#I bet a fiver that he's read some.

[holiestsorrow]

Every night, I wake up in a cold sweat remembering that Michael Sheen knows about smutty Good Omens fanfiction between himself and his best friend [and love interest in the show].

[quill-of-thoth]

Letters from Watson: The Stockbroker's Clerk

Part 1b: The Math Bits

Three pounds a week is approximately 310 modern pounds / 390 USD a week, leading to a monthly salary of about £ 1,230 / $ 1540. The seventy pounds savings is £7,430 / $9,350.

"No one knows how these things are worked. Some people say that the manager just plunges his hand into the heap and takes the first that comes." The feeling of applying for jobs has not changed in the last 130+ years, I see.

I'm not going into the details on the stocks and converting them because I 1) don't care 2) have no idea how to read modern stocks

Five hundred a year is £53,000 / $66,000 a year. It's also more than double Hall's promised new salary of £4 a week that would come out to about £200 a year. (Having done the math that's two weeks shy of 52, so it appears that Hall is either getting a comfortable amount of time off, if unpaid, or rounding.)

"Mr. Pinner" has studied some of the same plays as Holmes - stating that you made a bet with someone is apparently as good an excuse for dropping extra information or asking extra questions when you're a scam artist as it is when you're a detective.

Also he "bet" more than Hall's current weekly wages, as a fiver is, of course, five pounds.

Copying things out of an address book is very much like copying things out of the dictionary: and it serves the same function here as in The Red Headed League: to get Hall out of his current lodgings (and out of town)

Hall Pycroft is certainly sharper than Jabez Wilson, given that he realizes that the temporary offices are not a green flag for his future employment. (And that he recognizes a poorly filled cavity.)

[mariana-oconnor]

The Blue Carbuncle pt 3

Goose Chase Intensifies!

the proprietor a horsy-looking man

Not to be confused with 'horsy men', who - as Sherlock informed us in a previous story - are quite different.

One thing I appreciate about Watson's critical view of literally everyone's appearance, is that you cannot know if a person is a villain or an innocent bystander just by reading the descriptions of them. Everyone is treated alike by his pen, even though this was a time at which people believed that "criminal features" were a thing. I suspect if I knew more about that particular "science" I'd be able to spot the criminals more easily, but I'm glad I can't.

"Sold out of geese, I see," continued Holmes, pointing at the bare slabs of marble. "Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning."

That's a lot of geese. That's an awful lot of geese. Five hundred geese? I can't even imagine five hundred geese. Maybe if I pictured them all on a plane,* but even then.

Five hundred geese. He sells five hundred geese a day? I mean, if he's sold out for the night and he's getting five hundred in the morning. You wouldn't think a dead geese would keep very long in an time before refrigeration. I get that we're between Christmas and New Year and people are buying their new year's goose and we're in London and a lot of people live in London (over 6 million), but still. BUT STILL. How does he have room for 500 geese in his shop? Does he just pile them up on the floor?

That's a lot of geese.

I suppose I did ask for more geese. Although these are only mentioned and not seen.

*I suspect no one will get this joke, but I'm going to make it anyway.

"It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese which you supplied to the Alpha."

Oh how I wish ACD had chosen a different name for the pub.

"Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don't know why you should be so warm over such a trifle."

Don't make trife out of geese, Sherlock. That wouldn't be nice at all.

"Warm! You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When I pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the business; but it's 'Where are the geese?' and 'Who did you sell the geese to?' and 'What will you take for the geese?' One would think they were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made over them."

I love this man. He is wonderful. he's just trying to do his gd job and he's an unwilling participant in the biggest goose chase of all time!

He also deserves some of the reward for his trouble. Although, if he's selling 500 geese a day or a week or whatever, he's got to be making decent profit off that you'd think.

"If you won't tell us the bet is off, that is all. But I'm always ready to back my opinion on a matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is country bred." "Well, then, you've lost your fiver, for it's town bred," snapped the salesman. "It's nothing of the kind." "I say it is." "I don't believe it."

The classic 'please settle the wager between my friend and I ploy. Excellent. And we're once again at the point of 'Your goose is in another castle'. I was hoping there were more steps to the chase.

We kind of need the Benny Hill theme playing in the background.

Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped under a lamppost and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which was peculiar to him.

Aw, he's having fun.

"Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road," whispered Holmes. "Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow."

Noooooo, I wanted you to have to run across town again to go and visit Mrs Oakshott. Bah!

The man hesitated for an instant. "My name is John Robinson," he answered with a sidelong glance. "No, no; the real name," said Holmes sweetly. "It is always awkward doing business with an alias." A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. "Well then," said he, "my real name is James Ryder."

Seriously? It was that easy? You give up your name that easily? Spine made of silly string. You are not cut out for a life of crime, Mr James Ryder. You fold like cheap paper. You do not deserve the goose.

"Pray step into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which you would wish to know." The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped into the cab...

What is this? So the maid is the brains of the operation, I guess. But then you were stupid enough to lose track of the goose you fed a priceless stolen jewel to. I guess we couldn't have expected much from you in the first place.

"Pray take the basket-chair."

I know its not. I know they weren't even invented at the time. But I'm imagining one of those hanging egg basket chairs, and Mr Ryder just gently swinging to and fro as Sherlock pulls on his slippers, both he and his fate hanging in the balance.

"Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine in which you were interested—white, with a black bar across the tail." Ryder quivered with emotion. "Oh, sir," he cried, "can you tell me where it went to?"

I actually feel sorry for this guy. He's kind of pitiful. Clearly he does not have the common sense or brains to be good at crime. He's sitting here not putting two and two together that Holmes knows he's looking for a specific goose and Holmes knows his name and his job. I really feel like it must be the maid who is behind all this and putting pressure on him to find the lost goose or else, because otherwise I cannot see how he's managed this far without giving himself away.

"It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it," said he in a crackling voice.

Yep, she's definitely the one behind it all. There's no way this guy came up with the thing.

You made some small job in my lady's room—you and your confederate Cusack—and you managed that he should be the man sent for.

I don't care what the conclusion to the story is. Maybe she made him think it was his idea, but it was definitely her.

"There was a little shed in the yard, and behind this I drove one of the birds—a fine big one, white, with a barred tail. I caught it, and prying its bill open, I thrust the stone down its throat as far as my finger could reach."

That's certainly an image... what the actual?

"Send him to jail now, and you make him a jail-bird for life."

I suppose some things never change. I mean, I'm not sure I agree that he'll never commit a crime again. But I can't deny Holmes' point here.

"If you will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief feature."

Holmes really is enjoying himself in this one. The joke earlier (that I didn't quote) about how the goose 'laid a blue egg', this joke about another investigation involving a bird (I assume their dinner). He's really feeling the spirit of the season.

This is probably one of my favourite stories, thanks to the utter slapstick of it all. A wild goose chase all over London, the mix up of the mistaken geese. The fake bet. It's just a fun story. A Christmas pantomime, which I can't imagine isn't intentional, as I believe Mother Goose - which involves a bet, a goose that lays golden eggs, and the owner of said goose trying to get her back, is one of the oldest pantomimes.

I still think the maid was behind it all, though. I think she manipulated him into taking it and was planning to blackmail him over it or seduce him into giving it to her or something like that. I know that's not in the text, but it just makes more sense to me than the idea that Ryder, who couldn't keep up a lie for more than two seconds under the slightest questioning, carried all of that out under no influence but his own. Holmes even calls her Ryder's "confederate" and yet doesn't follow it up.

...

And one last time, just for fun.

[marvelslegacies]

Noah & Biron | Small Talk | Main Paragraph

It had been a week since Biron had stumbled into the lives of Team Legacy, he had almost adjusted to the new house. Cass and Jarome were out scouting tonight, doing the real work of men, while Noah and Biron stayed home doing nothing but pills, cigarettes, and marijuana. All they needed was one discrete head nod and they were sharing their secret stashes with each other. Biron had brought out the pretty pink pills from the inside pocket of a black backpack. Noah had a large glass jar filled with orange-dusted nugs.

In a matter of minutes Noah had three blunts expertly rolled and Biron was two lines deep into some quality coke. He passed a small glass tray over to Noah who took the rolled up fiver and put it to his good nostril. He snorted the stuff and braced for the burning sensation in the back of his throat.

“Cocaine tastes fucking nasty, dude.” Noah said, setting the tray on the coffee table and leaning back into the couch. Biron was to his left, facing the front door of their home, staring it down.

“Do the cops run around your neighborhood?” Biron asked without waiting for an answer, “I bet they don’t. These houses look nice.”

Noah had his own questions, but he was not yet high enough to ask them of Biron. So he picked up the tray and snorted one more line then lit up his blunt and a cigarette, double-fisting the two.

“You can light up a personal.” he offered one of the blunts to Biron with a dismissive wave of his hand, still holding the cigarette.

