…Could be arranged.🖤🏴☠️
a guide by edward “blackbeard” teach
inspired by @forpiratereasons’ post
(via earlgreytea68)
“Out?” Steve looked quizzically up at Bucky, a crease furrowing his brow as he considered the proposition. At this time of day they were usually both beat, Bucky because he worked hard all day and Steve because… well, Steve didn’t have to do anything to be beat after the day. Plus they really didn’t have the money; even the change jangling in their pockets would have to go towards food or rent eventually.
Still, Steve looked at the hopeful expression on his best friend’s face and knew he’d already lost the battle. Bucky did so much for them, for him, and if he wanted to spend his evening chasing skirts, Steve couldn’t deny him the pleasure.
He could see the way the evening would play out, even before it started. They’d have a few beers and before too long a pretty girl would be hauling Bucky out on the dance floor by his collar, ignoring any feeble protests he made entirely for Steve’s benefit. Steve would spend the rest of his night perched on a stool, watching his friend pass from pretty blonde to pretty brunette to pretty redhead, until one of the ladies won the jackpot and steered Bucky away from the leering public eye. Or, if Steve was really lucky, Bucky would come back to him, red-cheeked and grinning, and sling an arm around Steve’s shoulder as he steered them both home.
Either way, it wasn’t something Steve would say no to. He liked watching Bucky in his element, even if it twisted him jealous in all kinds of ways.
“Sure, Buck,” he replied. “Where d’you wanna go?”
Bucky grinned. Steve was the most stubborn person he knew and he was a little surprised at how quick he had agreed. Bucky firmly pushed down his guilt (they were barely scraping by, they needed this money, Steve should be taking it easy…) and considered the question Steve had asked.
“I think Mulvaneys. If George is working, we can get a few for free.” He grinned. They had the best dames there too. The girls who frequented that particular establishment were a bit more friendly, a little less inclined to be all proper. Bucky wasn’t sure why, but he felt that was exactly what he needed tonight.
Bucky noticed that he was walking a bit faster and tried to unobtrusively slow his pace to keep up with Steve.
“Ya know, I got a good feeling about tonight. I think you’re gonna get lucky.” He threw a teasing wink at Steve.
“What ya think? Think there might be a girl there up to your standards?”
The eye-roll came almost before Bucky had finished the question, saving Steve from an inevitable blush at Bucky’s wink. They had this conversation before every evening they spent out, their respective lines well-worn and almost comfortable. “It’s not my standards that need to be met,” he replied, adjusting the shoulder strap on his satchel as they kicked down the sidewalk. “Not too many girls lining up to do the Charleston with a guy shorter than them in stocking feet.” Shorter, and tinier, and looking like a step too quick might bench him for the rest of the evening.
It might, too. Steve knew the dances, but only because Bucky’d always come home, eager about the newest craze, and drag Steve to his feet to be his partner around their small living room. Bucky always led, though. Steve wasn’t sure he’d know what to do if a girl let him get close enough to take her in his arms. Wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know, either. It was easier to let Bucky take the lead, swing him around the room until they were both out of breath from laughing.
“’Sides, you’ll be so busy fighting them off with a stick that I might have to save you for once,” Steve teased with a rueful smile. “I gotta stay alert so I can have your back.”
(via dazeofseptember)
| Friend: | Are you okay? |
|---|---|
| Me: | of course |
| Friend: | are you lying? |
| Me: | of course |
“Work was fine, Steve. Gotta tell ya, pal, was enjoying the walk home until I had to rescue your sorry ass.” Bucky slid his eyes over Steve, trying to covertly check that he was okay. He knew Steve would get mad if he knew that Bucky was worried about him, but he couldn’t help it. Worrying about Steve was second nature.
They walked slowly towards home. Bucky noticed he kept drifting closer to Steve and forcibly made himself keep his distance. He also tried not think too hard about why kept drifting closer.
“Let’s go out.” Bucky was a bit startled to realize it was him who had spoken. Where had that come from? He knew that they couldn’t really afford it, but the more he thought about it, the better it seemed. Maybe it would lift this weird mood.
“Out?” Steve looked quizzically up at Bucky, a crease furrowing his brow as he considered the proposition. At this time of day they were usually both beat, Bucky because he worked hard all day and Steve because… well, Steve didn’t have to do anything to be beat after the day. Plus they really didn’t have the money; even the change jangling in their pockets would have to go towards food or rent eventually.
