heavy knits

Snowstorm

This was supposed to be posted earlier in the week but I just now managed to finish it. Special thanks to @permanentcross for yelling at me to write it (and for not being mad at me for calling it Snowstorm - she’s cool with it). Let me know if you guys enjoy it! Much love, B xx

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Originally posted by trairicordielaschiena

Being stuck at the hotel during a snowstorm, having nothing to do except looking at each other’s faces, Harry’s bored out of his mind. So, while you watch some stupid tv show, he’s lying on his tummy, scrolling through his phone and you’re lying on him, cheek smushed against his bum, cause it’s why not? Even though the heating is on, the view of the city covered in white fluffy snow on your window is giving you chills and you yearn to be close to him but he’s too focused on his damn phone to pay attention to you. 

Tired of the silly TV show and of being ignored in order for him to scroll aimlessly through social media, even though he’s never posting anything, you sigh, moving your head to look up at him, your cheek smushed to his bum as you look at the back of his head. His hair is messy, curling at the ends and with no sunglasses to hold it back, you can truly appreciate just how long his hair has become over the past few months, his sweats are clinging to his long legs and the long sleeved t-shirt make his broad shoulders look even wider with the white fabric straining against them.

He looks good and warm and so cozy that all you want is to snuggle up to him and be close, share languid kisses that make your tummy flutter with butterflies and your toes curl when he presses closer. But he’s on his phone. And, even though your hand is pressing to his back, scratching lightly over his shirt and you’re very much resting against him, he shows no signs of letting go of the small piece of technology he holds so dearly in his hands any time soon.

You’ve tried everything already - calling his name, to which he only gave you a mumbled “hum?” and when you continued to speak, you were left with no response from him; you’ve tried pinching his sides but the boy has a brain of steel and when he’s invested in something like he is on his phone, it’s hard to break him away from it. You’ve tried turning up the volume on the TV to see if the movie playing in it would catch his attention and make him move you up to him for a cuddle while you both watch it but not even then had you managed to catch his eye and you were sick of it.

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Prompt for @lovelyluthor, ‘I’m always a hoe for “turtlenecks in the summer to cover up hickeys”’


If anyone asked her, Kim would stand by her words that it was all Trini’s fault. That is to say, she didn’t regret anything that had happened up until then, but the fact remained that the consequences were inconvenient, uncomfortable and altogether undesirable.

Kim was hot. Like, really hot. The fact that it was summer and Angel Grove was one day into the projected heatwave was only exacerbated by the fact that she was currently wearing a heavy, black knit turtleneck. In June.

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Someone to Stay - AU

Previous chapters

Chapter 2

Coffee felt anticlimactic, after the noise and pound of the club. The fluorescents highlighted the bright orange vinyl booths, making every spilled sugar grain on the table glow.

Claire sipped slowly, enjoying the scalding of her tongue. The whiskey buzz had been on the verge of turning into tipsiness, but before that could happen Claire had dragged Geillis out of the club and into the closest open diner she could see. 24 hour caffeine purveyors.

“Do you regret it?” Geillis watched Claire over the rim of her cup. “Not going backstage I mean.”

“No. You were very clear on what their true intentions were. Why?” Claire raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Not anymore.” G tilted her head towards the diner door behind Claire. The faint tinkle of a bell preceded the entrance and exit of customers.

The lounging server at the counter had her feet up on a stool, reading a magazine, but stood and grabbed a bunch of menus at the sound of the door. She dropped them just as fast and gasped.

Claire turned, and who should come through the door but James Fraser and the rest of The Clan. She couldn’t for the life of her remember all their names just then – her eyes were helplessly riveted on the tall man who smiled gently at the dumbfounded server and stooped to retrieve the fallen menus.

“Here you go.” James Fraser held them out to her – Laoghaire, read her tag. Claire and Geillis watched this encounter silently, while the men with James Fraser (could she stop thinking of his name like that?) waited patiently for the girl to react. She hadn’t, thus far. Her hands went to her flaming cheeks and her mouth fell open.

“You’re—they’re… you’re— “ Laoghaire stammered.

“Jamie. Pleased to meet ye.” Jamie put the menus on the counter once it seemed clear Laoghaire wasn’t quite up to the job at the moment. He extended a hand that was quickly taken in a death grip. Claire and Geillis exchanged amused glances.

“Oh my God, oh my God! It’s you! Here!” Laoghaire jumped up and down, still holding Jamie’s hand. He smiled good-naturedly and slowly extricated himself from her grip. “Could I have a picture?”

“Of course. Here, lads.” The men quickly surrounded them, subtly stepping in between Jamie and the girl. She pulled her mobile from her apron pocket and looked around wildly for someone to oblige.

“Would you mind?” Laoghaire finally shoved the phone at Geillis, who stood from the booth and held it up and snapped 3-4 pictures for good measure. As the flash went off, Claire caught Jamie’s eye, smiling at her and not for the picture. She allowed him a small smile in return, remembering certain invitations and talk of groupies.

