoffed and pointed at me.  “This bitch.  She asked me earlier why I was putting the tarp over her BMW because it has an alarm.”  The two laughed with each other for a moment and Larissa let out a happy sigh.

“I also have a Range Rover with automatic engine stop when you drive a certain distance away from the keys, so would that need the tarp?” I countered.  Larissa waved a hand dismissively.

“Girl, you don’t need all that fancy security shit for a Range Rover in these parts.  People will assume that it’s a drug dealer’s car and keep their distance.”

“Or a pimp’s,” Roger added.

“Oh yeah, do not under any circumstances touch a pimp’s car.  Especially that Eddie guy who lives down the block,” said Larissa. “Do you have rims?”

“Rims?” I asked, “like the silver things on your wheels?  They came with the car…”

“Well every pimp starts somewhere, maybe they’ll think you’re new.”

“I thought it made me look like a rapper or like a rapper’s girlfriend,” I suggested.

“Everyone on this block is a rapper or a rapper’s girlfriend and not a single one of them can afford a Range Rover,” Larissa replied.

“I thought that pimp’s name was Teddy?  The one down the block?” Roger asked.

“Maybe.  I only know that you should not go near him; I’ve heard some stories.  I’m not going to go into detail, which, as Roger will attest to, means they are gruesomebecause I do not have boundaries, but suffice it to say: he will cut you.”

“It’s true, she doesn’t have any boundaries… at all.  Like, meth would be considered a boundary for Larissa,” said Roger.

“For example, if there is an earthquake,” Larissa continued, “and you feel yourself falling towards Eddie/Teddy’s car; you jump the other direction, because he will kill you.”

“But there was an earthquake, that’s not your fault.  That’s so illogical,” I said, a little irritated by the ridiculous laws of the ‘streets’, or lack thereof.

“Pimps don’t know logic,” said Roger.

“No, hookers don’t know logic, pimps don’t know compassion,” Larissa corrected.

“Oh, yeah you’re right, I switched it, and drug dealers don’t know their own potential.”

“Yes, that’s correct,” she nodded.

“Their own potential?” I asked.

“Listen, drug dealers are entrepreneurs, they just happen to also be criminals.  But you show me a great businessman that isn’t.  …Obviously not your father, I’m sure,” said Larissa.  “I’m generalizing.”

“Of course…” I replied.  “So, off topic from pimps: what’s next?  Career-wise, I mean.  If you’re my new manager you should know what I should do to, you know… get famous?”

“Well there’s not really anything more we can do today,” said Larissa.  “I need to start getting your name out into the public domain: I’ll contact some people and set up some social media things for you but other than that, you should sit tight until I call you.  Do you have headshots?  I need to show people what they’re paying for.”

“Wow this really is like prostitution,” I said.

“You have no idea,” Larissa said suggestively.  “So, yeah, let’s uncover your car from the tarp and you can get back to your… whatever it is extremely rich girls do during the day.  And email me those headshots.”

I gave my phone number to my two new friends and followed Larissa back out to my car.  We disarmed her security measures and I sat in the driver’s seat while I watched her walk back into her complex.  I wanted to make sure that nobody killed her between now and me getting famous, which might actually be more of an issue than I realized considering the area she was living.

I drove back home, without putting on any music; too lost in my own thoughts.  Images of Larissa succeeding and my face on the front page of papers, or watching myself on television filled up every corner of my brain.  And mostly I was thinking about my phone, and when it would start ringing with news about my future fame.  Because, despite the fact I was an ‘extremely rich girl’ who could technically do whatever she wanted: this was the only thing that I really cared about.

This was the change my life needed.

[androidmaniaco]

115 ofertas Google Play: aplicaciones y juegos gratis y con grandes descuentos por poco tiempo

115 ofertas Google Play: aplicaciones y juegos gratis y con grandes descuentos por poco tiempo

Cada semana, recopilamos para ti las mejores ofertas del momento en Google Play, incluyendo aplicaciones, juegos y paquetes de personalización de pago que puedes conseguir gratis o a un precio mucho inferior del normal. Esta semana, te puedes llevar 27 de ellas gratis y 88 a un precio rebajado, siempre y cuando lo hagas antes de que caduquen las ofertas.

27 aplicaciones Android gratis

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Ball Collect 3D - Best casual endless game 1,39 euros gratis

Levantando la nave espacial (Grow Spaceship) 0,89 euros gratis

Idle Poo Factory VIP 0,89 euros gratis

Race 3D - Cool Relaxing endless running game 1,39 euros gratis

Soul Warrior: Sword and Magic - RPG Adventure 1,99 euros gratis

2048 Puzzle Game 2,99 euros gratis

Epic Heroes War: Shadow Lord Stickman - Premium 0,59 euros gratis

Fear in hospital: survival PRO 1,19 euros gratis

House of Fear: Surviving Predator PRO 1,19 euros gratis

Mystic Guardian PV: Old School Action RPG 3,69 euros gratis

Neo Monsters 0,50 euros gratis

Monkey GO Happy 0,69 euros gratis

Personalización

Planets Live Wallpaper Plus 0,99 euros gratis

Cuticon Round - Icon Pack 1,59 euros gratis

Hexanet White - Icon Pack 1,09 euros gratis

Lines Square - White Icon Pack 1,09 euros gratis

88 aplicaciones Android con descuento

Seguimos con otras aplicaciones, juegos y paquetes de personalización de pago que puedes conseguir a un precio mucho menor del habitual. Algunos títulos que pueden ser de tu interés son Gunslugs 2, Evoland 2, Flipomacy y Full Pipe.

