"Ah, maybe we should take off our clothes...? " (agency-saihara)
—Sabía que tu curiosidad sería más fuerte que tu pudor, pero no imaginé que llegarías a mi en un momento como este –tenía pareja, ¿no? ¿O acaso pretendía hacer de aquel evento un secreto? Bueno, en todo caso sería como la travesura de alguien que ha decidido experimentar el placer de romper las reglas, no iba a desaprovecharlo —. Kukuku, no permitiré que esa determinación se desperdicie, así que puedes dejar de preocuparte. Si es lo que deseas, te enseñaré que aun existen miles de puertas para ti con nuevos
—¡Saihara-kun, me pregunto qué tipo de belleza me mostrarás esta vez! –sacó unas cuerdas y el resto fue historia…
The carriage rolls along a bumpy, overgrown road and up across a bridge over the river Hurt. As it approaches, Hurtfew Abbey transforms from a distant blob into a square, stately house. Lascelles takes off his hat to lean out of the small carriage window for a better look, misting his hair in fine droplets of rain. It is a wet, grey morning, the early sun shrouded in heavy clouds, but he can see no candles in the windows, no immediate indication of life within. Drooping, sad apple trees line the river and by the looks of it, the lawn has not been tended to within months.
He withdraws back into the carriage, unselfconscious, for once, of the boyish enthusiasm in his smile. The company is not rarefied. There is his lover, the captain; up on the driver’s seat is Arthur, his footman, who has proved himself as impassive and efficient as ever on their days’ journey to York; and with them in the carriage sits the fidgety Dr Reed, the captain’s favoured companion for dangerous ventures. Lascelles has never paid a great deal of attention to Reed, allowing his first impressions of the man to remain the last. Merivel trusts him, and that is sufficient.
One week earlier, Lascelles had a visit from Davey, the lamented Mr Norrell’s footman, whose loyalty he had purchased soon after the magician had been lost in Faerie. Davey had had a message from Norrell’s old butler, who was anxious for the house to come under new ownership. No servants, not even the gardener, had dared step on the grounds of Hurtfew in the weeks since Norrell’s death had been made public. The house was haunted, they said, and now going to seed, with all its fine old furniture left to moths and worms. Lascelles’s first thought, naturally, was for the books.
Mr Norrell’s books of magic have value beyond reckoning. It has long been his ambition to find them and have them reprinted for his own private collection. They will be difficult to get to, he knows, for the old man would not have left them without some kind of magical protection, but it is certainly worth trying. The books may technically belong to Mr Strange now, but who could blame Lascelles for wanting to rescue them from decay? Should Mr Segundus and his key be located, Lascelles will place them, with all due reverence, with their brothers in the library in Hanover-square.
As for the stories of hauntings, Lascelles is inclined to consider them nonsense, but one does not take tea with a fairy without learning to be at least a little cautious. In his coat pockets, he carries iron medallions and his duelling pistols. In the inside pocket of his jacket there are two vials of ointments from the collection of Miss Volkova, a witch who loved him once and left him her key when she left England. In his boot, encased in a hidden leather sheet, is a knife edged with silver that he purchased specifically for the journey. One never knows. And, of course, he brought Merivel. He turns his smile towards the captain.
Anneliese Morgan been full of bubbles ready to burst out with contained excitement from the moment she’d woken up. The effect of which had cast beyond herself in the form of hidden smiles from her mother while they’d gone to breakfast in the city before heading to the boutique on 5th to pick up the dress she’d rented for the weekend. It was a phrase she could hardly believe she could think let alone be true but true it was. With the savviness of Jakub and her mother’s generous limit the teen could honestly say she was a princess clad in designer clothes if only for a night.
Of all the places for her to be on a Thursday night, she really didn’t expect to be here, to be in the somewhat packed local bar. But she was really having an issue with saying no to her best friends lately, especially after she’d been blowing them off with no valid reason.
“You know what, Clarke,” It hadn’t taken more than three shots to already get Raven’s words slurring. And it was always so amusing to see drunk Raven interacting with people, especially with the general public.
Blue eyes narrowed and she smirked. “No, but you’re going to tell me. I guarantee you are,” She could see Octavia giggling out of the corner of her eye, already feeling her tiny friend beginning to lose her balance.
She really loved her friends, but she tended to avoid these kinds of situations. She turned into a whole different person when she drank, typically, and it’s why she didn’t like doing it in bars, especially not with this many strangers around. Beautiful strangers, handsome strangers, hot strangers. She took a breath and licked her lips, eyes focusing on Raven again.
“You.. Clarke Grrrrrriffin, should get us another round of drinks.” Raven concluded with a very large nod. But she paused for a moment and held up her hand. “And shots.”