“Thank you so much!” Laoghaire squealed. “Let me find you a table or do you prefer— “

“A table will be just fine,” Jamie interrupted. “Perhaps this one?” He pointed at the booth Claire and G were occupying.

Claire began to fume. The whole empty diner and he was seriously asking to have them booted? Rock star or no—

“May we join you ladies?” Jamie smiled disarmingly, running a hand through his hair. Behind the apparent nonchalance Claire detected a hint of nerves. “These are my mates, Rupert, William, Ian.” Each nodded and smiled in return.

“Sure!” Geillis grinned and moved down the seat. Claire followed suit more hesitantly, looking daggers at her friend. Jamie squeezed in next to her. Six to a booth was a slightly tight fit, but they managed somehow. “I’m Geillis, and this is Claire.”

The men (more boyish up close, including Jamie, Claire noted) turned to Laoghaire, still standing by breathlessly. Rupert, the drummer, winked at the girl. “Let’s have a keek at those menus then, shall we?”

Quarters were a bit cramped for flipping the laminated pages. Jamie couldn’t seem to help brushing Claire’s hands every time he ran a finger down the proffered items. Claire picked up her coffee cup only to discover it was empty.

“Can we get another?” Jamie gestured at the server, who scampered away for the pot.

“Thanks.” Claire smiled as her cup was topped off. Laoghaire ignored her, eyes only for Jamie.

The rest of the men ordered burgers, fry-ups, and more coffee. Laoghaire balanced the tray full of food and lingered eagerly by the side of the table.

“Could ye maybe leave the pot?” Jamie gave her a dazzling smile and she grinned back, setting the coffee down and backing away slowly, her eyes never leaving his.

“So.” Jamie forked some chips over to his plate, while Geillis flirted with the rest of the men—Claire focused on her cup like her life depended on it.

“So?”

“We asked you backstage at the pub.”

We?” Claire raised her eyebrow at him, and sipped. Two could play this game.

“Och, weel.” He ducked his head and the red strands tickled his forehead. “Not we, then. I asked ye backstage. Ye looked… intriguing.”

Claire glanced at Geillis. She was laughing raucously at something Rupert had said – no doubt something lecherous. The men’s conversation had faded into the background as Claire focused her attention on Jamie.

“I’m not a local. I’m visiting with my friend. I had…” She took a deep breath. “A bad experience in London. I needed to get away.” She didn’t understand the need to pour her troubles out for this stranger.

“What kind of bad experience?” Jamie’s heavy eyebrows knit together.

Claire shrugged, despondency settling briefly on her features. “Romantic, you could say.” She waved her hand dismissively, not willing to go into details at the moment. “How about you?”

“Nothing as bad as that,” Jamie smiled, making the corners of her own mouth lift ever so slightly. “We’re on tour, heading south. We’ve done Edinburgh, tomorrow’s Glasgow, then Newcastle and Leeds . Then Manchester, Liverpool, and Cambridge, and ending in London.”

“Sounds exhausting.” Claire sipped again. “And where’s home?”

“Scotland, obviously. Place called Lallybroch. Family farm, for generations and all that. Can’t wait to get back. You?”

“Based in London. I’m a nurse.”

She spoke of the hospital and her cozy flat. Of her childhood with wandering Uncle Lambert and her favorite bookshop. Of her longing for mornings when she could sleep in and her dislike for high heels. Of the way she drank her coffee and the most difficult medical case to ever cross her path.

He filled her in with the details of his large family – his sister Jenny, married to Ian their keyboard player and his nieces and nephews. How he had taught himself to play guitar in between farm chores. How his parents had encouraged him to pursue his dream of music and crowds who clapped and cheered. How he had found his band – his clan – in Ian the pianist, William the bassist, Rupert the drummer, and his uncle Murtagh as manager.

Two hours later, as Claire happened to glance at her watch, and still going strong at 3 AM. The food was gone and the whole coffee pot practically empty. One of the other men—Ian, Claire recalled—raised his hand for the check, glancing briefly at Jamie, who nodded. Laoghaire bounded over, paper slip in hand.

“No charge for you. On the house.” She smiled ingratiatingly at Jamie and thrust the check into Claire’s hand. “Two coffees, £2.40.”

“Och, I insist.” Jamie pulled a £50 out of his pocket and set it on the table.

“But that’s too much!” The girl’s eyes almost popped out of her head. She reached out for the bill and drew her hand back, afraid to touch it for fear it wasn’t real.

“Nae bother. Thank you, lass.” He nudged Willie, who had been sitting to his left all along unobtrusively, and they all slid out of the booth. Geillis flushed and laughing still, her hand on Rupert’s shoulder.

Well, well, Claire thought, what have we here. She caught G’s eye and winked, which only caused Geillis to giggle unabashedly.

Jamie placed his hand on Claire’s back, guiding her towards the door. She couldn’t resist a dig at Laoghaire as she turned her head back and called out, “Thanks so much!” while the girl just stood there, agape and overwhelmed by what had transpired.