Biron reached insteach for the pack of Marlboro Reds and lit one up for himself. “When I’m fucking ready.” he said plainly to the other, the most outgoing of the three of them. Noah didn’t take offense to Biron’s words, he was too busy enjoying the waves… his head was swimming.

Biron found it easiest to be around Noah. Cass was in constant pain around him and wouldn’t shut up about it. Jarome was easy to talk to but perpetually busy meditating or reading. Noah had very little going for him besides their makeshift team, and Biron… Biron had very little going for him as well, for the time being. It just made sense for the two to get high together.

After twenty minutes passed, the thought of Jarome and Cass eventually returning was long gone. They were doing reconnaissance, anyway, Noah knew that Cass was thorough and Jarome could get obsessive. They’d be gone for hours, maybe even all night. This was Biron and Noah’s first time alone together. Noah thought he was more than good-looking but was trying to play the friend role, considering Biron had blundered into their lives in the midst of a major trauma.

“So what’d you go to prison for?” Noah asked cheekily. This was actually one of the easier subjects to broach between Biron and Noah. They discovered days ago that they shared a spider web tattoo, although Biron’s was a stick and poke and Noah’s was… done by a guy who had a real job selling bagels in order to afford his tattooing dreams.

Biron cocked a brow at Noah, knowing that his secrets were meant to be guarded. “Why do you wanna know?” he countered.

Noah shrugged, “It’s exciting. I’ve broken the law but never been arrested. Only detained.” Noah admitted neutrally.

“Fine. Armed robbery.” Biron said, “A few counts.” This time, Biron shrugged. “The thing is I wasn’t armed.” Biron baited and Noah bit.

“What do you mean? Tell me, tell me.” Noah bounced in his seat, feeling all kinds of vibrations humming against his skull.

“I knew a guy. My brother’s friend, really. He had Weapon Physiology.” Biron smirked as he spoke, his eyebrows raised up high. His eyes locked with Noah’s now for a moment. Noah felt a twinge of nervousness followed by a wave of giddy excitement. He liked looking at Biron. He was devastatingly handsome and made Noah feel as though his features were goofy and overly animated.

Biron continued, “No joke, man, I watched the guy step on a guard’s throat, turn his fucking foot into a revolver and blow his brains threw his fucking skull.”

Noah groaned amusedly, “That’s insane.” Noah thought for a moment about the guard and who he might have been, what family he may have had. He then was paused by the overwhelming thought that he should not under any circumstances bring up Biron’s dead brother. Noah would have to wait longer if he wanted to know the reason Biron had ended up at the Legacy house in the first place. Biron and Noah spent some odd hours swapping ridiculous stories, and after a while both knew that the other was exaggerating sometimes, though neither one seemed to mind. Shooting the shit was just too fun. The little pink pills were certainly helping to keep the ambiance lively during their shared trip.

“Hey,” Noah said in the middle of some monologue now forgotten, “are we gonna see shit on these or what?”

“No but I got somethin’ that’ll show you somethin’.” Biron said, “If you want it.”

Noah shook his head, “Nah my head’s doped up. I was just wondering. He pulled another cigarette out of its pack and held it between his teeth, lighting it up. He passed the thing to Biron who took it graciously. Noah was struck by the way Biron’s strong arms moved and flexed, yet he dare not speak of it. Biron hadn’t mentioned any boyfriends or girlfriends, so Noah was left to daydream about both scenarios, neither one involving him. Only Biron and faceless, nameless strangers.

Noah shook himself from his fantasies and realized that Biron was now eying the door with suspicion. “So what’s your thing again?” He said, still staring down the doorknob. Noah ignored this pleasantly and jumped at the chance to brag about his powers.

“I have power over the elements. It takes a lot of control but I’m way stronger than I was when I was a teenager. Jarome and I agreed I should never use this… but I can also manipulate blood. Something about the water in the plasma and the iron in the red blood cells together. I can’t, like, heal anyone or anything. I can just…” Noah hung his own head, having made himself sad, “kill people.”

Biron placed a hand on Noah’s shoulder and said nothing for a moment. Once the moment had solidified, he offered his advice, “It’ll come in handy in a dark moment, when you are called upon to be a merciful man.”

Noah pondered this, then said, “Thanks. I think.”

The door cracked open. Biron and Noah scrambled silently with their perspective paraphernalia, leaving the pack of cigarettes sitting innocently on the coffee table.

Cass and Jarome came shuffling in looking dirty and drained, Cass took one whiff of the stale air in the house and reached an arm out to the thermostat. He turned on the A/C then grumbled, “I don’t wanna know what you two have been up to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Noah wanted to know.

Biron waved his arms, “Ain’t no funny business around here. The man bummed me a cigarette.” Biron said nonchalantly.

Jarome rolled his eyes, “You both look… really high.” he deadpanned.

Noah and Biron exchanged a look, then both chuckled to each other before catching themselves and clearing their throats, uttering their excuses.

[pixie88]

Mrs. Evans

Chapter 14 - Always the Bridesmaid.

A/N: Sorry I haven’t uploaded anything new in the last week or so but I have about 6 drafts on Wattpad waiting to be transferred over. I’m hoping this chapter has been worth the wait for you guys! Thanks for being patience with me! I hope you like it.

If you would like to be ADDED or REMOVED just let me know! I hate to annoy people with tags.

Read previous chapters HERE!

Warnings: Fluff & NSFW

Word Count: 2062

Pairings: Laila x Harry

Enjoy!

5 Weeks later

Laila is just finishing her last client of the day when her phone PINGS.

She shook her head.

Ever since that night he had picked her up from Nikki's he will not let her walk home in the evenings by herself. No matter how many times she had told him that she was fine with walking home, he'd be outside the shop waiting for her to finish at the end of her shift.

15 Minutes later

"Laila, your boyfriend is here!" Daniel calls over "OK, I'm just finishing up Mrs. Evans" she smiles up at her in the mirror.

Mrs. Evans has been one of Laila loyal clients, when she has move salons Mrs. Evans has always followed. She has to get 2 buses to get to this salon, Laila has offered to do her hair at home, but she says she likes coming to the salon as it gets her out of the house. Even though she shouldn't, Laila always charges her less than the salons prices, but unbeknownst to Mrs. Evans Laila makes up the difference through her tips.

"I'll finally get to meet this boyfriend of yours, Laila" she whispers, Mrs. Evans has a glint in her eyes "Hang on a minute! Is that why you asked for a late appointment? I've told you that he walks me home, haven't I!?" Mrs. Evans giggles "Mrs. Evans! That is sneaky!" she narrows her eyes at her with a smirk "Laila, How many times do I have to tell you it's Ivie!" Laila leans in and whispers "I know but my boss says it's unprofessional to call clients by their first names" Ivie huffs.

"Right, all done!" she gets up from the seat and hands Laila some money "There's a little extra in there to take this boyfriend for a drink" she whispers, Laila tuts "You didn't have to do that!" she isn't having any of it "Now where is he?" Laila walks her to the reception desk.

Daniel knows the drill to take the money from Laila once she has gone.

He's sat down when he saw her, his face lights up. He gets up from his seat "Mrs. Evans..I mean Ivie, this is my boyfriend Harry Taylor..Harry this is my client of..." it takes her a moment to think "11 years Mrs. Ivie Evans" he offers her his hand and a bright smile, "It's a pleasure Mrs. Evans" she smiles at him "Oh please call me Ivie. Nice to meet you Harry!" she shook his hand "Isn't he handsome Laila! He has dimples too, they say you will never be without a girlfriend if you have dimples!" Harry chuckles "Well thank you, Ivie! I bet you have broken a few hearts in your time"

Ivie blushes "I like him, Laila!" they are interrupted by the sound of a car horn "Oh, that will be my grandson! He's giving me a lift home, Laila can you book me in for 8 weeks time just text me a time. It was nice meeting you Harry, you better take care of her or I'll be after you!" Laila hides a laugh "Don't worry I will. Nice to meet you to Ivie" Harry tells her as she leaves the shop she waves over to Laila.

Once she is out of sight Laila hands Daniel the money Ivie had given her "She's paid £15?" Daniel asks "She said she put some money in there for me to get my boyfriend a drink" Laila says as she empties her tip jar and hands Daniel the extra fiver "I don't know why you don't just ask her to pay the extra tenner" Daniel shook his head "Because I've been doing her hair for years and she's a pensioner"

Harry looks at her confused "Laila, only charges Mrs. Evans £10 for haircut and makes up the difference through her tips" Daniel tells him "Ten pounds difference right?" Harry asks, pulling out his wallet and sticking a tenner in Laila tip jar "Harry!" she pulls it out and hands it back to him, he holds up his hands refusing to take it back "Harry! You can't do that!"

He shrugs his shoulders "I just did and I didn't know about the tip system last time, so call it a late tip!" She huffs "Plus, she did say to you to get your boyfriend a drink!" He winks "Fine!" She pockets Harry's tip and the rest of the jar.