Before Clarke could even get another word in, Octavia, who was comfortably tipsy but not nearly as blitzed as Raven clearly was already, shook her head. “You need water, honey,” She encouraged Raven, coming around closer to her and wrapping an arm around her waist.
“Tequila is water, sorta,” Raven mumbled, jutting her bottom lip out into a soft pout as Octavia pushed hair out of her face.
“Sure it is. Clarke’s gonna get you that shot, okay?” She flashed Clarke half a smile and waved for her to go get drinks, something, anything.
“I’m going, I’m going.” Clarke held up her hands in defense, turning to head towards the bar. It was less packed where they were hanging around and more packed towards the bar area. She squeezed her way through and finally got to the counter, making sure to lean over a little to expose the perfect amount of cleavage. It always worked when she was out and needed to grab attention quickly, especially in a setting like this one.
When the bartender turned and caught her eye, he slid down her way and tilted his head up. “What can I get for ya, Mami?” He asked, flashing her a bright toothy grin.
She fluttered her eyes, clearly just not used to being called Mami. But she let it slide. “Three shots of vodka, and a glass of ice water, thank you.” She replied and he nodded, pouring out the shots and the water. She handed over cash and took one of the three shots before she even left the bar. She let the clear liquid burn a path down her throat and she shook her face a little, pressing her tongue against each cheek before she turned around and started to venture back towards Raven and Octavia.
Just as she fixated on her friends and lifted the two remaining shots and the glass of water to avoid spillage, someone bumped into her. The two shots half spilled, trickling down her arm and immediately soaking a good portion of her red tank top. But the water completely spilled onto the woman next to her, the one that was already seated at the bar and people had kind to of begun to clear out from around her, even more so now that water had been spilled. And not just any water but cold water.
“Oh my gosh, I am SO sorry!” Clarke swallowed thickly and poured the remaining vodka into one shot glass, taking it quickly. She stepped closer to the bar and reached for some nearby napkins, offering some to the woman. “Really, I’m sorry. It’s just water, vodka’s on me.” She reassured. “I uh.. let me buy you a drink, to make up for it?”
Tim gulped from where he was perched on the edge of a five story building across from the Gotham City Museum. Taking a deep breath, he slowly scanned the area; relishing the last few moments before committing his first solo crime. He stood tall, fingers drumming against his thighs in nervous anticipation. He shut his eyes and gave himself moment to simply feel. To feel the wind hitting his flushed cheeks, the concrete building trembling beneath him, and to feel his legs tense as they readied themselves for action. When his eyes opened again, he leapt, letting his body fall through the air with almost careless abandon.
A few seconds later, he landed softly on the roof of the museum and ran over to the skylight. After quickly setting up his rope and gear, he unlocked a panel and lowered himself to the ground. Being careful not to set off any alarms, Tim quickly glanced around.
‘Basic security system. Not many triggers. Have to be careful once I get closer to the displays, though.’ He paused upon noticing a small red light in the corner of his eye. ‘Two cameras to the left and three on my right,’ he thought as he smirked and stared straight into one. It wasn’t as if he needed to hide anyway. Behind the mask and goggles, no one knew who Stray was. No one outside of Catwoman and the teen himself, of course.
After locating his target-a nearly priceless ancient jewel that was recently recovered after being lost for centuries- he ran over to it, being sure to jump over or disable any triggers he noticed. Tim let out a small sigh of relief. As he reached out to remove the glass the jewel was protected by, a loud, blaring alarm rang throughout the building. Panicked, Stray glanced around to find what set off the alarms.
“Shit,” he cursed angrily after spotting the two small round sensors on either side of the long glass columns. “Now?! They chose now to install new motion sensors. Just my luck,” he grumbled angrily. Having decided not to spend his time whining and waiting for the authorities to catch him, Tim hurriedly smashed the glass and grabbed the jewel. He ran back over to the rope to quickly make his escape.
The fog blurs the edges of rooftops and turns street-lamps into beacons on the day Thomas is to meet with Alexander Plume. Caligula’s coffee-house has thrown open its shutters, allowing golden light to call wanderers in to partake of their comfortable benches and overpriced coffee, and it seems to be working a treat.
The gallery closed early, on account of the fog, and so Thomas is early for his meeting. He squeezes through the crowd, dodging the tobacco breath of a Working-Man Lyricist and exchanging nods with the Amorous Fairy Illustrator. He orders a coffee, half-milk, and goes in search of a free table, but oh, there is the Bohemian Sculptress and her new find, and she is already waving him over…
He tries his best to keep an eye on the door for the Night-Stalking Tomb-Colonist, but the Sculptress is a fascinating woman, if only for her layers of pretense and subterfuge, and her young companion is still fresh full of stories of the Surface, and Thomas soon finds himself absorbed.