The burst of cold air on her face was most unwelcome, after the secluded warmth of the diner. Instinctively her shoulders hunched against the chilled wind, and she drew her coat about her. The rest of the band was still talking animatedly with Geillis, and Claire managed to catch her slip a napkin with her number to Rupert the drummer; he tucked it in safely into his jacket pocket.

She turned to face Jamie as much as she could, still shielding herself from the freezing gusts. “Thank you for the coffee Jamie. It was nice to meet you.” She stuck out her hand a bit idiotically and was surprised to feel the enveloping warmth of his own.

“Claire. It was lovely to meet ye. I hope… perhaps… we can meet again.” Jamie gave a most convincing bow, which would not have been amiss in an earlier century. He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss into her skin.

Her heart stuttered, against her will.

Against her will, images of Frank flooded her mind. When they went out on dinner dates, when she sat through his endless lectures, when he supported her decision to apply for medical school, when they spent time together in the morning reading the paper, when they had kissed and touched and loved. When she had been betrayed.

And she thought, Never again.

Claire pulled her hand out of Jamie’s grasp as gently as she could, hoping her face would not betray the anguish his simple gesture had triggered. “I wish you good luck Jamie, with the rest of your tour.” No word on meeting again, no number exchanged, no last name given.

She turned to the William, Rupert, and Ian; shook hands with each of them quickly, nodding goodbye. She took Geillis by the elbow and pulled her away, down the street, and managed to glance back only once.

Jamie stood there, fiery hair glowing in the street light, smiling after them. A smile that said, Soon.

Michael Clifford - Homesick

Pairing: Michael and Y/N

Word Count: 6.1k+

Rating: Smut

Requested: Yes, by anon

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sunflowers, marigolds, buttercups and you

it’s carry on countdown day threeeee and that means pastel/punk aus !! i’m sorry this is so late but just know that i’m actually dead from all the sports i did today and i swear i can barely walk rip- anyways! here y’all are.

i hope you guys like it! in which simon&davy have a tattoo shop and baz&fiona own a flower shop, because i love role reversals as well as pastel/punk aus


baz doesn’t honestly know what he’s doing here. it’s been a part of his life for so long, he rarely stops to question it but today aunt fiona was on his back even more, ranting on and on, that it sort of just hit him again. what is he doing? why does he bother to be here? what is this thing that they’re doing and why does it matter so much to him?

the alleyway is chilly, but baz is wearing a very heavy, very knit, very pale pink scarf that just so happens to match his nails and his boots that are shiny and supple and very warm. still, he can see his breath. it’s nothing like the heat of the furnace inside the flower shop, the alley is basically the polar opposite.

it doesn’t smell like geraniums, it smells horribly like rotting garbage and possibly like dead flowers if anything. the brick on either side of him is rough and dusty, nothing like the walls of the shop which are always pristine whites and soft blues offset by all the spectrums of color flaring out from the vases sitting all around.

baz’s favorites are the marigolds, the flowers that are perhaps the most opposite to the shades he usually prefers, but for some strange reason, he can’t get past how much he adores them. small petals that come in every shade of the sun, and they make any one of his bouquets a little bit more cheerful, like he’s just added a touch of light.

today, with the orders he had to fill, he found that there were quite a few instances that he could insert the flower, which was nice, even though the brash yellows and oranges really did clash with his outfit.

his mittens also match in part his scarf, a soft-toned pink and he hates that he has to wipe his nose on them because they are by far his favorite.

would he just hurry up?

his break will definitely be ending soon, and fiona really doesn’t take tardiness lightly, besides the fact that baz already hates being late.

isn’t he always late? baz doesn’t think he can remember a day where he wasn’t the first one to their spot, so in the winter he’s always been half frozen by the time the boy arrived.

it annoys him. but then again, what can he do about it?

he already doesn’t really know what he’s doing here yet again, why he comes here almost every day to wait in the cold, hiding from fiona who’d probably be reaching the conclusion to her third rant on ‘david snow and his goddamn tattoo parlor’ by now?

‘jesus christ, can he just not?’

‘basilton, are you seeing this’

‘he’s decided to put his sign a full inch over the line between our properties, the absolute audacity of that man!’

baz finds it almost humorous, the feud and everything. how the pitch florists ended up sharing a building with ‘that menacing scumbag of a person, how dare he demand we pay more of our share of rent, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me’

but he can see his aunt’s point of view, he supposes. the rivalry, the utter hatred between their families isn’t really anything new, he’s heard all the stories. how david snow came in with his million dollar smile to a deal that his aunt had practically already taken, and turned it into an all out battle over who would get the lease on 6th street, right across from ebb’s coffee shop.

it was prime property, and fiona had wanted it so bad.

baz knew that it had been her dream, and then she had been forced to come to an agreement with this ‘inked up old bastard’ (not that fiona didn’t have any tattoos, baz hadn’t tried to argue this point with her, it really wouldn’t have made a difference) to split the building in half.

now they were constantly fighting, and baz considered himself to be right in the middle of it. not that it was a real war, just practically one of sabotage.