She helps Daniel lock up before leaving for the day, Harry links his fingers through hers "How long have you been doing that for Ivie?" Harry asks her as they walk home "Since I moved to this salon! My other boss didn't mind, but Dave wasn't having any of it" Harry smiles at her "You know you are terribly sweet and soft! But it's also super adorable!" she rolled her eyes at him.

After Poppy told him five weeks ago about Laila's birthday, he confirmed it with Alec that it was in 6 weeks on 5th August. She will be 31, Rem had given him a few present ideas all of them, he knew she would gone nuts, it had to be something sentimental. It took him a few days, but he came up with the perfect gift for her.

~*~*~*~

A couple of days later

Harry stayed at Laila's for the night, as it was her birthday the next day. Her parents were having a do at theirs, they had invited Harry's family, but his parents were on holiday in Rome. Rose offered to for them to flight back, but Harry told them it was fine. Surprisingly Colin suggested they would take the couple out for a meal when they got back to have belated birthday celebrations.

Once Laila fell asleep, Harry managed to sneak down to his car and decorate the flat with balloons, party streamers and banners. He popped the flowers he had bought in a vase with her card, present and small birthday cake in front of the bouquet.

He crept back into bed.

The next morning he woke before her, she was laying on her side with her back towards him. He pulled her towards his chest, she began to stir, he had an idea. His lips kissed just below her ear, his hand slips into her underwear and moves to part her folds "Hmmm..." she hums. He brushes against her clit, her breathing becomes heavy.

His muscular frame surrounded her, he pulls the straps of her top down replacing them with kisses. He only has to stroke over her a couple times before her centre is soaked "Hmm....what a way to be woken up!" He smirks against her shoulder, his lips press against her ear "Happy birthday gorgeous!"

He places a small kiss against her pulse line as 2 fingers enter her, he watches her bite her lip, she pushes the curves of her arse against him and she begins to grind her curves against his crotch. He backs away "Ah ah! Today is about you!"

She huffs, he wants her just as much but today is about her. His pace quickens, her hand reaches up behind her and clutches his hair. She throbs with pleasure, a hot frenzy threads through her body to her core and as he enters another finger inside her while his thumb press onto her clit. Her eyes drift shut as she bucked her hips, legs begin to shake as he curled his long digit inside her and stroked all the right places.

She's barely holding back, the edge in near and she is more than ready to fall over it. Her clutch on his hair tightens as she hits her climax, calling out his name but before she's down from her high, he flips her onto her back, pulls off her underwear and his lips are against her apex. His tongue parts her fold "Harry, wha...what are you doing?" She feels him smirk against her core, he lifts his head a little to look up at her "Making you come in every way possible!" she doesn't get to reply before his mouth is back against her centre.

A little later

Both spent, trying to catch their breath, they collapse back against the mattress. Her head rests on his rising chest "That was one way to wake me up!" he chuckles "Get your pajamas on, I have another surprise for you," she reaches for her underwear and she grabs his t-shirt pulling over herself. "I'm going to have to cover your eyes for this part" He moves behind her, in just his boxers. His hands, cover her eyes, he guilds her into the living room he decorated the night before.

He removes his hands, her eyes refocus as she looks around the room "Wow! This is lovely!" she turns and captures his lips, he smirks "That's not all!" he points over to the dining room table, where her presents are. "You didn't have to get me anything!" he chuckles "I wanted to" she walks over and opens her card. The front reads *Happy birthday to my beautiful girlfriend*

"Open the smaller present first," he tells her, she opens the smaller one. It's a small compact mirror, she looks at him confused, he flips it over and in permanent marker it says *Your dare is to get a kiss from who you think is the most attractive person in the room* she laughs remembering this was his dare he had asked her to help him with at the stag weekend. She pulls his lips to hers, he smirks against them "At least this time you didn't tell me to kiss my own reflection" they both laugh.

"Open the other one!" she turns to the last present, she opens the box inside is a silver locket "Harry...It's...beautiful!" he smiles "Just like the one your Great Nan had?" she takes a closer look, its very simpler "It is!?" he smirks "After you told me how much you loved it. I asked Remy to get a photo of it from your parents, but that's not all look inside and check out the back of it" she flips it over.

Engraved on the back are the words and the date she asked him to be her boyfriend *I love you x 12/06/20* she opens it up and the photo is the one he took of them together on top o2 arena. She rushes him, her arms wrap round him "Thank you so much! Honestly the best present ever!" he's glad she likes it "You're welcome, I'm glad you like it. You go and get in the shower and I'll cook us up some breakfast" she places a soft kiss against his lips and makes her way towards the bedroom.

Her phone is vibrating against the bedside table, she swipes the screen, she laughs as she shook her head at her friends.

After her shower, Harry serves up her breakfast waffles and fruit, he even lights a candle on the birthday cake "What did you wish for?" he asks "A new boyfriend," she teases him, but soon regrets it when he begins to tickle her "Ahh!" she screams "What did you say, Laila?" he loves hearing her laugh "OK, I was joking! The only boyfriend I want is you" he stops "Good! The feeling is mutual, Princess"

Laila meets Nikki outside her work "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" Nikki screeched at her before wrapping her arms around her friend, "Thank you! But I can't breathe" Nikki loosens her grip "What did Harry get you?" Laila lifts her locket to show her "Oh wow! Laila! That's gorgeous!" they head in for their appointment with Daniel.

Continue reading this story here - Chapter 15.

@lem-20​ @secretaryunpaid​ @shewillreadyou​ @aussieez​ @khoicesbyk​ @irisofpurple​ @tea-me-kah​ @casualpostqueen​ @gloriousalmondvoiddreamer

[celosiaa]

avoidance

From a wonderful prompt I received! “A cold going around the season 1 archival staff and them just actively avoiding Jon because they don't want him to get sick because they know it'll be worst for him with his asthma. What they don't know is Jon's already caught it and is getting the wrong idea and just thinks he's being avoided because they don't want to catch it from him.”

Hope you enjoy this short little sickfic! Featuring hard of hearing Tim, especially for @haunted-by-catholic-guilt :)

“Oh, there he comes, Sash.”

“How does he look?” she replies, being sure to speak louder while Tim has his face turned away.

“Can’t tell yet.”

Tim cranes his neck and squints to better catch a glimpse of Martin, who walks toward their office from the lift, bundled up against the unseasonably cold weather in a knit scarf and hat.

“God, I need to get new prescriptions,” he says, rubbing his eyes against the blurriness.  “He’s got a hat and scarf on, though.”

“Ooh, things are looking promising!”

Turning back to her, jaw hanging open in mock-indigence, Tim places a shocked hand against his chest.

“Miss James, I’m horrified!  You would wish illness on our poor poet, Martin Blackwood, Esquire?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” she says, sniffling a bit as she punches lightly at his arm.

“Morning, everyone,” Martin croaks as he steps in—though it must sound rather congested, judging by Sasha’s satisfied smirk, and she holds out her outstretched palm to him.

“Morning, Martin,” Tim replies at once, not willing to hand over his fiver just yet.  “How are you today?  Just peachy, I’ll bet?”

Throwing him a glare from where he’s sat down at his desk, Martin’s face suddenly goes hazy, his eyes unfocused as he pulls his scarf quickly over his nose—before sneezing thrice, harsh and miserable, breaking off into painful coughs to finish.

“Aw, Martin, I’m sorry,” Sasha coos in sympathy, patting his back with one hand while reaching out to accept Tim’s begrudging fiver with the other.

“Don’t you apologize, Sasha,” Martin croaks after he recovers himself, rubbing a tissue against his dreadfully pink nose.  “We all know this is Tim’s fault.”

“Excuse me???” Tim bursts, throwing his arms wide in a gesture of disbelief.

“Shut it, you know it’s true,” Sasha concurs, unwrapping a spare tissue box to donate to Martin’s desk.  “You’re the one who fraternized with Research, knowing they’ve had this bug going around for weeks.”

“Why are you both attacking me?” Tim shouts, breaking off to cough for a moment, his own illness not yet entirely abated.  “This is homophobic.”

“Not if we’re all queer, you arse!”

He returns to clutching at his chest, taking a dramatic inhale.

“Martin, she’s slinging me with the cruelest of insults!  Are you really going to sit there and do nothing?”

“Basically, yeah,” Martin replies, voice whittled down to a hoarse whisper—he makes sure to speak slowly, such that Tim can read his lips.  “Because she’s right, and you deserve it.”

“I’ll have you know, sir—“

Tim’s scolding is interrupted by the opening of the heavy door to document storage, from which Jon emerges—looking unkempt as ever, carrying a stack of files tucked beneath his left arm.  Nodding briefly at them in greeting, he hastens across the room to his office, and Tim just barely manages a glimpse of him pulling his inhaler out of his pocket before the door shuts. 

“Is he coughing?” Tim asks, turning to gauge their reactions.