Dressing room #3 at Bramlidge & Sons is not as sizeable as dressing rooms #1 and #2, but it does have three mirrors and just enough room for Mr Trilling and the captain to stand comfortably. The larger rooms are for important clients, and Lascelles has quietly assured Mr Trilling that in this case, the client is not important.
Lascelles himself stands in the hallway outside the fitting room, jotting notes and ideas down in his notebook. The captain is in good hands and does not need his attention. Trilling is an excellent tailor, with a whiny nasal voice, a tendency to hover, and a most objectionable moustache–but such flaws, he feels, ought to be lost on a man whose head is half sea-creature.
(Seriously, Charlie, Nik, Liz, Erin? and Ezra if you’re up for it just post. :D)
Anna walked into the pub once she’d begun to see the streets of the small town begin to trickle with more and more teenagers who had made their descent from the castle for their free day. She had no idea how busy the pub would get or if the person she was hoping to see would even show there. She’d heard stories that suggested it was one of the hot spots in Hogsmeade for the students to hang out and even as she was lead to her seat by a friendly barmaid the students were making their way in for a late breakfast or possibly an early lunch.
Those were the words that had been said. He was relapsing. He was going through a state of mind psychologically, emotionally and psychically that was unhealthy. It was a continuous spiral in which he could not seem to get out of at the moment and therefore through an intervention it had been decided, without his acceptance or confirmation that a group of his close friends from his special inner circle would take it in turns looking after him. They were looking after him one at a time so he did not make the mistake of attempting suicide again. Again.
“If y’don’t leave I’ll hurt you. ‘N I don’t care, pal, I don’t care. I’ll hurt you ‘n I’ll do what I like to me because this is my goddamn life, I ain’t a child anymore.” A pause. Violent gestures with his hands towards the other as he stood looking from the other to out the window, to anywhere he could, but never settling his sight upon the other for too long.”I don’t need your goddamn pitiful stares ‘n babysittin’ motives.”
Scant, heavy raindrops splattered on the pavement, shattering rainbow patterns of streetlight on spilled petrol. Henry Lascelles curled his palm around a cigarette, lit it and sucked in the blessed nicotine. His Italian leather shoes struck the pavement at a steady, purposeful clip.
He had been following the soldier for the last few blocks. The man was slight, his back straight as an arrow, his uniform neat as a pin, and yet Lascelles would have known that face anywhere. He had cursed it often enough, imagined it bloodied and bruised under his fists. It was impossible that he should be here, in this age, but then so was Lascelles; so were most things that had happened to him in the past, oh, twelve decades or so.
He was not entirely clear on what he intended to do or say when he caught up to the man. Hello, do you remember me? We hated each other once. Perhaps he would not be recognized. Faerie had not aged his body, but it had ruined him nonetheless. His once handsome face was sallow, and underneath his fine coat he was thinner than ever.
The man stopped at a shadowy corner of the street. A few more strides brought them together. Lascelles stopped under a streetlight, his cigarette held high between gloved fingers, and smiled directly at the man.
“Dreadful weather tonight, isn’t it? Excuse me, but you are Childermass, aren’t you?”
Todo había comenzado más temprano, con una camisa extraviada. Su camisa favorita extraviada, nada menos. Después de revisar minuciosamente su guardarropas entero (lo cual era decir bastante, teniendo en cuenta lo enorme que era su guardarropas), resultaba evidente que la prenda no estaba allí. Tampoco estaba entre la pila de ropa para lavar (que inspeccionó solo después de ponerse unos guantes y mascarilla porque, eww), por lo que solo una opción posible restaba: de alguna forma, su camisa había ido a parar por accidente entre la ropa de sus hermanos. Considerando que la prenda podía estar en el armario de cualquiera de los cinco, sería tedioso (y peligroso) tener que andar buscando entre las cosas de cada uno… Pero no confiaba en las respuestas que los otros le darían si preguntaba si de casualidad alguien la había visto, así que estaba dispuesto a hacerlo de todos modos. La camisa era importante, después de todo, pues era la única que resaltaba tanto su atractivo.
Eligiendo lo que creyó sería el peor de los males por ser probablemente el más ordenado, empezó por el guardarropas de Choromatsu. Ni dos minutos pasaron hasta que se olvidó por completo de su camisa, mirando con absoluto horror la ropa frente a sí. Sabía que el tercer hermano necesitaba una intervención, pero no tenía idea de que fuera algo tan urgente. Una cosa le quedaba en claro: estaba en sus manos salvarlo antes de que su sentido de la moda alcanzara el nivel Karamatsu y ya no hubiera vuelta atrás. No iba a perder otro hermano.