it just was what it was, and he had to play his role. this included doing extra work at the shop, when he already carried so much of the workload, and fiona sending him on her missions, which really never amounted to much other than a lot of screaming and threats that david snow was going to sue her for being a ‘crazy hag obsessed with her geraniums’.

for another part, baz was not to be friends with anyone related to the snow family, and if he ended up being, it was merely an advantage for espionage and further attacks, nothing personal or emotionally attached about the matter.

the thought makes baz snort. the visible puff of his breath in the air reminds him just how chilly it is and he tries to pull his collar up further.

the single rose bud that he’s carrying in his pocket is burning a hole in it, and baz dislikes the feeling because he rather likes this jacket. it’s long, and soft and a shade of cream that could almost match the snow.

he’s noticing that it has started to snow now, because he can feel the flakes melting on his eyelashes and he can see them settling on the ends of his hair, white against the the faint lilac that he’s dyed it.

fiona loves it, says it makes him match the lavender, the catmint, possibly the canterbury bells.

he’s just thinking that the snow is pretty appropriate, when he hears the footsteps he’s been waiting for and he looks around quickly-

eager, he’s always so eager. he hates it.

but when he sees those eyes- it’s always the eyes that strike him first, like he’s plunged into the coldest water- he forgets about all of that. the snow is settling in the curls of simon snow’s goldy hair and looking at him, is like getting the sun in your eyes.

his shoes crunch in the snow on the pavement, and baz starts to notice everything about him, all at once.

he’s too much, everyday, it’s just too much.

how he’s wearing these destroyed sneakers like it’s not below minus ten degrees outside, with the darkest shade of coal jeans, the knees blown out, and baz’s favorite shirt, simon knows that it’s his favorite, the one the simon designed himself, a sketch in black and white of dying sunflowers that makes it look like the flowers themselves are simply dissolving into nothingness, withering into oblivion.

baz’s attention goes to the piercings next, simon’s nose, where his septum sits a dusty silver, and his ears, where the beads and metals travel in uneven intervals all the way along each.

baz’s eyes always finish with simon’s tattoos last.

he knows the placement of every one of them by heart, and they play back in his mind for hours before he can fall asleep. his hands, dotted with lines and symbols making constellations, to his arms, to his neck and behind both his ears.

at this point he’s standing across from baz, just close enough to touch and his lips are hanging open, a pink that is terribly over saturated.

you’re so much, baz wants to say, you’re too much.

instead, he lets simon blink once more after his eyes give baz a scalding once over and state the obvious.

“it’s snowing.”

“i’d hoped you’d noticed,” baz says, and he feels like his chest might explode.

“i’m sorry i’m late,” simon says, and his voice is husky. he fiddles with his earring, the rose gold ones that clash with his entire aesthetic. the ones that baz had lent him.

baz can feel his knees grow weaker.

“i’ve come to expect it.” baz had been about to say, but then he doesn’t because simon says,

“i brought you this.” and he opens up his ungloved hands to reveal a little piece of hectograph paper. baz takes it in his hands as if it were a snowflake.

the sketch on it is incredibly detailed, yet tiny, a miniature image of a violin and a bow, with a rose vine wrapped gracefully around the horsehair.

simon smiles, which also clashes terribly with his outfit, punk boys do not smile, but it’s so much that baz feels his breath catch in his throat.

he can feel something inside him completely shatter. the pleasure of it so intense it could be mistaken for pain.

this is what you do to me.

he takes his mitten off slowly, and he can feel simon’s azure eyes watch his every movement. he reaches into his pocket.

“put out your hand,” he says, and “close your eyes.”

simon just stares at him for a moment, and baz has to laugh.

“i’m serious!”

fianlly, simon’s head seems to snap out of the clouds and he laughs too. it sounds like music.

“sorry,” he says, smiling sheepishly. “i got distracted.”

baz resits the urge to roll his eyes and then simon snow is holding out his palm, and baz is gently taking his wrist, touching the mole in between his thumb and forefinger. his hand is freezing.

simon shivers and baz can’t tell if it’s from the cold or-

then baz places the rosebud on simon’s skin and simon’s eyes fly open. he stares. baz stares at him.

for a moment, he looks a bit helpless.

and baz is pretty sure he looks the exact same way.

then they’re surging together and it’s impossible to tell whose lips met whose first because simon has his hands around baz’s waist and baz’s hand is fisted in simon’s hair.

his mouth is so hot and it tastes like rebellion, it burns baz’s tongue, at the same it’s like sugar, too sweet and too gentle and too much like baz is a fragile object which proceeds to shatters baz’s heart even further because simon snow has never had to be gentle to anything in his life.

he is hard stone, hard rock, black, and as much of a klutz than baz has even seen- it’s really quite astonishing how he manages to tattoo people so beautifully when he can’t even stand up straight.

even now, he’s pinned baz to the brick wall and he kisses like it’s the air he needs to breathe while he leans like he doesn’t have the ability to hold himself up.

their tongues clash before baz can kiss a line down the tattoos on simon’s neck, leaving simon in the perfect position to breathe low, breathless words into baz’s ear like-

“your eye shadow is like pixie dust, i can’t stop staring at you.”