Aplicaciones

EoEbooks 7,99 euros 4,09 euros

Insect Identifier 5,49 euros 2,19 euros

Ejercicios de dolor de espalda (PRO) 3,39 euros 1,69 euros

Music Pro Player 1,49 euros 0,59 euros

Rhythm Engineer 2,49 euros 1,19 euros

Revista de entrenamiento avanzado 3,09 euros 0,99 euros

Enfermedades infantiles 3,29 euros 0,99 euros

Complete Guide for Learning React 16+ [Pro] 1,99 euros 0,89 euros

En Xataka

Los 31 mejores juegos para Android: la selección de los editores de Xataka

Complete Guide to Learn Angular Development [PRO] 1,99 euros 0,89 euros

Complete Guide to Learn PHP Programming [PRO] 1,99 euros 0,89 euros

Listado de enfermedades 3,29 euros 1,39 euros

Drugs Dictionary 3,29 euros 0,99 euros

Guide for Learning Python Programming [PRO] 1,99 euros 0,99 euros

Learn Javascript Programming [PRO] - Complete Path 1,99 euros 0,99 euros

Diccionario médico 3,29 euros 0,99 euros

Vitaminas y Minerales 3,29 euros 0,99 euros

Entrenamiento 7 min PRO 3,29 euros 0,99 euros

bebe agua - Hydro Coach PRO 4,99 euros 2,49 euros

TV Cast Ultimate 8,49 euros 4,59 euros

BT/USB/TCP Bridge Pro 1,69 euros 1,09 euros

LayerPaint HD 7,99 euros 3,79 euros

Learn C# .NET Programming - PRO (NO ADS) 3,89 euros 1,39 euros

Learn C++ Programming - PRO 3,89 euros 1,09 euros

Learn C Programming Tutorial PRO - (NO ADS) 3,00 euros 1,09 euros

Learn Java Programming Tutorial - PRO (NO ADS) 3,00 euros 1,39 euros

Learn Kotlin Programming - PRO 3,89 euros 1,09 euros

Learn Python Programming - Spanish (NO ADS) 3,89 euros 1,09 euros

Learn R Programming Tutorial PRO (NO ADS) 3,89 euros 1,09 euros

Web Development PRO (HTML, CSS) 3,89 euros 1,09 euros

English-Spanish Dictionary Premium 3,09 euros 1,09 euros

Secure Clips - Secure & private clipboard manager 1,89 euros 1,19 euros

Learn French from scratch full 4,49 euros 2,29 euros

Learn Spanish from scratch full 4,49 euros 2,29 euros

Juegos

Seven Mysteries 3,09 euros 1,29 euros

CRAZY CHICKEN strikes back 4,09 euros 0,99 euros

DRS Pro 6,99 euros 3,39 euros

ColEm Deluxe - Complete ColecoVision Emulator 5,49 euros 2,99 euros

Cooking Trip 3,29 euros 1,59 euros

Full Pipe: Puzzle Adventure Premium Game 2,99 euros 1,79 euros

Hot Guns 1,69 euros 0,59 euros

Katy & Bob: Cake Café 2,09 euros 0,89 euros

Vestigium: Huellas de Elfo 2,19 euros 0,99 euros

Hexologic 1,79 euros 1,09 euros

Clases de Música para Niños: 10+ Instrumentos 3,59 euros 0,69 euros

Space Marshals 4,59 euros 1,09 euros

Templar Battleforce RPG 10,99 euros 4,99 euros

The Angry Banana 2,19 euros 0,99 euros

Alice Beyond Wonderland 2,09 euros 0,99 euros

Entrenador de ajedrez Pro 9,49 euros 4,49 euros

One Deck Dungeon 6,99 euros 0,99 euros

Unwanted Gray 2,19 euros 0,99 euros

Gunslugs 2 2,99 euros 1,39 euros

Styledoll! - Decora tu 3D avatar 3,49 euros 1,69 euros

Fliplomacy 2,59 euros 0,59 euros

DuckDuck 1,89 euros 0,59 euros

Slaughter 2: Asalto en Prisión 2,29 euros 0,59 euros

Sleep Attack TD 4,79 euros 2,39 euros

The Beggar's Ride 3,79 euros 2,39 euros

Turn It On! 2,29 euros 1,09 euros

9th Dawn RPG 2,79 euros 1,29 euros

9th Dawn II 2 RPG 4,19 euros 1,99 euros

DayD: Through time 2,09 euros 0,99 euros

Fourth grade Math skills - Division 1,99 euros 0,59 euros

Lost Artifacts: Golden Island 2,09 euros 0,99 euros

Math Shot Add and Subtract within 100 1,99 euros 0,59 euros

Royal Roads 1 2,09 euros 0,99 euros

Throne Quest RPG 3,39 euros 1,29 euros

Unbroken Soul 1,99 euros 1,19 euros

Vestigium: Huellas de Elfo 2,19 euros 0,99 euros

En Xataka Android

Los juegos Android más exigentes para poner a prueba la potencia de tu teléfono 'gaming'