“Yeah.  God, he sounds absolutely horrendous,” Martin croaks, wincing at the dreadful wheezing coughs, ineffectively muffled behind the door.

“It’s his own fault,” Tim mutters, earning him looks from both Martin and Sasha.  “What?  He could ask one of us to root through the dusty shelves for him,  you know, like a normal boss.  But he won’t, because he’s too damn stubborn.”

Knowing he’s at least a little bit right, Sasha and Martin say nothing, only continuing to listen with concern as Jon pulls twice from his inhaler, before finally seeming to get his breath back.

“We should all try to keep our distance from him,” Martin says at last, giving them both a significant look.  “I don’t want him to get this—not when he’s coughing like that.  Don’t want to put him at risk.”

Grin dropping from his face, Tim nods solemnly back at Martin, and Sasha follows suit.

“You’re right, mate.  We’ll do our best.”

“Yeah, it’s a deal, Martin.”

“Thanks,” Martin replies, flashing them a sunny, if not stuffed-up, smile.  “Right then, anything specific to work on today?”

—

For what feels like the hundredth time that day, Jon slams the pause button on the tape recorder, snatching up a tissue as fast as he can—near-silently stifling two into it.  It makes his head pound every time, tears at his already-battered throat, but he’d rather not spread whatever miserable illness he’s managed to catch all around the office.

Though it seems that they’d all been avoiding him well enough as it is.

He’s not a fool—he knows he’s got a fever, knows that he’s contagious and really ought to be avoided—but when Martin had neglected to bring him his afternoon tea that day, well…he was more than happy to blame the lump in his throat on the fever.  For all he tells himself that it doesn’t matter, that he ought to take care of himself, it does nothing to settle the ache in his chest.  The one that his inhaler can no longer take the edge off.

Sighing in frustration, Jon does his best to turn his focus back to his work—rising unsteadily to his feet to search for the next file.

What was the number again?

God, I’m dizzy.

He stretches out a hand to brace himself against the filing cabinet, blinking away the stars sparkling across his vision as he adjusts to standing.

Right.  01319…0…8?  9?

Wait, did I—did I finish the last statement?

He muffles a cough into his elbow, bracing even heavier on the cabinet.

Doesn’t matter, I’ll just get this one anyway.

Won’t need to get up again, at least.

“Looking for something, boss?”

Tim calls from his office door, which he’s propped open—perhaps in the subconscious effort to tempt Martin into bringing him tea. 

Pathetic.

“Jon?  You alright?”

“Oh—err, of course,” he says at once, lifting his head toward him.  “Can I help you?”

“I was the one asking,” Tim chuckles, stepping forward into his office—before immediately retreating again.

Oh.

“Sorry, I would help you, it’s just—you know, with this cold going around, better not.”

“R-right.”

Jon buries his hurt as quickly as possible, refusing to let it show on his face.

“Right, of course.  Then, err, just—carry on then, I suppose, Tim.”

Turning back to the cabinets, Jon tries to leave the conversation there, feeling his chest beginning to tighten with every passing moment.  He doesn’t want to get Tim ill, not when they’re all so clearly worried about catching it—

“Jon?  You’re—you look shaky, are you alright?”

Don’t cough don’t cough don’t cough

“Fine,” he croaks, even as he brings a hand up to press against his fluttering chest.

“What was that?” Tim asks, stepping just a bit closer, tilting his head to better read Jon’s lips.

Don’t don’t don’t

He can’t hold it back anymore.

At once, Jon doubles over with coughing, shallow wheezing accented by the rumbling of congestion deep within his lungs—all of it nearly sending him to the ground with the force of it.

“Jesus, Jon—just sit down, alright?  Christ,” Tim urges, at last entering the room to grab him by the shoulders, lowering him to sitting with his back against the filing cabinet.

Every thought of hiding or sparing Tim from contagion flies from his head, replaced only with the gasping need for air, his body screaming at him to breathe—

“What’s going on?” Martin asks from the door, scanning across the scene quickly, alarm rising at once.

“Get his inhaler,” Tim orders, tipping Jon’s head forward between his knees.

“Oh god.  Right—right, h-here, I’ve got it—Jon?”

He taps gently on Jon’s upper arm as he crouches.

“I’ve got it here, can you look up?”

It takes every shred of focus he has left to his power, but he does—reaching out to cover Martin’s hands with his own as he guides the inhaler to his lips, pressing down on the button and drawing as deeply as he can from it.

“Good, good, that’s—that’s good, Jon,” Martin stammers, still holding the inhaler within his reach.

“Take another,” Tim demands, voice leaving no room for argument.  “When you can.”

After a few more labored breaths, Jon complies—chest expanding a little more now, though he can still feel the crackling wetness at the edges of it.

“Here, Jon, I’ve got you some water,” Sasha says as she enters the room, undoubtedly having heard the commotion from outside.  “You alright?”

“Shouldn’t be here,” Jon rasps, seeing Martin’s hands in his periphery, reaching up to sign for Tim’s understanding.

“I know—we didn’t want to get you ill, Jon, but—“ Tim cuts off momentarily, running a hand through his hair in frustration.  “I mean, it sort of seemed like you needed help, right?”

Wait.

“You didn’t…you didn’t want…to get me ill?” Jon asks through panting breaths, finally feeling steady enough to lift his head.

“Well, no, we—“ Martin suddenly breaks off, scooting a little ways back from Jon as he realizes their proximity.  “Of course we didn’t want you to get ill, your asthma’s been so terrible the past few days.”

Jon shakes his head in confusion, brows furrowing as he glances between the three of them.

“I...I don’t—“

Oh.

Oh.

“You didn’t…know I was ill?” he asks, and Tim’s eyebrows shoot into his hair, turning back to share a glance with both Sasha and Martin.

“Oh no, Jon, I’m so sorry,” Martin laments at last, sniffling a bit into his sleeve.  “We didn’t—we thought that, well…we thought we were protecting you from getting it.”

The relief Jon feels at this is astonishing—certainly inordinate for the situation, but…he finds he does not care much altogether.  Even if just a bit, the knot in his chest seems to loosen—his breathing made easier just for a moment.

“Woah—you alright?” Tim asks with renewed concern, the cause uncertain to him, before—

He feels a tear beginning to slip down his face.

“Oh,” he says, hurriedly scrubbing it away.  “Oh, I—I’m sorry, I—I-I’m fine, it’s alright, I don’t know why—“

“It’s alright, Jon,” Sasha says from above him, leaning down to press a warm hand on his shoulder.  “Look, if you feel like you can stand, I’ll drive you home, okay?  You need to rest.  I’m serious.”

The look she gives him now, that they all give him—it’s nearly enough to bring a smile to his face, his mouth barely quirking up at one corner. 

“Y-yes, I—thank you, Sasha,” he says, allowing Tim and Martin to lift him slowly to his feet, leaning against them momentarily as he sways just a bit.

“You’re calling your doctor on the way,” Sasha continues, leading them out of his office and toward the lift.  “I’m not leaving you alone until you do.”

“R-right,” he pants against the exertion of their slow-paced walking.  “I—thank you.  I suppose.”

“Don’t mention it Jon,” Martin says softly as they bundle him into the lift.  “Just get well, okay?”

Something warm and lovely floods through Jon’s chest at this, and he cannot help but nod—a half-smile flickering across his face as the lift doors close.

[dontwanderoff]

just started reading the good doctor and even just by chapter 2 i’m loving it so much??? 🥺 i was gonna copy in my favourite line so far but it’s all of them. all of the lines. the fam actually acting like a family in the way i’ve been craving from the show is SO good i wanna cry. like this whole segment has a couple of my so far favourite bits:

Ryan loved to watch the Doctor dance with the TARDIS. That was what it was. Some days it was a jive, the Doctor jumping and prodding at the console, and some days it was more like a waltz; slow and deliberate. Today it was perhaps a flamenco type thing with added arm flourishes.

‘Well hopefully that settles your argument,’ the Doctor said as the TARDIS dematerialised. The vortex beyond the edges of the console room started to swirl and shift as they flew through space and time.

Yaz frowned. ‘What? Ryan said dogs were cleverer than humans.’

The Doctor’s eyes widened. ‘Yeah. And I think I ably demonstrated that they’re just as clever as each other. End of discussion.’

‘She’s got you there.’ Ryan gave Yaz a nudge.

‘OK, I owe you a fiver, whatever.’

Graham shook his head wearily, pulling off his shoes and giving his left foot a rub. ‘This life you lead, Doctor. Absolutely mad. Barking mad.’ A broad grin broke out on his face. ‘Barking. Geddit?’

The Doctor smiled, pulling a lever on the console. ‘Ooh, you’re wasted on us, Graham. You should be on the stage. Interesting story actually. Remember Laika? That poor doggo the Russians blasted into space? It’s her DNA the loba ultimately evolved from.’

Yaz’s jaw dropped. ‘What? No way?’