and “jesus.”

and “fuck, baz, my god.”

and baz kisses the mole under simon’s left eye saying

“you know this is my favorite tattoo you have”

and simon will laugh, before baz’s hand on his thigh makes it turn into a moan. and he tries to speak, but he stumbles on the words-

“-t’s not a-a tattoo, i’ve- told you this… s’many times”

and baz just smiles against simon’s skin because he knows, of course he knows, but he likes asking as his way to remind the boy beneath his fingers that even without his piercings, his tattoos, his clothes, he’s the most beautiful boy that baz has ever seen.

all at once it is too much, but now, it’s also not enough.

and baz murmurs

“i’m going to have to leave soon.”

again, not getting far into the sentence because simon’s lips are at his jaw and the last words come out as more of a loss of breath than actual sounds.

simon’s moved down his neck and he smells like the rosebud that he’s still got clenched in his fist and baz tries to forget that he’s got to go back to work in a few minutes and push away the fact that this had ever happened.

“stay just five more minutes.” simon pleads into baz’s collarbone and baz snorts.

“fiona is going to kill me.” he says, but simon’s hands are now in his hair and it just feels so good.

simon’s quickly back at his mouth, they’re so close, and he’s kissing with such an urgency that baz fears he actually might fall over.

“fine, five minutes” he mumbles, and he can feel simon’s smile.

the snow keeps drifting around them, hands attempting desperately to relearn every part of each other in the seconds that pass so quick, and baz knows that there’s nothing that will ever feel as good as this.

simon says, “i don’t want you to leave.”

and baz kisses him deeper, because for all that he knows, this could be the last time. simon’s just moaning and sighing, like he’s all at once so beautifully happy, but all at once so devastatingly sad. his eyes look even more helpless, and baz’s heart agrees.

they break.

simon’s taking his hand and swinging it in between them, and then baz’s pulse jumps as he does something so oddly right, he kisses the back of baz’s hand.

“i’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, a declarative sentence. but it sounds more like a question even though baz can tell he’s trying not to let it.

and then he’s gone. the alleyway is just an alleyway.

the drawing in baz’s pocket just turns into something a friend gave him, the footprints in the snow where simon stood become someone else’s. baz tries to wipe the happiness off of his features as he opens the door to the shop, but it’s like trying to erase permanent marker with a white board eraser.

when he’s inside, and he’s warm again, and fiona’s said ‘welcome back’ and shoved the next list of his duties at him, he takes the sketch out of his pocket.

he considers that it might be loveliest thing that anyone’s ever given him, he knows it is. and he turns it over, he hadn’t noticed that there was writing on the back-

it says,

can you sneak over sometime? i’d really like to make this permanent.

-s.s

in simon snow’s horrendous handwriting, (baz is serious, he has no idea how this boy is an artist), and fiona comes back into the room, just as baz’s lips are turning up into a smile that takes over his whole face, his whole body and he can’t stop it.

she gives him a funny look.

“what’s so pleasant, basilton? has david snow decided finally to close up shop?”

he just looks at her, because he can’t speak, because simon snow is too much.

simon snow, the only one boy in the world he’s not allowed to have.

how does he ever manage to leave him everyday, how does he ever manage to let go?

simon snow.

his rosebud boy.

The embarrassing early roles of Hollywood heartthrobs

Being an “overnight success” in Hollywood actually takes years of dedication. Actors work hard starting right at the bottom doing modelling, theatre work, and even music videos before they get their big breaks. Here’s some of the early jobs of Hollywood’s biggest stars that we’re sure they’d rather forget.

Jason Statham – Oiled up dancer

After The Stath gave up diving but before he became a movie star, his chiseled physique won him a number of roles dancing in music videos. He was oiled up and gyrating in The Shamen’s 1993 hit ‘Comin’ On’ and inexplicably painted silver in the video for Erasure’s ‘Run To The Sun’.

Source: Yahoo Movies UK

Tom Hardy – Big Breakfast’s Find Me A Supermodel Competition Winner

Before he was snapping backs in ‘The Dark Knight Rises’ or mumbling his way across the desert in ‘Mad Max: Fury Road’, Tom Hardy had aspirations of being a model and appeared on ‘The Big Breakfast’ competing in a modeling competition which he won despite wearing an Alice band. His prize? A toolbox.

Source: Yahoo Movies UK

Tom Hiddleston – Casualty

Like most British actors, Hiddleston appeared in the long-running BBC medical soap ‘Casualty’. He played Chris, an abseiling maintenance man who knocks a woman off a balcony in a horrific accident. The god of mischief indeed.

Source: Yahoo Movies UK

Benedict Cumberbatch – Heartbeat

In 2000, Cumberbatch appeared in the 60s-set ITV cop show ‘Heartbeat’ as Charles a horse-riding toff (who’d have guessed?) who gets mixed up in a crime when he borrows his uncle’s Rolls Royce. He made a second appearance in the Sunday night nostalgia-fest in 2004 playing a totally different character.