Arrog 2,99 euros 1,99 euros

Cultist Simulator 6,99 euros 3,49 euros

DISTRAINT 2 7,49 euros 2,99 euros

Evoland 2 6,99 euros 1,99 euros

Mathematiqa - Math Brain Game Puzzles And Riddles 3,69 euros 1,79 euros

Teslagrad 6,99 euros 1,99 euros

The Almost Gone 6,99 euros 4,49 euros

The Moment : the Temple of Time 2,39 euros 1,29 euros

Personalización

Juno Icon Pack - Rounded Square Icons 1,39 euros 0,89 euros

AMETAL Analog Clock Widget 1,99 euros 0,99 euros

AMETAL Dark Icon Pack 1,59 euros 0,79 euros

AMETAL Dark Xperia Theme 2,39 euros 1,19 euros

AMETAL Next Launcher 3D Theme 1,79 euros 0,79 euros

Smart Launcher Theme AMETAL 1,79 euros 0,79 euros

Sewing - Icon Pack 1,99 euros 0,99 euros

GRADION - Icon Pack (SALE!!!) 2,19 euros 0,99 euros

MinMaCons Icon Pack 1,59 euros 0,59 euros

Pixel Limitless - Icon Pack 1,99 euros 1,19 euros

FluOxygen - Icon Pack 1,99 euros 1,19 euros

¿Más ofertas?

Si tras todas estas aplicaciones gratuitas nuestra sección de los viernes se te queda corta, puedes estar al día de las principales ofertas de todos los sistemas operativos a través de nuestros compañeros de Applesfera y Xataka Móvil. Puedes ver también los mejores precios en móviles y accesorios en nuestro Cazando Gangas de hoy.

Os recordamos que los comentarios, como siempre, están abiertos para que podáis añadir las ofertas de Google Play que encontréis. Y si queréis más, nos vemos la semana que viene. ¡Buen fin de semana a todos!

- La noticia 115 ofertas Google Play: aplicaciones y juegos gratis y con grandes descuentos por poco tiempo fue publicada originalmente en Xataka Android por Iván Ramírez .

Xataka Android https://ift.tt/3bOWuD7

[kiwibomb]

hangyeom lockscreens!!! please like or reblog if you save it!!! 🦊

[nemesisbinxartifactseries]