The Doctor’s eyebrows flashed up.

‘As if! You’re having us on? There’s no way ...?’ ‘Isn’t there?’

The Doctor gave Ryan a sly smile, but he had no idea if she was kidding or not. You never could tell with her.

like we have them teasing each other, making bets with each other, graham’s there with the dad jokes, the doctor looking to ryan with ‘a sly smile’, ryan and all his lovely observations of the doctor. and then on the next page:

The Doctor smiled as the TARDIS landed, the column grinding to a halt. ‘Yasmin. You do the time travel explanation for Graham, yeah? We’ll be back in five.’ She took Ryan by the hand. ‘Come on, you, let’s make this a ninja- like return visit.’

she grabbed his hand???? im gonna cry

[izzy-b-hands]

Eventuality Eventually

My first bit of Smile fic! Roger has bought a new van for himself/for the band! And it is...something. But of course, this is less about the van and more about the three goof balls that plan to ride around in it. Set in a loose-ish AU? If only because I’m doing real general research rn, so I might fumble things about the timeline as I go, if I write more after this one (which I would like to do!) Some Brian/Roger here as well, which I didn’t actually intend, but then I got going and suddenly here it is lol. 

A quick note too that Freddie is mentioned in this, but only in that this part of the timeline he was friends with them, and at this point was still using his old last name of Bulsara; just noting it so seeing that name isn’t a surprise!

My love to all who read/like/reblog!

“But does it run?” 

Roger looked horribly offended, his arms falling from their stretched out motion of presentation. “Of course it fucking runs! Wouldn’t have bought it, if it didn’t.” 

“I know,” Tim said. “It’s just that you like projects-” 

Roger shot him a dangerous look.

“And that’s a good thing! It shows preservation, and a willingness to put in hard work,” Tim continued. “We don’t want to be stranded again, is the thing.” 

“Was embarrassing, having your mum come pick us up,” Brian added. “She was so upset...” 

“It was awfully late,” Tim noted. “Can’t blame her; we did wake her up.” 

Roger frowned. “So you hate this van, is what you’re saying?” 

“We didn’t say that,” Brian said, but he didn’t unfold his arms or take a step closer towards the simultaneously rusting and rust-colored vehicle. 

“Safety comes to mind,” Tim said, trying to be diplomatic. “But I’m sure it’s better on the inside, isn’t it?” 

Roger smiled at that, and yanked open the side door of the van. It let out a shrill shriek of metal on metal, but Tim motioned for Brian to not say a word about it. 

“See?” Roger crouched inside and dropped into the passenger seat, pointing for them to take the two rows of seats behind the passenger and driver section. “Much better on the inside. You could sleep comfortably in this, if you wanted!” 

“There is a spring that nearly went up my ass,” Brian hissed to Tim, leaning awkwardly forward on his seat. 

“Nice material,” Tim said, running a hand over the worn and cracked leather. “Vintage!” 

Roger’s eyes were starry with happiness. “Exactly! That’s what I thought when I saw it. And good condition, considering the price.” 

“How much did you pay for this?” Brian asked. 

“It was a steal,” Roger replied with a grin as he leaned back in his seat, tossing his feet up on the dashboard, watching them with the cracked rearview mirror. 

“That’s not a number,” Brian said. “How much, in an amount with numbers, did you pay for this?” 

Roger looked wounded again, and internally, Tim sighed. They could go from being the best of friends to stabbing at each other in a heartbeat, these two. It made him think of fencers: neither stabbed to kill, but occasionally they landed a hit that bruised and then looked to him as some sort of ref, as if he should have somehow ripped the saber from the other’s hand before the blow could land. 

“I don’t know if it matters much, if Roger isn’t asking for us to give him any towards it,” Tim said. “Are you, Rog?” 

Roger shook his head. “Just toss me money for upkeep and fuel every now and again, or buy me dinner.” 

“Like your girlfriends then,” Brian snorted, and Tim reached an arm back to slap at his leg. 

“Yeah, but you don’t get what they get out of it,” Roger said as he stuck his tongue out at the mirror, his reflection sending it to Brian in the backseat. 

“A warm sweaty number of nights in the back of a rusty van?” Brian mused sarcastically. “Isn’t that basically what we have every time we drive back from a show?” 

“Those are notably less...” Roger paused. “Well. They’re fun, but not the type of fun-” 

“I think we get the picture,” Tim interrupted quickly.

“Oh, but I could paint a better one,” Roger grinned mischievously. “C’mon Tim. Let me use my brush and make that one blush.” 

But Brian was already blushing, and looking more frustrated by the minute. 

If he didn’t do something, the sabers would be tossed away, and they’d be fighting with fists, at least metaphorically. 

“Why don’t we finish the tour of the van, and then go for lunch?” Tim offered. “My treat?” 

It was a blessing that, as low on money as they could be on occasion, they were often food-motivated creatures. Tim included himself in that, and the promise of food, even if he had to buy it for himself, was what kept him going now. 

“Not much more to see,” Roger sighed, clearly still nursing some hurt. “There’s enough space back there for our gear, behind the coat rack they’ve apparently included on the second row of seats-” 

“Hey!” Brian shouted. “You ought to talk, you...” 

He fumbled, blushing somehow redder still, and Tim felt for him. It was obvious to him that both Brian and Roger were stumbling around feelings for each other, but neither of them made it easy. Truthfully, he was hoping they’d just finally confess to each other about it, or fuck, or both. 

He did have a bet riding with Freddie Bulsara on the fucking though, and a fiver to win if he was right and they did it within the next six months. 

Brian was still stuck as Tim tumbled out from his thoughts, and he gave him a gentle poke to the knee. 

“Are you going to say something rude to him, or not?” Tim asked. “Just wondering if we can go get lunch now, or if we ought to wait you out.” 

Brian gave him a look, then sighed. “No. I’ll make up for it later. Let’s go.” 

“That’s so sweet of you,” Roger laughed as he moved to the driver’s seat, keys jingling as he forced them out of his tight trouser pocket. “You’ll really give it to me later, huh? Make me cry?” 

Tim nearly blushed himself. Surely, Roger could hear himself, and knew how he sounded...

But then, he almost definitely did know, and that had to be supplying the shit-eating smile Roger was wearing as he glanced at them in the rearview mirror again. 

“I don’t ever want to make you cry,” Brian said, but Tim could not for the life of him tell if he was being sarcastic or genuine or if this was Brian trying to flirt. 

“Yet you did drop that amp on my foot,” Roger said as he started the van, that made an odd belching sound as it woke up. “And then I did cry and swear for two minutes.” 

“That was an accident,” Brian said. “Your foot was fine.” 

“You never did say sorry.” 

“I did so!” Brian protested, and tapped Tim on the shoulder. “You heard me; I did!” 

“You did, but you did say it while blaming him for your dropping your end of it,” Tim said. 

“He did make me drop it!” 

“I did not!” Roger shouted back, eyes half on the road and half glaring at Brian in the rearview mirror. 

Before Tim could beg Roger to keep his gaze more on the road, Roger hit the brakes hard enough to toss him out of his seat as he pulled them to a barely big enough street parking space. 

“Get out of my van!” 

“This is a band vehicle; I don’t have to go anywhere!” Brian’s usually soft voice was harsh now, and he was yelling more in Tim’s ear than anything else as Tim scrabbled off the floor and back onto his seat. 

“I’ll make you get out!” 

“Good, make me!” 

“I will!” 

“I’d like to see you fucking-” 

“Will the two of you kiss, or fuck, or whatever you need to do to make this stop?!” Tim shouted, and they fell silent.

He had planned to say that in his head, and it dawned on him after another beat of silence that he had said it aloud instead. 

They were both blushing, bright red, eyes wide. 

Roger swallowed hard. “That obvious, is it?” 

“You’re both so bad at hiding it,” Tim said weakly. “I mean that kindly, as much as I can.” 

Brian nodded. “Well?” 

“Well what?” Roger asked softly.

“Are you going to make me get out of the van?” 

Roger gave Tim a nervous glance, then slipped out of the driver’s seat and moved past him to Brian. 

He stayed long enough to see the kiss, then slipped out of the van quietly as Brian pulled Roger down with him onto the seat. It was a blessing that the back of the van didn’t have windows except for one at the far back door. 

He pulled the keys from the ignition and pocketed them before he left, his destination the nearest shop that had food that would qualify as lunch and be fairly cheap. 

With one detour, to the nearest phone box. 

“Bulsara? Yeah, just wanted to give you an update. A kiss, and they might be fucking in the back of our new van. If you’d like to come down and have lunch with us, you could give me that fiver right away...” 

[sugarfics]

Stubborn

A/N: here’s my first Umbrella Academy fic! I got so many good prompts in my inbox and decided to write this fic featuring a stubborn Five and two mischievous older brothers. I also gave Five a new nickname; “Fiver”. Idk, I just liked it. I have another UA fic in the works, so stay tuned!