Source: Yahoo Movies UK

Chris Evans – Mystery Date board game

Chris Evans was a teen-heartthrob long before ‘Captain America’ thanks to appearing as surf dude Tyler in Hasbro’s hit board game ‘Mystery Date’, a job he’d much rather forget.

Source: Yahoo Movies UK

Chris Pratt – Cursed Part 3

Back in 2000 when Chris Pratt was a wannabe actor serving tables at Bubba Gump in Maui, director Rae Dawn Chong gave her waiter a break by casting him in her short horror film ‘Cursed Part 3’. The trailer is gloriously crappy but Pratt’s star power shines through, despite his moptop hairdo.

Source: Yahoo Movies UK

Eddie Redmayne – Catalogue model

The Oscar-winning star was just 22 when he appeared in the Rowan Yarns catalogue sporting a natty range of heavy knit jumpers. We bet Stephen Hawking himself would never have predicted that just 11 years later this young lad would be winning the Best Actor Oscar for ‘The Theory of Everything’.

Source: Yahoo Movies UK

Idris Elba – Soap star

Long before everyone on the planet was clamouring for him to be the next James Bond, Idris Elba was helping launch Channel 5. He appeared in its short-lived soap opera ‘Family Affairs’ playing Tim Webster.

Source: Yahoo Movies UK

Matt Smith – That Face

Appearing in a successful West End play that successfully transferred to Broadway isn’t technically embarrassing, but seeing the future ‘Doctor Who’ star in a dress and pearl necklace is always going to be entertaining so here we are.

Source: Yahoo Movies UK

Michael Fassbender – Music video star

Just before Fassbender became a big Hollywood star he had a leading role in the video for ‘Blind Pilots’ by The Cooper Temple Clause. He plays a man on a stag do who gradually transforms as his night becomes more debauched first into a horned devil man, then into a billy goat.

Source: Yahoo Movies UK

bedeliainwonderland  asked:

Bedannibal + 4 (in front of the fireplace). Thank you ♥

Thank you so much for the prompt! ❤️❤️ Be warned, this thing is disgustingly fluffy 😂 Set somewhere between s2 and s3.

The fire snaps and crackles behind its metal grate, and occasionally a brazed log cleaves and withers into molten red and ashy white cinders. Outside, snow falls slowly, lazily, blanketing the rustic cottage in a layer of white, muting all sounds from the world outside.

This is the hidden time when the sky bruises a dusky purple-indigo, the moments that hover between the final vestige of night and the first exhale of dawn. These are the lost hours only found by passion, by soft blankets, by firm limbs and pliant, willing skin. Time seems to close its eyes, unobtrusively creating a lull in the general flow of things, a hush, a precious interlude, keeping all the secrets inside like tightly closed lips.

He sits on a large fur rug on the floor in front of the stone fireplace in the bedroom, leaning back against the foot of the bed with his legs unfolded before him, warmed by both the fire and the heat of her body. Bedelia is facing him, sitting astride his thighs, knees bracketing his hips. A heavy knitted quilt is loosely swathed around her, bowed low across her back like the gently curving arch of a raindrop.

It would have been impolite to let his new wife shiver in bed as he made love to her. And he prides himself greatly on his ability to be a perfect gentleman. The best thing to do, he had concluded earlier, was to lead her to the soft rug in front of the hearth and make love to her there instead. A conclusion upon which he had then proceeded to act - twice.

“Are you warmer now?” he teases in the afterglow, trailing the tip of his nose down the column of her throat, pressing a kiss to the divot at the base of her neck, tasting the sweat.

“Yes, thank you,” she murmurs, and places her palms on his face, covering his cheeks with her fingers so he can feel their warmth for himself.

She seems calm, almost lethargic, insouciant in her state of satiation. He had not expected this. He had hoped for it, longed for it, burned for it while they had both sat demurely in their respective seats within their respective boundaries. 

“Is this the role you intend for us to play?” she asks him quietly, in that same low voice she uses to offer him wine, to thank him for dinner, to stick him with a pin when he is deceptive or avoidant during therapy.

“I am not playing,” he tells her. “This,” he says, seriously, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her closer, “this is not a game to me.”

She holds his gaze steadily in that mesmeric way she has, the way that could have seen right through his person suit, had he been wearing one.

Finally she sits back and shifts off him, unfolding like a golden scroll of parchment on the thick rug, holding the blanket up for him. He follows, a sailor guided by his very own polaris, slipping beneath it and stretching out behind her.

The wool blanket is pleasantly large, so that the tassels adorning the perimeter of the quilt are spread on the floor in a comfortable contour of their bodies. He thinks of sand ceremonies, of being united by such an outline, two separate lives symbolically becoming one, joined in marriage. The softness of her hair finds the pillow of his arm and he curls his body around hers like a question mark, though he has fewer doubts with each passing moment. Their legs twine like the logs burning in the hearth before them. Her back presses into his chest with the swell of every breath, a tide rising to meet its shore.  

He takes her hand in his, thumbing the two new rings on her fourth finger, the polished silver of them glittering in the orange glow from the fire that has painted everything in this room the colour of a velvet sunset.