—¡Choromatsu-niisan! —llamó, tomando una prenda y saliendo rápidamente de la habitación para buscarlo, ahora con otra cosa mucho más importante que su camisa en mente. Cuando lo encontró, sacudió la prenda que lo ofendía a un nivel personal (una abominable camisa a cuadros, perfecta para alguien de alrededor de 80 años) en el rostro del mayor, de manera acusadora —Esto ha ido demasiado lejos. Nos vamos de compras ahora.
Blaine had been feeling terrible lately. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. It had been happening for about two weeks now and he thought that it was the flu at first. He’d gotten medicine for it but it hadn’t worked. Kurt had been texting him and Blaine told him that they couldn’t meet up because he was sick but Kurt wasn’t buying it. Granted, Blaine still had been going into work, only having to stop a few times to go into the bathroom and throw up. He’d gotten a talk from his manager about the fact that he kept running in and out of the bathroom throughout his shift. He’d been off for a few days since then because she had made him until he got better. He’d gone in that day only to be sent home again because of how he looked. Instead of going back to his place, he went to Kurt’s. He was standing outside the door, hands shoved in his pockets. Taking a breath, he took one out and knocked on the door, waiting for Kurt to answer.
Having had the afternoon off, and after finding out about those open auditions at the Castro Theater, Kurt headed back home in a hurry, wanting to be there before Dave got back from his work. Giving the kind of talent the producers at the Castro were searching for, Kurt knew Dave was a shoe in that play, since Kurt had already heard Dave singing more than on one ocasion, and he knew he could do it. He prepared a cup of hot lemonade as he changed into something more comfortable, a pair of yoga pants and a blue hoodie, then after the beverage was done he let it rest on the counter, since it had to be drank warm and with a touch of honey. He was excited about what was going on, wanting nothing more than for the world to see how amazingly talented his boyfriend was.
It was the first day back at school and she knew that Quinn was nervous, she was nervous too. she got them up early, showered and dried her off. She was going to give Quinn the option of diaper or no diaper, “What do you want to do? The choice is yours, if you think you can use the bathroom like a big girl, we can get your underwear out.” She placed a kiss on her lips and smiled.
“You left again.” Those words that fell from his lips were not out of the ordinary. He should have been used to it by now. Lately his life had not been going so smoothly, he was getting into arguments, fights, which did not become unordinary but moreso unpredictable because of his undiagnosed bipolar which would lead him into mood swings and even bouts of depression. However, the one person he appeared to rely on, and be drawn too, kept leaving. He wasn’t sure if the other was aware of his dependence on them because he was such a dominant, powerful and iconic human being - each time he entered a room, tension would follow like a shadow. Yet he needed the other. Perhaps more than they acknowledged. “You keep leavin’.” He grumbled this sentence, under his breath, less loud. Exhausted. Feeling he was giving up hope. “All ya have t’do is stay by my side ‘n you keep goddamn leaving. Nearly every second of every single day.”
How she’d managed to, Santana had no idea, but somehow she’d landed a position at a jewelry store in the middle of the city. She’d made what seemed like a million calls to different stores, to hear if they needed help and when she was about to give up, she’d gotten the phone call. To say that she was excited would be an understatement, and she could honestly not wait to get started. Sure, it would be a lot different from what she had been used to, but without a doubt better. It would feel weird to have coworkers, but Santana was excited to meet new people. Friends didn’t come easily when you worked on the streets, and though she was known among a large group of people – Santana knew that she couldn’t trust a single one of them. All she had was Dani, and even though her girlfriend meant the world to her, she needed someone else to talk to at times.
Dressed in a red dress that stopped right above her knee, a pair of heels, and a black blazer she’d snatched from Dani’s side of the closet, Santana twirled around in front of her girlfriend. “So, what do you think?” She gestured to the clothes and bit her lip in anticipation. “Is it too much? I mean the store seemed pretty fancy and shit and I want to fit in.“
Ever since he had returned from the Army, returned from the War it had been plagued with a thousand thoughts of negativity, of psychological disturbance. He had been gambling, drinking too much and overall, he had somehow gotten a broad to follow him through his ways of life. He had flirted with her, drunk, in a bar and the next thing he knew, he had watched her packing her suitcase with the belief that they were together, a relationship, a partnership. She was ditzy. She was not the smartest of women but he knew she had a kind heart too easily led. Far too much. He had taken advantage of that and now, as he woke up, on another early dawn, of another drunken night, he sobered up for these occasional few hours before he would start drinking again. And again. And again. And again. Yet he was only ever kind to this woman when he was drunk. When he was intoxicated.