I used these prompts: “no hard feeling if u don’t write this but maybe a fic with lee!five being stubborn and insisting he’s “not even that ticklish” so klaus dares him to like try to keep his arms up or not laugh and bc he’s got a big ego he can’t turn down the challenge lmao?? ilysm x” from @ticklishraspberries and

“Could you write Klaus and Diego finding out that Five’s ticklish and just. Using the opportunity to wreck him and tease the hell out of him because “oh my god super tough angry Five is TICKLISH that’s adorable”??” from a lovely anon!

Boredom and curiosity was a deadly combo for Klaus. It always ended with getting him in trouble in some way, but that wasn’t going to stop him.

He wandered through the house trying to find a sibling to pester when he came across Five sitting on the couch in the den, reading a book. Although he looked content and peaceful, Klaus was about to ruin that. He crept up behind Five and poked both of sides, eliciting a shriek of surprise from his normally stoic older-younger brother.

“Oh-ho! What is this? I forgot how ticklish you are.” Klaus mused while continuing to squeeze his sibling’s sides. Five squirmed in his seat and spun around to grab Klaus’s hands.

“That’s enough. I’m not ticklish.”

That caught Klaus by surprise.

“Oh really?”

“Yes, really.” Five deadpanned, returning to his book. “I’m not a child.”

“Technically-“

“Shut up.”

A moment of silence. “Okay, if you’re so tough and definitely not ticklish, I wanna give you a challenge. If you can keep your arms above your head for 15 seconds while I tickle you, I’ll buy you a drink.”

Five paused. “Klaus don’t be stupid.”

“C’mon, Five! You refusing to take this challenge just makes me think that you’re too ticklish to handle it.”

“Oh fuck you, fine. I’ll fuckin do it.”

Five marked his page and set his book on the side table, and laid down on his back on the couch. Klaus didn’t hesitate in straddling his legs, a predatory grin on his face. A small tremor of nerves fluttered in Five’s chest, but he squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. He was not about to let Klaus have the satisfaction of being right.

“Arms up, Fiver.”

Five rolled his eyes as he put his arms up over his head. “This is childish.”

Klaus couldn’t help but smile at his stubborn brother. “Okay ready? One-“ and before even saying two, Klaus dug his fingers under Five’s arms, scribbling away. Five squealed and both of his arms shot down immediately. Klaus burst out into laughter of his own. “Oh this is too good! You didn’t even last one second!”

Due to Klaus’s hands still being trapped in his armpits, Five was stuck still giggling. “Yohou bahastard! I wasn’t reheady!” Klaus withdrew his hands and Five took a deep breath.

“So...you’re telling me that if I really count to 3 and give you time to brace yourself, that you’ll be able to keep your arms up?”

Five stood strong. “Absolutely.”

“Alright, you said it. Arms up.”

Five put his arms up more hesitantly than the first time, but nevertheless did so with a smug smirk on his face. As Klaus began his countdown, he inched his claw-shaped hands closer to Five’s body. As he followed Klaus’s fingers with his eyes, Five’s smirk melted into a nervous smile.

“Three...two..” and before he even touched Five he burst into giggles and slammed his arms down. Klaus huffed, both amused and slightly frustrated.

“I haven’t even touched you yet!”

Five took a shaky breath and said “Wait wait wahait, let me try again.” He started to put his arms up a third time, but couldn’t keep himself from giggling every time he started to lift his arms further, until ultimately he brought them down again. This stubborn battle probably would have gone on longer, had Diego not waltzed into the room and seen the scenario playing out on the couch.

“Uhhh what are you guys doing?” He questioned, tentatively.

Klaus smirked. “Five here is currently losing a bet I made him. He seems to be having trouble keeping his arms up while I tickle him, why don’t you help him keep them up Diego?”

A predatory gleam of older brother mischief lit up Diego’s eyes, and he walked over to a now thrashing and begging Five on the couch. “Anything for my dear brother.” He said with a grin.

Diego pulled both of Five arms up over his head and sat on his forearms. With Diego pinning his arms and Klaus sitting on his legs, he was truly fucked.

“Guys I swear to god don’t you fucking dare, this is chIHIHILDIHIHISH!!!” In the middle of Five’s complaining, both brothers went to work demolishing him. Klaus skittered his painted nails across Five’s lower tummy, while Diego scratched at his neck and ears. Five squeaked and burst into a fit of bubbly boyish giggling. He felt his face heating up from hearing himself laugh like that, but he couldn’t put too much thought into it since his mind was scrambling with the sensation of four devilish hands on him.

Diego laughed. “Still just as ticklish as when we were kids.” Five was squirming like mad, and both brothers had to struggle to keep him pinned down.

“Damn Five, stop floundering like a fish! Just relax!”

“You still wanna tell me you’re not ticklish?” Klaus teased.

“SHUHUT THE FUHUCK UP!!!”

Klaus skittered his nails down Five’s schoolboy shorts-clad legs, while musing aloud. “Hmm, I wonder if your ticklish spot is still the same. Riiiiiight...” and he squeezed the space right above Five’s knee eliciting a desperate shriek. He grinned. “Here.”

Five’s thrashing became even more desperate, his heels drumming against the couch in an attempt to escape the torturous fingers scribbling over his knees. Diego moved his hands down to tickle under his arms again, and now Five was really in hell.

Klaus grinned. “Yknow Five, you really shouldn’t wear shorts all the time. It makes your ticklish spot so accessible.”

Five squealed and shook his head wildly. “STOHOHOP IHIHIT!!!!”

A string of giggly threats was hurled at both of his brothers, cursing their existence and promising deadly things in their sleep. But they couldn’t help but smile. They hadn’t heard Five laugh like this in years. He used to be the main subject of Hargreeves family tickle fights, due to his small stature and amazing laugh. But since the siblings had drifted apart and since found each other again, it had been a long time since they just did things annoy their younger brother just because they could.

“PLEEEHEHEHESE!!!”

Klaus and Diego shared a familiar smile, knowing where this part ended.

“And the begging begins!” Klaus announced. He momentarily paused his torment on Five’s legs to push up his shirt. This caused Five’s laughter-laced begging to grow even more frantic.

“Klahaus, plehehehese!! Plehehese don’t!”

“Don’t what?” He asked innocently.

“Yohou fuhuhucker!! You know whahat!”

“Yeah, I do. But I’m gonna do it anyway.” Klaus pressed his lips to Five’s bare stomach and blew a long raspberry onto his skin. Five squealed and kicked his legs more, trying go throw him off. Diego let out a loud laugh at the noise that came out of Five’s mouth, and strengthened his hold on his arms. Klaus blew raspberry after raspberry on different areas of his stomach.

“AAAAAAHAHA!!! The beheheard makes it soho much woHORSE!!”

Klaus paused for a moment and laughed.

“Yeah I didn’t have that when we were kids.”

He rubbed his face into Five’s soft skin, relishing in the peal of laughter it brought. Five arched his back and tried to wrench his hands free from Diego’s iron grip.

“PLEHEHEASE!!!!” He squealed, shaking his head frantically. Diego looked down at Five; his face was bright red and eyes were squeezed shut, a helpless smile on his face. His hair was wild from his squirming, and when he opened his eyes they were sparkly and brimming with tears of laughter. Despite Diego’s surly exterior, his heart melted at the sight. It was nice to see Five so happy, considering that he was robbed of most of his childhood.

“As much as I’m enjoying this,” Diego said with another pinch to his rib cage, “I think we better give him a breather.” Klaus reluctantly withdrew his hands, and he and Diego got off of their brother. Five curled up on his side, still overcome with residual giggles from the tingly feeling still ghosting over his skin.

“Yohohou suck.” He muttered, still smiling.

“Yeah yeah, we know.” Diego said with a grin as he ruffled Five’s already-messy hair.

“Even though you didn’t win our bet, I’ll still buy you that drink cause I’m such a good brother. Cmon lets go.” Klaus added.

As Five dragged himself off the couch, Diego and Klaus both slung an arm around him and the three brothers headed out the door.