Still, Steve looked at the hopeful expression on his best friend’s face and knew he’d already lost the battle. Bucky did so much for them, for him, and if he wanted to spend his evening chasing skirts, Steve couldn’t deny him the pleasure.
He could see the way the evening would play out, even before it started. They’d have a few beers and before too long a pretty girl would be hauling Bucky out on the dance floor by his collar, ignoring any feeble protests he made entirely for Steve’s benefit. Steve would spend the rest of his night perched on a stool, watching his friend pass from pretty blonde to pretty brunette to pretty redhead, until one of the ladies won the jackpot and steered Bucky away from the leering public eye. Or, if Steve was really lucky, Bucky would come back to him, red-cheeked and grinning, and sling an arm around Steve’s shoulder as he steered them both home.
Either way, it wasn’t something Steve would say no to. He liked watching Bucky in his element, even if it twisted him jealous in all kinds of ways.
“Sure, Buck,” he replied. “Where d'you wanna go?”
(via dazeofseptember)
The (Fictional) Town of Diablo Lake, WA
The sound of the lock turning was heard before the door opened to reveal Chris, looking pale and exhausted.
“Thanks,” he said softly, in his bell-like voice. “Spaghetti is good.” He gave Ned a wan smile. “Am I to eat this in my room alone…?” The pools of blue-green that were his eyes spoke of a lingering fear that needed soothing.
He opened the door a little wider as if in invitation. The room did seem incredibly dark and barren, especially for someone who, although presently damaged and weak, clearly had a bright, colorful soul that longed to connect with others on so many levels.
“If you eat with me, I promise to give you a fashion show afterwards.” He offered a small smile. “I haven’t gone through any of the stuff you guys bought for me yet.”
True to his word, the bag of clothing, along with the various toiletries, sat in the corner of the room untouched.
Ned returned the weak smile and entered the room, kicking the door gently shut with his foot before crossing the room and setting the plates on the bedside table. “It’s a deal.” He handed Chris a fork and sat down on a spindly chair, taking up his own plate.
He twirled the noodles around his fork, trying to focus on the kid in front of him. He needed to remind himself that this wasn’t just about Rory. There were other good people in this town who needed help, whether they knew it or not. Chris was one of them. Darren was another. A flash of renewed worry streaked through his mind as he thought about the boy across town.
Try as he might to focus his attention elsewhere, he kept thinking about Rory, brooding in the attic. Ned couldn’t save him. If there was anything he should have learned by now, he couldn’t really save anyone. If Rory wanted to stay here and rot, it was really up to him. That was what Ned was trying to tell himself, anyway.
He gave a slight shake of his head and stuffed a huge bite in his mouth. “Good?” he asked around the mouthful, nodding towards Chris’ own plate. “How are you feeling?”
Everybody likes a good comeback || BBC’s Sherlock (pre-series 3)
John let out a frustrated huff when his book was knocked out of his hands and onto the floor by Sherlock’s jab with the laptop. With the computer where it was, he didn’t have the option of retrieving the fallen book right away, so he let go of the irritation with a shake of his head. There was nothing for it at the moment.
“Well, I suppose Moriarty is something of an exotic animal himself. Dangerous, by all means, at any rate." With a quirked brow, John looked at what Sherlock was showing him.
"Sherlock, are you suggesting that we go in there today and sit waiting for hours until nightfall?” John did not sound pleased.
Sherlock turned to face John, his brow furrowed in a mixture of surprise and irritation. “Do you have another suggestion? We can hardly sit here and hope that they’ll give a generous enough tell that we’ll be able to see it from the cameras. I need to be there, to evaluate the situation in person."
He shut the laptop and set it on the ground, turning to sit cross-legged on the couch facing John. "If you prefer I can go in alone and call you once I’ve sussed it out.”
The (Fictional) Town of Diablo Lake, WA
Rory was sitting cross-legged in the far corner of the room. It was incredibly dark— the only source of illumination in the cavernous space consisting of the blue light from his laptop screen which bathed over his face and the glowing Apple logo on the back of it.
He looked up over the screen, a pair of large, thick-framed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose casting dark shadows across his brow that looked like deep, angry frown lines. The square shaped reflection of the screen off of the lenses also kept Ned from seeing the expression in Rory’s eyes, but that was probably fair since the only part of Ned that Rory could see was a shadowy form in silhouette by the light coming up from the hallway below.