“I am not playing, either,” she murmurs.

She threads her fingers through his, both their rings clinking together. He thinks of the sound as the clinking of champagne glasses, a celebration. She tucks his arm between her breasts, his hand testing the weight of one teardrop-shaped swell.

Moments pass in which the only sound is the softly erratic sparking from the hearth, the only movement the lick of the flames as their flickering shadows dance across the cottage walls and spill across the wooden floor like ballerinas on a stage.

He is content, for once, to simply observe.

3

Pic 1. Y3, Thrifted dress pants that I tapered to fit, VANS EG

Pic 2. Heavy cotton knit shirt with graphic sampling lol, Double knit long shorts, Gosha Campers

Pic 3. Heavy cotton knit with a black vertical panel, Black and Blue low rise denim with a leg overlap, Gosha campers

i like the use of multiple punctuation marks because it like, expresses more emotions than you can get out of the classic single marks, y’know? like it’s another internet lingo thing but like:

what = flat what, mild bewilderment, but then you just shake your head and shrug a little

what. = flatter what, disbelieving anger. frowning. possible raised eyebrow.

what… = trailing what, tfw you frown slightly and stare off the the side trying to organise your thoughts for a proper question

what…………………. = eXTREME trailing what, you have no idea how to proceed and you’re stalling until you come up with something, or you’re making a point about something being so bizarre or something that no response can or should be given but a concerned/alarmed stare as you stand with your arms folded, or sit with your hands clasped in your lap

what? = average what. you are asking a question/expressing disbelief/you can’t understand what someone is saying. mild tilt of head, Confusion Eyebrows knitting together

what??? = heavy what. similar to the normal what but more intense. you really don’t believe or understand something this time. you shake your head slightly and push your face forwards a tad. your nose might wrinkle slightly on one side. possible eyebrow raise

what? ??? ? ?? ? = pure bewilderment. your hands are gesturing in front of you, futile, as you express your complete lack of comprehension. there might be a slight whine to your voice, and you are also frustrated that you don’t get it

what! = enerally used to express EXCITEMENT - someone mentions something of interest that you didn’t know about. you are inquiring for more information. usually positive but not always. you are bouncing forward in your seat, placin your hands on a table, and leaning towards whoever spoke, eagerly awaiting more

what!!! = same as above but more INTENSE like the triple question mark. your eyes are wide and you might have grabbed the speaker by the shoulders to focus their attention on you.

what!! !!!! !!! !! ! = holY MOLY you gotta, you gotta like, calm down friend. you’re either really hyped or really angry

and there are more! variations! and different meanings on different words! i love language evolution!

“Oh, my sad sullen boy… My poor lonely son…”

I’ve been re-reading ASOIAF, and have been screaming about the One True King (Stannis) to all who will listen, and I’m still super raw about his and Cressen’s relationship, so I drew this in between commissions, and also wrote something that you’ll find under the cut.

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“I love you.”

“Honey, that’s so cliché.”
You mutter those words as I tuck your hair
behind the ears that never fail to listen.

What else am I to say?
As you are cradled in my arms,
sprawled out along the couch you insisted upon buying
when we first decided on our apartment
because it was the one part of home
you couldn’t stand to have to live without.

What else am I to say?
As your hand encradles my own,
running my thumb across the golden symbol
of my never-ending adoration for you.

What else am I to say?
As the empty, unused room across the closet
is planned to be painted next Wednesday
with pastel gradients and white decorations
for the new baby girl
waiting for us at the orphanage.

What else am I to say?
As the photograph above the mantle
displays the last visit to our favorite boardwalk,
the brilliant manifestation of technicolor sparks
flashing intensely on an auburn sunset,
but with the combination
of your floppy, thick-rimmed summer hat,
y/our retro wire-rimmed sunglasses,
and your smile that continues to still today
put every star in the sky to shame -
everything could only dim in comparison.

What else am I to say?
As the bookmark kept on my nightstand
never lets me forget our first encounter
at the tiny café down a couple blocks from us,
with a huge caramel-scented blotch of coffee
and blue-ink scribbled number
to match perfectly.

What else am I to say?
As the obnoxiously bright-colored bobble-head
of that comic book character you like so much
continues to adorn the kitchen counter,
no matter how many times I’ve asked you
to put it somewhere else
since it doesn’t match the rest of the apartment.

What else am I to say?
As the heavy-knit winter coat on the coathanger
that I brought back on a trip from my parents’
continues to wear down
since you insist upon using it as often as possible
because no matter the weather,
it almost always feels like winter outside for you.

What else am I to say?
As I lean down
to press a tender kiss on your left temple,
my hands coming up to cup both of your cheeks,
nuzzling into the scent of your coconut shampoo
that you only ever buy by name - never off-brand.

What else am I to say,
when words can never truly express
every emotion washing over me?

“…yeah, I know.”
(1/29/17)

Knitwear

Originally posted by yourfavoritedirector

Characters -  Dean x Reader

Summary - Dean wears a sweater for a case, and you’re maybe a little more affected by it than you’d like to admit.

