tiled-floor

  • me: I'm happy to be helpful, but I haven't exercised in a long time, so helping with this heavy construction work has been tough. my soft sweet marshmallow muscles are sore all over :(
  • my old lady grandma, completely dead serious: oh, well of course. it isn't fair for you to be asked to help with that kind of work, that isn't a job for a girl
  • me: *suddenly gets second, third, and fourth wind* I CAN DO ANYTHING MY EQUALLY SEDENTARY BROTHERS CAN DO, I AM THE HEIGHT OF AN AVERAGE GROWN MAN, I HAVE TWO ARMS AND TWO HANDS AND TWO LEGS, AND A TORSO WITH MUSCLES CONNECTING ALL THOSE EXTREMITIES, I'M GOING BACK RIGHT NOW TO TEAR ALL THE SHELVING IN ALL THE CLOSETS DOWN WITH A SLEDGEHAMMER BY MYSELF, I CAN'T EMPHASIZE HOW MUCH I HATE THE WOMAN-HATING CULTURE I WAS BORN IN

Short Story: Poker at Sundown


“Gonna join us tonight, Mags?”

“Not today, John,” Magnolia purred, sweeping her coat around her shoulders. Her heels clacked against the tiled floor of the Third Rail as she headed for the stairs. “It’s been a long day, and this songbird needs her rest. You boys and girls have have fun tonight.”

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Hancock grinned. “I hear Hotel Rexford’s got a real bad infestation.” 

“As if Claire would ever mistreat me.” The singer blew a kiss at the ghoul before ascending the steps and clacking away into the night.

“She mistreats everybody!” Hancock called after her, then shook his head and returned his attention to the table. “Charlie. Deal?”

“Everyone settled?” Whitechapel Charlie shuffled the cards in his claws, one dapper green visor balanced precariously on the top of his torso. 

Cait stopped mid-swig of her drink. “How drunk should I be before we start?” she asked, brow furrowed. 

“Way ahead of you,” MacCready said, and knocked back another shot. His current bottle - his first of the night - was already half-empty. 

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anonymous asked:

Daddy is like the third most vanilla fetish though (beaten by "regular" BDSM and feet). Weird shit is stuff like inflation, reverse bimboification and floor tiles

I think having a tile fetish is just one guys thing I don’t think its a whole fetish. Also why the fuck did I look up any of this.

Let’s talk about something I never realized.

I had always assumed that the Beast heard Belle say “I love you” before he “died.”  But no, your hearing doesn’t miraculously stay or something weird like that.  Adam didn’t hear her say it.

So imagine him fading away thinking that even though his life had been horrible, there was one small light that really truly meant the world over and more to him, and that he was glad that her face would be the last thing he’d ever see…

…then suddenly he’s feeling less cold and much more warm, and there’s a golden light at the end of a tunnel, and he’s still not sure if he’s alive, but then there’s more and more of it and he’s back in the West Wing, standing upright, his bare feet cold on the tile floor, his hair tickling his face and neck, claws absent from smaller, thinner hands, fingers, and it’s not a dream, it’s not a dream, it’s not a dream

And then he turns around and sees Belle standing there, shocked into silence but unafraid, fearless.  He stares at her incredulously because there’s only one way this could be happening: she loves him.  He used to think such an emotion was impossible and yet here he is and she loves him

He wants to run into her arms and laugh and cry and jump but he can only convey this with a look, an expression.  The night is over, the sun has risen, and the curse is lifted, but he did nothing, it was her, his beauty, his angel, his saving grace.

She smiles in realization, their lips touch, and his world is ablaze with life, love, color.  The ground shakes beneath their feet and dawn breaks across the castle.  This is his new beginning, his rebirth into a better life, a better man, and he is not alone anymore, he will never be alone again.

for she has set him free.