[the-fiction-witch]

Toy

REAL LIFE : MILD FUTURE

COUPLE TBS X READER KINDA RATING: THE CUTEST FIC EVER

Might make a p2 just because this is gonna be so dam cute

"melody?" Y/n asks our little girl, melody was on the floor with her blankets and her books having built a little blanket tent I sat on the sofa watching my show and keeping and eye on melody, "didn't you want to look at the book?" She encouraged,

We had a clear out last week just because as melody was getting older she didn't need so much of her baby stuff anymore so we had a clear out but melody got rid of so many if her toys that people had gotten her she said she didn't like them or that she doesn't play with them, and it was kinda true melody only really reads her books she doesn't really play with dolls or toys or even plushies really, y/n was sat trying to get her to look though the toy catalogue to see if she liked anything but to no avail she sighed getting up and playfully hitting my arm before going to make lunch so I smiled laying in the floor next to melody's tent

"You know mummies just trying to help" i tell her and she nods "you sure you don't even want to look?" I ask and she shakes her head "you sure? You can have any toy you like?" I said giving her head a kiss and she giggled as she often does, melody doesn't talk much we're not sure why she just doesn't speak all that often she communicates shakes her head and such like but doesn't often speak to me or to y/n, maybe her starting school soon will help

"Any toy?" She asks and I nod

"Anything you want in the whole wide world my little princess" I told her so she got up and tried to drag me with her so I got up confused where she was leading me she led me to the office me and y/n share we use to have a office each but since melody came along and all, we went in and she tugged me over to the huge bookcase where y/n stores the stuff she collects and I do too, something we both collect is Thunderbirds stuff and melody pointed to the very top to one of the figures so I got it down or her and she smiled widely "this toy?" I ask, it was the mercanic figure, 30 centimetres and with the accessors still in mint condition of course as we had collected it and she nods like crazy "well melody, this is mummies toy it's part of her collection remember we don't play with the shelf toys" I remind and she looked so sad so I took it putting it back in its place "of you really want that, we'll get you one all for your own princess"I told her and she smiled Hugging me tightly

The very next day it arrived so I took it all out the box much to both me and y/n's pain, to take this stuff out its packaging "has she even watched the show?"y/n asks

"No, I didn't think she was old enough yet" I explain

"Then why does she like it so much?"

"No idea honey, but if she likes it and she's actually going to play with it then it's a victory right?" I asked

"And how are we going to explain to her he's the bad guy?" She asks

"He's a sympathetic villain"

"Still a villain Thomas, she'll watch the show and it will break her little heart" she says "plus how on earth are we ever going to explain to a three year old why she hears daddy on the tv?"

"Ohh I didn't think of that? That won't mess her up right? Like how they say don't show kids some shows to early else they can't tell fiction from reality? Is that gonna break her head?" I asked very worried

"I don't know, guess we will have to find out" she sighed just as melody came in from the garden

"Melody, we have a present for you" I smiled giving her the toy and she smiled more then I had ever seen before she hugged us both tightly

"Thank you, thank you, Thank you" she smiled taking it and hugging it close

"Okay melody you ready for your first day at school?" I asked her and she nods "okay? Now school says you get to bring someone first week so.. do you want mummy or daddy to come to school with you?" I asked her as she got dressed for school

"Daddy! Mummy says she's busy" she says

"Mummy's not to busy Mummy will go if you'd like her too?" I smiled

"Daddy" she smiled Hugging me tight

"Okay princess daddy will come" I smiled giving her head a kiss as I did her shoes for her "school also says for the first few weeks you can bring a toy with you, what toy would you like to take?" I asked imaginating her to run and get her plush bunny or her doll or something from her room but she went straight to her bed getting her mechanic toy "Uhhh okay, are you sure?" I asked a little surprised and she nods "okay" I shurg Letting her pick her books for her bag as I went down to y/n

"You going to school?" She asks

"Yes" i sighed giving her a fiver

"Knew she'd pick you" she laughs making me some food and giving me my coffee in a nice big travel mug "there's your pack lunch" she laughs handing them to me

"Don't be cheeky y/n else tomorrow I'll have a very sudden important meeting at work so you have to go to school" I tell her

"Who one the toy bet?" She asks

"Neither of us" I said

"What?" She asks

"She's taking the mercanic"I laughed

"To school?" She asks and i nod "but aren't all the other little girls gonna have plushies and Barbie's? I don't imagine the teacher being to thrilled with her bringing a toy thats a supervillain" she laughs "well so long as she's happy I suppose"

Just as melody came down with her back pack and her toy cuddling in her arms such an odd thing to see, a pretty blonde girl in her little white and blue school dress Hugging a Thunderbirds bad guy, Don't see that every Monday morning. Y/n put melody's lunch in her backpack giving her lots of kisses before melody went to get in the car I only got one kiss which was a little upsetting I wanted tones of kisses too, oh well. Let's see how this goes today.

[sheepsandcattle]

Chapter 18

Sitting in a cab with Brandon, heading for his dad’s house from the bus station, was probably about the longest Curly’s held a piss in – to this day. Every bump in the road had him cringing and Brandon gagging. He supposes he’d rather be on the edge of pissing than on the edge of yoshing over the back of the driver’s seat.

“Curly,” Brandon had whispered, waiting for his mate to look his way before he’d said, “I’m gonna—“

“I know,” he cut him off, trying not to laugh (because he would literally have pissed himself) as he reached across the middle seat to pat his friend’s thigh. He raised his voice to ask, “mate, can we open a window?”

The driver said no but they did anyway, and spent the rest of the journey in silence until they reached his dad’s house and had to beg the driver to accept the only fiver to Curly’s name, despite it being half the amount the journey was meant to be.

He’d shushed Brandon as he chundered loudly into the bushes that lined the green on the street corner, as Curly himself pissed against a tree that still read ‘CURLY BRANDON WILL SUCK DICK FOR £££’ with his phone number hazardously scratched out beneath it.

“Fuck sake,” Brandon grumbled, and Curly turned just in time to witness him topple into the overgrowth.

“Dickhead,” he snorted, doing his fly as he passed his mate, who grumbled as he struggled out of the bush and caught up to him back on the pavement. “We’ve got t’be quiet,” Curls went back to whispering as they passed his dad’s neighbour’s front yard. “Gee’s sleeping. Jus’ don’t yosh in the upstairs bathroom.”

“I’ve just fell on my-“

“I know.”

“I’ve got sick all over—“

“Shh,” Curly swallowed a laugh; held his breath until the giggle evaporated somewhere in his belly. “I know, mate.”

Why did they decide to share that spliff whilst they waited for the cab? As if they weren’t shitfaced enough already.

His keys were still somewhere in Leeds, but he managed to pull the spare one from beneath the plant pot outside without it toppling and spilling all over the path. He unlocked the door and the two of them tiptoed inside in perfect silence, despite tripping over the rug in the hall. Even Mary didn’t bark, by some miracle - probably too old by then to be arse with his bollocks.

It wasn’t until he had his head over the sink, drinking from the tap when his sister peered into the kitchen. She wore pyjamas covered in a cartoon he’d never seen before and her hair was so mad that he choked on the water still in his mouth as he giggled.

“El?”

“Hiya, Gee.”

Brandon had cheered, “it’s Genie Clarke!”

“Shh! For fuck’s sake, Brandon.”

“Have you had some drinks?” Genie stepped away from the door and into the kitchen. “What’s that smell?”

Brandon and Curly’s replies mashed up into a mess of, “sick,” and, “wee,” and, “you can’t talk about weed to a kid,” and, “I said wee, bell-end,” and, “stop bloody swearing!”

“Dad!”

“No,” Curly hissed, arms waving frantically. “No, Gee. Go back to bed, yeah? We’re jus’ going to sleep.”

“Just getting a glass of water,” Brandon supplied and snatched a mug from the draining board and held it under the still-running water. “Mmm, yum. I’m parched. Are you parched, Curls? Spitting feathers, I am.”

“Mate, actually shut your mouth.” He reached over to smack the back of Brandon’s head.

“Shut your mouth!” Curls got a solid a shove back, sending him stumbling a bit before he pushed himself away from the kitchen counter, trying not to smile (because it was not fucking funny!) as he gives him another nudge.

“Shut—“

“Elliot, what the hell are you doing?�� Their heads whipped back around to the door, where his dad stood in his boxers behind Genie, squinting as he placed a hand on the top of her head. “You’re meant to be in Leeds.”

“Yeah, it…”

“Cancelled,” Brandon chimed.

Mr Clarke’s frown only deepened. “Leeds festival was cancelled.”

The two boys shared a look and Curly had scoffed when Brandon winked.

“Your eyes look sore,” Gee say.

“No, Gee—“ Curls did a slow blink, breathing deeply as he clung to what was left of his sobriety. “—they do not.”

“You’re off your face.”

“No dad, we are not.” He blinked again.

“I think you better go to bed, lads.”

***

Genie calls him about a week after Brandon leaves. It’s nice; they’re all in Cornwall and she’s buzzing about the new house they’re staying in because the old lady next door has a black and white dog that looks like one their dad used to have. He’d only done a line when they rang and he’s glad he’s only a bit high because he’d be kicking himself if he wasn’t present for a call with his sister.

He’s also glad that he discovered how effective it is to do coke in order to forget how much he wants to do heroin instead. All he really needs to worry about these days is if he wants a nice pick-me-up or an easy come-down.

“I’m surprised you can remember Mary before she went grey,” Curly smiles into the phone as his sister goes on.

“I can’t, but that’s what mum said. The view in my room is dead nice,” she digresses. “I’ve taken some photos so dad can send them to you.”

He can hear wind around Genie’s voice and she’s out of breath as she walks. He hears her mum in the background talking about what to eat for lunch, then hears his dad say, “don’t forget I want to talk to him.”