Artifact Series C

C. Everett Koop's Scalpel

C. Henry Kempe's Teddy Bear

C.D. Atkins' Orange Juice Jug

C. H. Bennett's Ball of String

C. L. Blood's Bellows

C. S. Lewis' Wardrobe

C. S. Lewis' Writing Pen

C.S.A.: Confederate States of America Film Poster

Cab Calloway’s Zoot Suit

Cabbage Patch Monkey Doll

Cable from the Warsaw Radio Mast

Cai Lun’s Paper

Cain's Stone

Calaveras Skull

Calico Jack's Belt

Calico Jack's Flintlock Pistol

California Gold Rush Mining Pan

Caligula's Battle Armor

Caligula's Sandals *

Calvin Coolidge's Kerosene Lamp

Calvin Graham’s Sailor Suit

Calypso's Conch

Camera from the Ed Sullivan Show

Cameron Todd Willingham's Lighter

Camille Flammarion's Flammarion Engraving

Candles from Jeanne Calment's 100th Birthday Cake

Candle from the Conspirators Camp

Cangjie’s Oracle Bone Script

Canister of Greek Fire

Canister of Inconsolability *

Cannon from the Battle of Narva

Cao Cao’s Beard Brush

Captain Adrian Snow's Gauntlet

Captain Edward John Smith's Hat

Captain Gallagher’s Sword Hilt

Captain Hendrick Goosen's Trawling Net

Captain Joseph White’s Mattress

Caracalla's Bathing Amphora

Caravaggio’s Nativity with St. Francis and St. Lawrence

Caravaggio's The Lute Player *

Carbondale Oppressing Iron *

Cardea's Hinge

Cardinal Richelieu's Table Knife

Caretaker Ribbon *

Carey Loftin's Gloves *

Carl Barks' Animation Cels

Carl Hagenbeck's Circus Wagon

Carl G. Fisher’s Acetylene Headlight

Carl Gustav Hempel's Apple

Carl Jung's Cuckoo Clock

Carl Jung’s Sofa Cushion

Carl Laemmle's Nickelodeon

Carl Linnaeus' Cravat

Carl Linnaeus' Herbarium

Carl Magee’s Parking Meter

Carl McCunn's Driver License

Carl Ray's Paint Brushes

Carl Sagan's Jacket

Carlo Collodi's Bracelet *

Carlo Pellegrini’s Spats

Carlos Arredondo's Hat

Carlos Hathcock's Feather

Carlos Marcello's Favorite Table

Carmen Miranda's Maracas

Carmine Galante’s Cigar

Carnation Flowers from the Carnation Revolution

Carrie Nation’s Hatchet

Carrie White's Prom Dress

Carry-on Bag

Casey Jones' Pocketwatch

Casey Martin's Golf Club

Casey Martin’s Golf Tee

Casimir Pulaski's and Michael Kovats de Fabriczy's Hessian Cavalry Swords

Casimir Zeglen’s Bulletproof Vest

Cask of Amontillado

Caspar Wistar’s Shutters

Cassandra "Elvira" Peterson's '58 Ford Thunderbird

Cassie Chadwick's Pearl Necklace

Cassius Dio's Silver Coins

Castle Crasher Knight's Weapons

Catequil's Clubs

Caterina Sforza's Spine

Catherine de' Medici's Corset

Catherine of Aragon's Wedding Ring

Catherine O'Leary's Cow Bell *

Catherine the Great's Scarf

Catherine the Great's Slippers

Catherine the Great's Washing Board *

"Cats" Vinyl Record

Cattle Skull

Caucasian Eagle Automaton

Caught-in-the-Throat "Laff!" Sign *

Cauldron of Annwn

Cauldron of Rebirth

Cave of the Piasa Bird

Cecil B. DeMille's Riding Crop *

Cecília Meireles' Rose Pen

Cellphone from the Set of Dollhouse

Celtic Red Deer Hide

Ceramic Black Buffalo

Ceramic Figurine Collection

Cernunnos' Torc

Cesar Chavez's Hoe

Cesar Chavez's Trellis

Cesira Ferrani's Atomizer

Chain from St. Mary of Bethlehem Asylum

Chains Used to Topple Saddam Hussein's Statue in Firdos Square

Chair from the Norrmalmstorg Bank Robbery

Chalice of Dionysus

Chalkboard Erasers from the Tanganyika Laughter Epidemic

Champagne Glasses From the SS United States

Chandelier from the Montansier Opera House *

Chandre Oram's Flag

Chang and Eng Bunker's Wedding Rings

Chang Apana's Detective Badge

Charlemagne's Crown

Charlemagne's Stirrup

Charles II of Navarre’s Bandages

Charles II's Croquet Balls *

Charles II's Executioner Axe

Charles VI’s Pillow

Charles Addams' Harpsichord

Charles Algernon Parsons' Gramophone Horn

Charles Angibaud’s Mortar

Charles Babbage's Gears

Charles Babbage's Difference Engine

Charles Baudelaire's Second Volume of Les Fleurs du mal

Charles B. Franklin’s Camshaft

Charles Bell's Rolls of Canvas

Charles Blondin's Tightrope

Charles Blondin's Unitard

Charles the Bold’s Livery Collar

Charles Bourseul’s Telephone

Charles Bowles' Flour Sack

Charles Calvert's Tobacco

Charles Carpenter’s Bazookas

Charles Correll's Amos 'n' Andy Taxi

Charles Coughlin's Collar

Charles Cretors’ Popcorn Cart

Charles Cullen's Scrubs

Charles Darwin’s Magnifying Glass

Charles Darwin's Spyglass

Charles Davenport's Syringe

Charles Dickens' Badminton Racket *

Charles Dickens’ Desk

Charles Dickens' Scotch

Charles Dodgson's Rosary

Charles Douglass’ Laff Box

Charles Édouard Guillaume's Balance Wheel

Charles F. Urschel’s Blindfold

Charles Fort’s Newspaper Clippings

Charles Fort's Umbrella

Charles Francis Hall's Coffee Cup

Charles Goodyear's Synthetic Rubber

Charles Hanson's Rocking Horse *

Charles J. Guiteau’s Revolver

Charles Jeffries' Skeleton Army Cap