Word Count - 574

Warnings - Adult situations, but no smut.

A/N - I saw those pics for 12x04 and I just couldn’t get Dean in that sweater out of my mind.


The moment he came out from the bathroom, you couldn’t tear your eyes from him. He was dressed up, his cross patterned trousers clinging nicely to his backside and white button-up unbuttoned at the top. What really made your heart race was the light grey sweater that he wore over it. The heavy knit clung to him, accentuating the broad shoulders and strong arms underneath. You knew if you touched the material, it would be soft and warm under your hands, much like the man in it.

Dean strode around the motel, picking up his wallet and watch off one of the side tables, looking very much like the definition of coiled power. Your eyes followed as he strapped his watch to his wrist, the way his arms looked as they moved with the action. Finished, he smoothed his hands down his front, doing a final check before he left for the widow’s house.

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“Did you pack some warm clothes? It’s a bit colder than th–”

“Ja, pappa. Brought my heavy knits and I brought my hiking boots. I thought maybe we could go climb the mountain later.”

“Ja, ja! Of course, that sounds like fun. Like old times, eh?”

“It’s the one thing I miss – well other than you – I miss the fresh mountain air.”

☆  From the Beginning  ☆

anonymous asked:

why is chimney so important?

     He latches the Hakudo by Slateport’s merchant docks and hops the boat, knocking her anchor off so she doesn’t stray much. 

      The sky is clouded, and everything smells like ash. There’s people everywhere, watching the volcano burn on the horizon; Slateport is stuffed to the brim, evacuation routes bringing the people between Lavaridge and the Southern Coast to her docks. Not many have left, he thinks, but they’re ready. 

      He bashes into a stranger and their child in his rush through the crowd. They don’t seem to notice the ash falling from his shoulder, black flecks lost amongst the gray fluttering down. 

       Volcano duty was Magma’s role. He sees a few of them out and about, gathering people and organizing groupings, and their red stands out like neon. 

       He grabs one and yanks them to the side. His hands feel frozen against their heavy knit, and the kid looks horrified. At what, who knows. Could be his Rotting, could be the strangeness of Kyogre clinging to his skin, could just be the innate fear that the Grunts of either Team had for the rival’s Leader.

         “Where’s Maxie?!”

       The Magma Grunt stammers, their eyes wide and pale. 

“Little Notebook” (Suga x Reader)

“Hellooo~ Bts suga scenario when he finds your little journal where you write down calories and just write negative comments about yourself, fluffy ending pls btw you are adorable and congrats on 1k followers! <3″


Name: “Little Notebook”

Character: Suga // Min Yoongi (BTS)

Genre: Sad/fluff

Word Count: 1,152

Originally posted by sugaglos

**WARNING** This scenario tackles the often sensitive themes of body image and dieting. If you are triggered by that then please don’t read this, thank you all <3

(gif credit to the original owner)

“I’ll be just a sec!” you called from your bathroom. Embarrassingly, you had completely misread the time Yoongi said he’d pick you up and now here you were: only half ready. “Okay,” he nonchalantly replied from the bottom of the stairs. Knowing you, he realised that “just a sec” could be anything between 5 minutes and an hour. So, he started to stroll around the apartment. It was light and airy. A gentle smile graced his lips as he took in the scent. It smelled like you. The sensation always seemed to relax him as he felt nothing but comfort from being around you. His aimless wandering lead him into your kitchen. Like the rest of the flat, it was bright. There were little decorations adorning the walls and surfaces. It was like you had sprinkled your tastes all over your humble abode. As he scanned his eyes across the kitchen, he spotted a little book tucked away behind some heavy cookbooks.  He knitted his brow in curiosity. He ran his fingers down the spine of the petite notepad. It was plain. The choice irked him as you normally opted for zany, bright patterns. There was no title either. It was neatly kept and it was obviously being used regularly. He opened. What greeted him was a planner. Each day had a handwritten list of food with the calories beside it. What saddened him further, was at the end of each day you had written either a sad or happy face depending on the calorie intake. He carefully read the lists, hoping to find as many cheery little faces as possible. His heart sunk further as each page was turned. It pained him to imagine your delicate hands scribing over such an obsession. A cheery “I’m ready!” snapped him back. He quickly put the little notebook back where he had found it before greeting you.

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ungiis  asked:

Cedar, Stitches, Angelhood?

Cedar - What is your favorite season?
I like fall a lot :) pretty leaves and nice breeze, perfect

Stitches - What kind of clothing do you wear?
i like clothes a lot. My style is a lot of light, pastel colors. Whites. I sometimes wear overalls or suspenders. I ALWAYS wear a hat. And i don’t really like wearing jewelry, so i don’t wear it. And I have prescription glasses, but i usually wear them according to my outfit lol 
My ootd: light blue skinny jeans, tucked in white light graphic t, and a heavy knit cardigan <3

Angelhood - What is one of your favorite memories?
Walking around japan and going to simple places with my grandma like the convenient store or train station. It makes me feel like i’ve lived in japan for my entire life and it makes me truly feel japanese 

Send me a Tender Ask!