“I don’t do it for any benefit, Ned. It’s just something I have to do,” Rory scoffed, lifting his chin haughtily. “There is no point to my work because life has no point. It’s just a compulsion like anything else.”
"Why did you pursue me up here? Did you come to lecture me again about how I’m being unfair to someone who is dead by choosing to live my life the way I, the one who is alive, think it best to live?”
He slammed down the lid of the laptop and the darkness flooded in. He could be heard standing up.
"Do you think that what you said down there was a revelation that I should have thanked you for Ned? It wasn’t. You shouldn’t go around preaching like you’re on some high horse and you know the secrets of the world. Sometimes people just need to suffer and nobody, not Jude and not you, can change that. Nor is it your place. I have a right to my penance because I’m the one who has to bear it.
Regardless of whatever the fuck is in this house, I do not believe in ghosts and spirits and an after life. When it’s over it’s fucking over. You cease to exist and you cease to influence what’s still here. I’m the one who has had to keep living. She’s not here. She’s gone. She doesn’t have a fucking say in anything anymore. Just because she died doesn’t mean she gets to steal my life to live the way she would have.
And you know what? The pain has its uses. Do you think I would have written twelve books and touched the lives that I’ve touched otherwise? No. My writing comes from the pain and that’s why it’s effective. So maybe…just maybe…if there is a point, that is the point. To touch other people’s lives while they’re still here.”
Rory’s voice was getting closer. He knew this attic inside and out and could move through it in inky blackness with no problem.
"Wanna know a little secret I know about the universe?” He paused, though wasn’t really waiting for an answer. “Forgiveness can be the worst punishment of all. It ranks right up there with happiness. I can’t imagine anything shittier than a perfect, happy, boring life. So by all means, let’s get you the hell out of here so you can go chase the happy little rainbow and I can get back to the misery of my loneliness.”
As soon as the final word had left his mouth, Rory regretted it. He hadn’t intended to admit so much. He snorted and went back to his laptop, sat back down on the floor, and fired it up again.
"…Just go feed the kid and let me know when you’re ready to start working on the fucking wine cellar.”
Ned felt his mouth pop open, ready for a sharp retort to come bursting out, but suddenly he didn’t have the energy. It was pointless. It would have been pointless trying to prove to Rory that life was for the living even in a normal situation, but here… well, everything was turned on its head. Making it through the night was questionable enough. Besides, who was he in the grand scheme of Rory’s life? A drifter, nothing more than a stranger stuck between point A and point B. He sighed and turned back down the ladder.
Once outside Chris’ room he grabbed the plates and, balancing them precariously, knocked on the door. “Dinner,” he said as he pushed it open, his voice sounding dull to his own ears. “Hope you like spaghetti. And don’t worry, he was never alone with the food, so no poison here.”
Why is there not a Riley Poole Fandom?
I mean, come on!
not only is he extremely attractive…
he’s practically TUMBLR…
can we give him his own fandom? seriously!
I love you Riley Poole…
Cafe Awakenings || Grantaire, Enjolras - Les Miserables
If he was bothered by the challenge Grantaire was presenting, Enjolras made absolutely no indication of it.
“Words are more dangerous than any direct form of violence. The seeds sewn by words into fertile soil become the inspiration for action. Winning hearts and minds with symbolic — ideologic — demonstrations is all that is needed. All the gold in the world is worth nothing if your citizens do not work to produce your food or produce your goods. If your citizens abandon your nation and head for the country where the lands are free and the resources plentiful, what are you going to do? Yes, war is inevitable, but it is one the people will win, armed with the kinds of weapons and tactics birthed by a determined ingenuity which can only be brought about by ideals. Ideals last where men do not and even iron is vulnerable to the ceaseless flow of water. Look at what those who call themselves Americans have done with their strength of their ideals!”
Enjolras gave a knowing smile. “And yet… even if it is futile —although I do not believe it is— you have admitted yourself that there will be beauty in it. And that is precisely why you, mon ami, will be drawn to it.”
He leveled his fierce, blue-eyed gaze on Grantaire as if he were studying his very soul.
“I tell you, that thing within you, which you seek to drown in wine and salve with beauty, will be eradicated only when you set yourself to a higher purpose.”