Charles Kingsford Smith's Airplane's Undercarriage Leg and Wheel

Charles Knight's Hail Cannon

Charles Lindbergh Jr.’s Baby Rattle

Charles Lyell's Tool Belt

Charles M. Schulz's Pumpkin

Charles Macintosh's Socks

Charles Manson's Metal Guitar Pick

Charles Manson's VW Bus

Charles Martel's Stirrup

Charles Minthorn Murphy’s Bicycle Rollers

Charles Osborne's Water Cup

Charles Page's Cross

Charles Peace's Gold Pocketwatch

Charles Pearson's Tin-Can Telephone

Charles Perrault's Seven-League Boots

Charles Portal's RAF Pin

Charles Ponzi's Money Clip *

Charles Richter and Beno Gutenberg's Paper Roll and Pen

Charles Richter's Fountain Pen and Cap

Charles Simic's Fork

Charles Wells’ Roulette Wheel

Charles Whitman's Sniper Rifle

Charley Parkhurst's Whip

Charlie Chaplin's Bowler Hat

Charlie Chaplin's Cane

Charlotte Corday's Hairbrush

Charlotte Perkins Gilman's Wallpaper

Charlton Heston's Rifle

Charles Whitman's Sniper Rifle

Charred Crane from Greene County Oil Well Fire

Château de Madrid Majolica

Che Guevara's Beret

Chen Si's Motorbike

Chernobyl Three's Lab Coats

Cherry Hill Murder Artifacts

The Chest of Chirizu-kakai-o

Chester Moore Hall's Achromatic Lens *

Chesty Puller's Bullet Shells

Chesty Puller's Five Navy Crosses

Chicago May's Lipstick

Chicago Wheel

Chief Tecumseh's Robes

Chimariko Tribe Shaman Drum

Chi Medallion

Chicago City Key Chain

Chinese Baoding Balls

Chinese Chopsticks

Chinese Doubling Pot

Chinese New Year Good Luck Knot

Chinese New Year Red Envelope

Chinese Orchid *

The Chinese Sandalwood

Ching Ling Foo’s Bowl

Ching Shih's Katana

Chiune Sugihara's Visa Stamp

Choe Bu's Diary

Choe Museon’s Hwacha

Chris Gardner's Parking Tickets

Chris Hadfield's Acoustic Guitar

Christchurch City Cathedral Spire

Christiaan Barnard's Scalpel

Christiaan Huygens' Pendulum

Christiaan Huygens' Prism

Christian Doppler's Tie

Christian Mortensen's Thread and Needle

Christina the Astonishing's Thurible

Christine Chubbuck's Pearl Necklace

Christine Skubish's Toy Blocks

Christmas Lights from the Rockefeller Tree

Christmas Pyramid

Christmas Truce Submarine Ornament *

Christopher Columbus' Brooch *

Christopher Lee's Bowtie

Christopher Lee's Copy of The Lord of the Rings

Christopher Müller’s Gold Tooth

Christopher Reeve's Superman Cape

Christopher Robin Milne's Sketchpad

Chōchin-obake

Choe Bu's Diary

Chōjun Miyagi's Gi Belt

Chowchilla Kidnapping School Bus

Chromatic Bermuda Kite

Chrysippus' Wine Bottle

Chuck Jones' Glasses

Chucky Doll

Chuck Yeager's Favourite Record *

Chuck Yeager's Flight Helmet

Chun-Kwai Seducing Vase *

Chung Ling Soo's Plate

Chunk of the Chelyabinsk Meteor

Church of St. Pancras' Altar Cross

Chyren's Rapier

Cinderella's Carriage

Cinderella's Glass Knife *

Cine-Kodak 8 Model 25 Camera

Cintamani Stone

Circe's Wand

Cirque du Soleil Leotard

Civil War Snare Drums

Clap-board from Thriller

Clara Barton's Gloves *

Clarence Birdseye's Food Freezer

Clarence Birdseye's Heat Pump

Clarence Saunders’ Turnstile

Clark Gable's Grooming Kit *

Clark Wiley's Cage

Claude Alexander Conlin’s Crystal Ball

Claude Alexander Conlin's Thought Control Turban *

Claude Louis Berthollet's Snuff Box

Claude Shannon's Chess Board

Claus von Stauffenberg’s Plastic Explosive

Claus von Stauffenberg's Suitcase

Clay Models From Corpse Bride

Clement Moore's Pen

Clementine's Ballcap

Cleopatra's Perfume Jar

Cleopatra's Preserved Asp *

Cleve Hall's Airbrush

Clever Hans’s Horseshoes

Clint Malarchuk's Blood-Stained Jersey

Clipped Wings of Pegasus

Clock Face and Hands from the Original Big Ben

Closet Door

Clothing Folding Laundry Hamper

Clyde Barrow's B.A.R. Machine Gun

Clyde W. Tombaugh's Photographic Plates

Coclé Cat

Coconut Husks from Monty Python and the Holy Grail

Coco Chanel's Handbag

Code of Hammurabi Tablet

Cold Feet Shoes

Cold War Air Raid Siren

Cole MacGrath's Amp

Cole MacGrath's Courier Jacket

Collection of Jimmy MacDonald's Sound Effect Devices

Colonel Sanders' Suit

Colossus Computer Vacuum Tubes

The Colt used by Clement Vallandigham

Columbia Space Shuttle

Combustable Figgy Pudding

The Comfy Chair

Complete Encyclopedia Brittanica, Circa 1966 *

Confucius' Flip-Flops *

Confucius' Lantern

Congo the Chimpanzee's Paint Brushes

Connor Kenway's Tomahawk

Conrad Haas’ Nozzle

Conrad Reed's Gold Nuggets

Consoling Valentine's Day Chocolates

Constance of Penafiel's Throne

Constantine the Great's Crucifix *

Constricting Yo-Yo

Conversation-Stopping Robot

Convincing Dreidels (canon)

Constantin Stanislavski's Eyeglasses

"Cookie Thieves Beware" Cookie Jar

Cookware from the Iron Chef Set

Copper Bowls of Life and Death *

Copper Roof Panel from the Plaza Hotel

Copy of E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial from the Alamogordo Landfill

Coraline Jones' Doll

Corbels from the Church of St Mary and St David

The Cordwaining Shoebox

Cornelis Drebbel’s Micro-Telescope

Cornelis Drebbel's Oar

Corner of Moses Stone Tablet *

Corrupted Zalgo Computers

Corsican Brother's Vest *

Corn Popper

Corvo Attano's Gas Mask

Customer Service Cell Phone *

The Cottingley Fairies

Cotton Club Matchbox

Cotton Swab from the Phantom of Heilbronn

Count of St. Germain's Ring *

Cover of the Book of Kells

Covered Wagon

Craig Jackson's Watch

Craig Shergold’s Greeting Cards

Cranston's Police Blotter

Crazy Horse's Tomahawk

Creighton Abrams' Hat

Cretan Labyrinth Archway

Cristofori's Piano Keyboard

Cross Brace from the LZ 129 Hindenburg

Crown Devon Honey Pot Preserves Jar

Crown of Minos

Crown Prince Sado's Sandals

Crowns of Peter and Ines

Crying Heart Piano

Cryogenic Gas Heater

Crystal Skull

Crystalline Diamond Necklace *

Ctesibius' Water Clock

Cuchulainn's Post

The Cudgel in the Sack

Cuevas de los Cristales Selenite Sample

Cupid's Arrows

Currier & Ives Advent Calendar *

Curtis Ebbesmeyer’s Friendly Floatees Bath Toys

Cutthroat Kitchen's Hatchet

Currency Changing Wallet

Cy Young's Baseball

Cybermen Outfits

Cymbal-Banging Monkey

Cynebil of Porththorp's Jawbone and Skull

Cynthia Doll

Cyrill Demian's Accordion

Cyrus Teed's Orrery

Cyrus the Great's Achaemenian Tapestry

[ecotone99]

[UR] You'll Never Walk Alone

Two men stood outside, smoking. The one on the left a thick, patched coat, a woollen beanie and work boots, though the boots were really just boots, given he’d been unemployed for a year following the shutdown of the Dunlop factory. His hair was a shock of grey frizz that splayed out from beneath his hat, and he was missing two teeth from a brawl outside a pub not more than two weeks ago. The other bloke was young, probably no older than 16, the closest thing to hair on his chin being the dirt that smudged the left-hand side of his face. I watched Roy flick his cigarette onto the sidewalk, step on it and then push his way into the store and up to the counter.

He nodded at me through the bulletproof glass and placed a tenner on his side of the turntable. ‘Nice weather, innit?’ he said.

‘You could say so,’ I said.

‘Pass me some of that gin, yeah?’

I raised an eyebrow at that, normally he just bought Guinness, rather than hard spirits. Still, an order’s an order, so I turned around and grabbed a bottle of gin off the shelf behind me. I spun the turntable around to grab the two notes and replace them with the bottle, covered in a brown paper bag alongside his change. Roy watched the bottle come around to him, fingers drumming on the countertop.

‘What’s for tea?’ He asked, never taking his eyes off the brown paper bag.

‘Same as always,’ I said. ‘You?’

‘Same as always.’ He sniffed and scratched at the side of his nose ‘you’d think you’d get tired of tomato soup after the first month, but you get used to it.’ He grinned at me, revealing his empty gums. ‘See you later, yeah?’

I grunted and waved at him. He and the young bloke waltzed down the street and out of view. I glanced down at my watch, Roy had been late. It was twenty to eight on a Thursday, normally he swung through at seven. Maybe the coppers had held him up again. Aside from the slow ticking of my watch, the store was silent and only the whiz of a passing car made it seem like the world outside was anything but a dirty old painting. The people didn’t make enough noise to seem like anything other than passing shadows, though occasionally I’d see a familiar face. Most would be on their way to either the pub or someone’s party, others both. Instead of doing the same, I had two hours left on my shift and then a twenty-minute walk back to the council estate. Even so, I’d still rather work nights, than not work at all.

Closing up was a short affair, given there was only one way in and out. Aside from the staffroom, which had no windows and no doors, the only room in the store was the one I was standing in and two thirds of it was blocked off with the aforementioned bulletproof glass. I shrugged into my thick winter jacket unlocked, then relocked the side door that led behind the counter, then closed up the front. By this point, the fish and chip joint to our immediate left had closed up, as had every other shop along the street. Any place that had anything of value had the interior framed between long, black bars of steel, including the liquor store. The only place that still had light pouring out of it was the pub that seemed to do a roaring trade all the way through to the wee hours of the morning. As I looked at it, down the far end of the street, three figures stumbled out, latched onto each others’ shoulders.

Though the snow dampened their voices I could hear their chorus, ‘walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart and you’ll never walk alone.’ One of the men collapsed against the wall and all three broke into hysterical laughter. They started singing again as I fiddled with the cigarette machine out the front of the fish and chip shop. Five pence for a five pack of park drive. I tore the pack open and lit myself up – one of the men from the pub had started retching into the gutter. In hindsight, it’s funny how cheap it was to kill yourself back then. Still, given the state of the city, some of us might not have cared all that much either way.

I pushed the front door open quickly then shut it again before replacing the towel that had been flush against the crack. I kicked my shoes into the corner and hung up my coat. Whenever you came in late you could smell the bolognaise, even in the hallway. Carrie’s bolognaise was a sticky, thick concoction. It seemed to soak into the peeling wallpaper and the thinning upholstery of our furniture, especially in the kitchen where you’d always be able to smell just a hint of beef and tomato paste soaking into the atmosphere.