Enjolras stepped closer, shattering the distance between them, leaned in, and extended a hand toward Grantaire in comradeship. “—Join, us, friend. Join us with your cynicism and your secret pain. Even if you simply give us the gift of your doubt, you will be welcomed.”
He was ready with more words to greet hesitation or incredulity: “If nothing else, you may capture, with your artistry, the portraits of our group as we are before we descend into our futile battle.”
The blonde-haired fiend laughed briefly before the levity was abruptly gone from his expression and his voice came in a thicker, quieter tone: ”But if not for any one or any thing else… then for me. Come to be a part of this because I have asked it of you.”
The words were fully loaded, and there was an unnamable heat in his eyes, but Enjolras gave no further hint as to the deeper message behind this delivery, let alone did he give any clue as to its sincerity.
Grantaire’s mouth grew dry at Enjolras’ words, particularly the last - he felt sure he had never needed a drink so much as at this moment. Already he felt this man casting hooks that caught deep in his skin, drawing him inexorably closer, making it impossible to free himself. He had lingered too long at this man’s side. It was too late to escape now.
This was not his place. He had never belonged with other people, not truly. He was quick to alienate, quick to offend, and those who did not leave, he left sooner rather than later. But he was an addict as well, and this man’s words, say nothing of his gazes, were too sweet to not continue sipping.
Still, he could not leave the impression he was easily wooed. Grantaire’s eyes shifted restlessly away from the penetrating blue gaze, seeking out the lapping waves of the riverbank, seeming to consider the offer set before him. His nonchalance was not as convincing as he would have liked. After several moments he gave a small smile, turned his eyes back towards Enjolras, and took the proffered hand. “I will join you, if you wish it,” he said begrudgingly. “I can no more turn my eyes from your lost cause than I can from a cart crash in the street. Perhaps it will do you good to hear other words beyond your own echoed back at you.” His mouth split into a crooked grin. “You will regret your request, my friend. I seldom keep my tongue to myself.”
The (Fictional) Town of Diablo Lake, WA
Ned knew a thing or two about empathizing. Coming home from deployment was rough on everyone, no exceptions, and Ned’s guilt had chewed him up, spit him out, and left him with a lot of broken pieces of his life. He couldn’t stop dwelling on the lives he’d changed…
Ned stared after Rory, his mouth slightly agape. It was astonishing, this amount of self-destruction. After staring and scratching his head for a few more minutes, he turned back to the stove and began plating dinner. He slammed a few drawers and cabinets as he served up the noodles and sauce, grabbing the plates and heading upstairs to Chris’ room.
As he stood in front of Chris’ room, poised to knock, he turned to face down the hall. The hatch door to the attic was open, the silence from the hole in the ceiling dangerous and oppressive. Impulsively, he set the plates down on the floor outside Chris’ door and turned down the hall.
He climbed up the ladder, poking his head up before crowding in. “What is the point of this all, then? Why let us stay here? For that matter, what is the point of your life’s work?” His voice rose at this last sentence. “You aren’t even living a life! You sit here locked away, working on your ‘life’s work,’ but what benefit are you getting from it? Why haven’t you just given up?! ”
The (Fictional) Town of Diablo Lake, WA
Ned knew a thing or two about empathizing. Coming home from deployment was rough on everyone, no exceptions, and Ned’s guilt had chewed him up, spit him out, and left him with a lot of broken pieces of his life. He couldn’t stop dwelling on the lives he’d changed…
Ned stared after Rory, his mouth slightly agape. It was astonishing, this amount of self-destruction. After staring and scratching his head for a few more minutes, he turned back to the stove and began plating dinner. He slammed a few drawers and cabinets as he served up the noodles and sauce, grabbing the plates and heading upstairs to Chris’ room.
As he stood in front of Chris’ room, poised to knock, he turned to face down the hall. The hatch door to the attic was open, the silence from the hole in the ceiling dangerous and oppressive. Impulsively, he set the plates down on the floor outside Chris’ door and turned down the hall.
He climbed up the ladder, poking his head up before crowding in. “What is the point of this all, then? Why let us stay here? For that matter, what is the point of your life’s work?” His voice rose at this last sentence. “You aren’t even living a life! You sit here locked away, working on your ‘life’s work,’ but what benefit are you getting from it? Why haven’t you just given up?! ”