She looked up at me when I clumped into the kitchen and gave a slight smile, ‘how was work?’ she asked.

‘Good, Roy was late though, picked up liquor rather than the usual.’ I walked over to the fridge and pulled out a loaf of bread. ‘Wonder what the special occasion is, not that the gin was anything decent.’

Carrie looked back at me, a sheen of moisture clinging to her face from the steam. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’ She chewed the inside of her cheek reflexively. She opened her mouth to speak, then instead turned back to the stove and stirred in a pinch of salt. She didn’t say anything, instead she cooked, and I watched, leaning on the back of a chair. Four slices of toast, a slice and a half of cheese for each then a pan of bolognaise sauce slathered over the top. It was only when a plate sat in front of the pair of us that she spoke again.

‘Roy’s wife came in this afternoon, about an hour before you left,’ she said. Carrie lifted a piece of bolognaise soaked toast to her mouth and began to chew. She didn’t look at me, instead staring at the plate in front of her, the window or the clock that hung on the wall behind me that refused to tick. ‘Their boy was stabbed last night outside the Swan.’

‘How bad?’ I asked.

‘Bad,’ she said. ‘Brooke didn’t say much, said she was just doing the rounds of folks that knew him. Roy was still at the hospital.’

We finished the rest of the meal in silence, the only sound from within the apartment being the scraping of knives and forks on plates. I mopped up what was left of the bolognaise with bread and then began to clean up. Claire slid in behind me and hugged me close as I was scrubbing the dishes in the sink.

‘He was a good kid,’ I said.

Claire squeezed me tighter and let out a shuddering sigh. ‘Hope the bastard that did it gets nabbed,’ she said.

I hummed in response. I didn’t really think about it at the time, but Roy wasn’t much younger than I was then. Five, maybe six years younger than I was, getting ready for his O-levels. I wouldn’t learn until much later that two hours after our conversation, Roy’s son would die in hospital. Not a sixteen-year-old kid whose biggest problem was passing mathematics, just another statistic.

Roy came in early on Friday evening. He was still smiling, but the man looked haggard. His eyes were bloodshot and support by dark bags. He pointed to the gin on the shelf behind me and place his money on the turntable. It spun around, the bottle stashed in a brown paper-bag that he picked it up like a man picking up a responsibility, rather than a bottle.

‘Liverpool’s playing this weekend,’ I said.

‘That they are,’ said Roy.

‘Want to go to the match with me and Claire?’

‘Nah, I’ll be right,’ said Roy.

‘You sure? I can cover your entry.’

‘Nah, don’t worry about it, mate.’ He flashed me a tired grin, then laughed. ‘I know you mean well, but I know you don’t really care about the sport.’

I grunted at him, ‘if there’s anything you need, let us know.’ I watched him leave, but before he slipped out the door I called out again, ‘and pass my wishes to Danny, yeah?’

‘I will mate, I will.’ He waved at me but didn’t look back as he left the store. Until the day I moved out of Speke and into a better job, Roy came back at least twice a week for another bottle of gin, always smiling. Maybe that was just the kind of bloke he was. Every now and then Claire and I would go across the street to his apartment for dinner and drinks, though the apartment always felt empty.

I miss the old man. I don’t really miss Speke.

submitted by /u/TooBreeki [link] [comments] via Blogger http://bit.ly/2YrAFln

[alis-grave-nils]

The Fresh Roast

Pairing: NinexRose

Rating: T

Words: 1,468

Chapters: 1/?

Fanfiction AO3

To say that John Noble loved his job would be...an overstatement. A corner coffee shop would not have been his first choice in career when he was younger, in fact, he thought it was a job only reserved for high school students and recent college graduates, but life had thrown him a few surprising curve balls that had meant he settled.

A recently retired military man, John had done a few tours in the royal navy and hadn’t had much experience in anything besides as he had gone straight in after his AS levels. Not many places would hire him without his A levels, and as his parents had recently passed away and left their estate to his sister, Donna and him, he was too busy to study for his tests.

He had to find a way of making a living somehow, as he didn’t want to live in his parents’ house forever. Too many sad memories in the place, and besides, there would be another family that would find it far more beneficial than the thirty-seven year old bachelor. His sister had suggested this place to him as she saw it on her way to the office she was temping at this month, and saw there was a help wanted sign in the window.

The owner was a randy American man named Jack who was younger than him by a few years, and had only asked him a few simple questions before proclaiming John Noble hired. It had nothing to do with qualifications, he found out, and more to do with the fact that the owner like a bit of a drink and didn’t want to come in early with a hangover. A perfect situation for John, as he was used to being an early riser from his years in the navy.

The Fresh Roast was a dingy venue with a much too bright neon sign, a first business venture opportunity that the American had seized at without taking much look at the fine print. The space was small, dimly lit, and in need of a good scrubbing. Still, Jack had managed to make do with what he had by adding some solid wooden tables and chairs for customers to sip their beverages at; a decent wi-fi connection for the students and the business go-ers; a cheerful wallpaper; and some good coffee.

So, every day at five a.m. he arrived to the coffee shop and unlocked the doors. He brewed a fresh pot of coffee for himself and made sure all the supplies were well stocked. Today had been a normal day of operations: the usuals coming in for their hazelnut lattes, the mothers stopping off for their childrens’ steamed milk before school, and the students needing the blackest coffee available to deal with their lack of sleep.

It was here that John laid eyes on the most beautiful woman that had ever crossed his sights. The spotty flourescents framed her blonde waves, giving her a surprising ethereal glow. She was dressed in a soft brown leather jacket over a mustard yellow top, and her warm brown eyes sparkled when she greeted him.

“Hello!” he greeted her more cheerfully than the usual paying customer, with a daft grin gracing his lips. “What can I get for you?”

“Latte, please,” she requested in a voice tone that matched her warm eyes. “Lord knows I’ll need it.”

“Where are you headin’ off to at this hour?” he asked conversationally, ringing up her purchase.

She sighed. “I have an eight o’ clock clinical at the hospital.”

“Student?” he asked.

“Yeah, down at University of London,” she told him. Her gaze held him for a moment before he cleared his throat.

“That’ll be 3 pounds. And can I get a name?”

“It’s Rose,” she told him, grinning as she handed over the notes. “Thanks, John.”

He was about to ask how she knew his name, before he remembered he was wearing a bloody nametag on his apron. “Do you like it?” he asked instead.

“What?” she asked. “The clinical?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh! Yeah, I mean, I wanted to be a doctor. I want to help save people after my dad died,” Rose said. “Ya gonna give me the change?” she joked, motioning to where John still clenched the pound notes in his fist.

“Yes!” he exclaimed, hitting the register button to make the drawer spring open and he sighed when it jammed again. John sighed. “Hang on, it’ll just be a mo’. This happens sometimes.”

He reached inside his apron pocket where he kept a screwdriver to jimmy the sides of the drawer to catch the latches. He bent down to see what he was doing, twisting the tool side to side when suddenly he heard a pop! and had the unfortunate pleasure of the drawer smashing into his already obtrusive nose.

Rose gasped. “Are you alright?”

John popped up with a grin, waggling his fingers at her. “Yeah. Just clipped me barely,” he lied smoothly as the pain in his nose roared through his ears and he silently cursed any god that would listen about this god-forsaken place.

With a nod of determination, he placed the pound notes into the drawer and quickly did the math in his head of her change, before thrusting it happily towards her. “Right, Rose. I’ll have that latte right out for you if you want to wait on the other side of the counter. Thanks.”

“No, thank you,” she said sincerely. “Are you sure you’re alright?” she asked, her eyes holding deep concern and her lips pursing slightly. “Maybe you should get some ice. It looks really red, mate.”

“It’s really fine,” he told her again, before turning on his heel and silently kicking himself for the embarrassment he caused himself. What was he playing at? He was behaving like a school boy with his first crush. Just ask her out- just

“Excuse me?” came a snide voice from behind him. “If you’re quite done flirting with that woman, I’d like to use this coupon.”

“I’ll be with you in just a mo’,” he promised, while shuddering internally at the word ‘coupon’. Coupons were more trouble than they were worth, and he usually ended up getting frustrated and giving up at any attempt to reason with the customer.

John quickly started steaming the milk required for Rose’s latte and poured the coffee into a to-go cup he hastily labeled with her name on it, scrawling a tiny smiley face on her cup before shaking his head at his own stupidity and crossing it out in a mad scribble.

He poured the steamed milk into the cup and set it down in front of her patient, smiling face. He was about to say something else before the woman at the register cleared her throat impatiently, grating on his nerves. With a shrug of his shoulder and a mumbled “Sorry”, he turned his attention away from her and towards the coupon lady.

With the best smile he could muster, John asked, “What is the coupon, ma’am?”

She thrust a crumpled, water stained, and slightly torn piece of paper in his face so close to him that his eyes crossed trying to read what it said. Her hand brushed against his injured nose, and he had to breath deeply to keep himself from cursing out loud. He gently reached up to grab the paper and move it to a reasonable distance to read it, only to wonder who he had pissed off for this woman to be trying to use a two years past expiration date coupon.

“Ma’am,” he said as politely as he could, “I’m afraid I can’t accept this.”

“Why not?” she roared. “I bet if I was that young blonde woman you would have accepted it!” She sniffed, her nose upturned in the air.

“Actually,” John said calmly. “I wouldn’t. It’s two years past expiration.”

“Well, that’s hardly my fault is it?” she continued with a huff. “Didn’t know you existed, did I, until just last week?”

“Be that as it may, I can’t take it.” John placed it onto the counter top. “But, I would be happy to make you a coffee.”

“I don’t want it if it’s not free!” she shouted. “Where is your manager? Let me speak to him!”

“My manager would tell you the same thing,” he told her. “He isn’t in right now.”

“What sort of place is he running here?!” she demanded. “Leaving a man like you in charge of his business while he’s off galivanting, no doubt-”

It was here John Noble lost his temper, and spent the next thirty minutes in heated debate that he knew would probably get them a bloody awful Yelp review. Stupid technology. By the time the lady had left, Rose was gone.

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