“Cheers Gee, that’d be nice,” he says just to humour her. He ignores his dad’s voice for now as he puts the phone on loudspeaker whilst he rolls a joint. “Are you on a walk?”

“Yeah, we’re just climbing this hill so we can see Land’s End,” she announces and then, in a whisper, “I don’t know what that means.”

“Probably the end of the land, love,” he laughs, sealing his spliff. Head’s still banging. “Take some pictures up there n’all, yeah?”

“I will but the memory card’s nearly full and we still need ‘go to—“ She lets out a miserable groan, then huffs. “El, dad wants ‘speak to you. I’ve got ‘go.”

Curls chuckles, says, “alright, Gee. Love you,” as he puts the phone on speaker while he lights up.

She repeats the words back to him and, after a little scuffling on her end, his dad takes over the phone. He hears him tell Jenny and Gee to walk ahead before he says, “alright, El?”

Fuck sake.

It’s worth noting that he’s been missing his dads calls for a good few weeks now - ever since he rowed with his mum. They still speak sometimes -his parent- exclusively about him because he’s not always the best at communicating and he supposes it can take a team effort to get through to him sometimes.

“Alright, dad,” he returns, already scuffing his feet guiltily.

“Your mum’s worried,” he says simply, wasting no time, but it’s not particularly stern. Curly already knows this - and his dad knows that he knows, n’all. “I’ve been trying to phone you. Reckon you might need someone to talk to.”

He takes a long drag, taking his time to hold the smoke before breathing into the phone just to make the time it takes for him to think up an answer feel just a bit shorter - for himself, at least. “I’m fine,” he says. “You know what she’s like.”

“She said you could barely speak.”

Curly snorts. “I don’t remember that,” he says, but then decides it’s a poor choice of words. “It wasn’t as bad as she was making out, I bet.”

In high school his mum would catch him stumbling home pissed- had done more times than he can count. She never did like him getting up to that stuff, but his dad was so easy-going, would always say, “I’d rather know where you are and what you’re doing than have you sneaking around behind my back.”

Curly never really kept things from his dad back then - even told him about the pills he and Brandon took in Leeds, which he wasn’t too chuffed about, but admitted he’d done a similar thing in his youth.

“What did she find in your bag?“

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I told her that—“

“I don’t like the idea of that bloke digging about in your things—” his dad interrupts him, trying to stay on-side, it seems. “—but it was still there.”

“I said—“

“She doesn’t believe what you said,” he sighs. “I don’t either, El.”

He presses his forehead against the fridge door, feeling weird and jittery as he shakes his head against the cool plastic. “Please don’t—.” He cuts himself off because he doesn’t know how to finish.

“I saw Brandon the other day. Stubborn pain in the arse, isn’t he?” His dad forces a laugh, trying to sound neutral as he adds, “have you had a word with him about it?”

As if he’d tell Brandon. He loves the guy to pieces but he’s too bloody soft. He wouldn’t be able to wrap his head around it; if he didn’t underestimate how deep Curly was in this shit, he’d panic and… chain him to a tree until he was clean or some daft.

What did Brandon say?

“He doesn’t know,” he mumbles. That’s right: he doesn’t know. So he can’t have said anything.

“I think he does, El. If you won’t speak to me about it, talk to him. He clearly didn’t want to bloody tell me. I know it took you a bit to feel at home there, mate. If you’re still feeling isolated, or— or lonely—”

“I have to go.”

He hangs up before can dig himself any deeper.

Brandon doesn’t answer his calls. He’s not sure if he wants to have a go at him for saying whatever it is that he said to his dad, or if he wants to take his old man’s advice and just talk, but he doesn’t answer anyway.

Curly returns to his bedroom where he sorts blunts and baggies, ready for the weekend. Got nothing better to do. Parties never seem appealing anymore - not until he’s too fucked up to forget he doesn’t fancy being there. Might as well be prepared.

Am I lonely?

His shakes his head - which is still killing him, and his jitters are unreal, but he tests some of the new coke he’s been getting in, rubs it into his gums (just a few samples to be sure) and it turns out it’s just as good as the last batch – maybe better.

“Brandon,” he mumbles into the phone on his third attempted call, when he finally lets it go to voicemail. “… Fuck you. You don’t…” He rubs a shaky hand over his face. “What’ve you said? I— You aren’t fucking there for me when I need you, you’re just… You’ve made it all shit.” He’s sure he says more but he forgets half the shit that come out of his mouth by the time he’s hanging up and selecting ‘block number’ for shits and giggles.

Maybe he should call Jordan again too because, thanks to him, Curly’s gone from always up-to-something to having fuck-all to do - ever. Thanks to him, he can barely see Jeff and Dean because he’s sick off lying about what happened with Jordan and thanks to him, Curly can’t even remember how to have a good time on his own.

He forgets to call him.

By the time Jules gets home, he’s tried snorting a bit too, just to carry out a fair test and to get rid of this stupid fucking headache.

“Jules, love,” he calls as he wobbles out of his room at the first sound of the door. His roommate chucks his phone onto the couch before he flops down himself.

“Not now, Curly. I’m not in the mood for your—“

“I’ve got summet to tell you,” he announces as he points at the man. “It’s important.”

Jules groans, rolls his eyes. “What?”

“It’s about Jordan.”

Another groan, more obnoxious this time as Jules folds his arms over his chest. “I thought you stopped talking to him. The guy’s got issues.”

“I have. I did.”

“Okay, so?”

He tries to speak but his words catch in his throat as he falls onto the couch beside Jules as his lip begins to tremble. Suddenly he’s crying like a baby as he presses his face into his friend's shoulder. He sniffs as Jules sits rigidly under his weight.

“Curls, what the fuck?” He’s whispering like he doesn’t want them to get caught like this. Jules isn’t the type of mate whose shoulder you cry on, but Curly doesn’t have that type of mate around at the minute. “Why—“

“I’m so fucking lonely.”

[a-little-international]

Stable (3)

Summary: Even Tom knows it’s a cliché  for the stable hand to fall in love with the star rider.

Pairing: Tom Holland/OC

Warnings: petty and hormonal teenage boys

Words: 2,791

A/N: since moving back home, i’ve started riding again and honestly there’s a distinct lack of male stable hands in my age range which is UNACCEPTABLE and is the primary reason for reviving this fic.

The Series: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

Chapter 3

Wednesday rolled around much faster than Tom ever wanted it to, dreading having to spend the hours after school running after Harrison Osterfield and trying his best to avoid the topic of Ren. Knowing Harrison, that was unlikely, but he still held out hope. The only good thing about Wednesdays was that the last two hours were a double art class with his mum, and his best friend Jacob sitting by his side.

“Do you think they made out?” Jacob asked, pushing down on his lump of clay, “Like with tongues and everything?”

Tom slammed his chunk of clay on the table, grimacing at Jacob, “Can you shut up?” he replied, his voice hushed as he glanced up to see if his mother had overheard. “And I’m sure if they did it was with tongues, we’re not twelve anymore dude.”

“Yeah and it’s Osterfield, guy’s such a slimy bugger I bet he shoved it all the way down her throat,” Jacob carried on, sticking his tongue out as far as possible to demonstrate, adding slurping and gagging sounds for effect.

“Shut up,” Tom reiterated, clenching his hands into the clay at the thought of Harrison all over Ren. He was jealous, he knew he was and he knew it was a terrible thing to do and Ren didn’t owe him a second of her time, let alone her affection, but he just wished she wasn’t into Harrison of all people. He didn’t even want to know what the implication of them being at boarding school together meant -  he’d heard plenty about the goings on between students at Saints and he tried to push Ren’s potential involvement with any of that as far out of his mind as he could possible manage.

As if Jacob could read his mind, he rambled on, “Do you think they’ve slept together?”

“Ugh, Jacob! Please!” Tom exclaimed, throwing his head back. He did not want to be thinking about this mere hours before having to look at Harrison all evening.

“You need to face the facts, Tom. They’re probably banging and she’s never going to look at you that way.”

“Ouch,” Tom pouted as he continued to squish the clay between his hands, in no way following his mother’s instructions.

“You have been pining over her for too long, my friend. This may actually be a good thing! You’ll be able to go off to University without having to dream forever more about the beautiful yet elusive Ren.”

“Not sure if I’m even going to Uni,” Tom sulked, tugging the sleeves of his uniform jumper higher up his elbows so they wouldn’t get too ruined.

“Well my point still stands, you can’t mope about for the rest of your life Thomas. Plenty of fish, and all that.”

Tom frowned at his friend, not loving where this conversation had headed when all he’d wanted was a pep talk for later. “You’re mister romantic, what happened? Since when are you so anti pursuing what could possibly be the love of your life?” he exclaimed, kneading down on his clay.

Jacob smirked as he leaned against the table, his blob of clay totally forgotten about. “Listen, I am all for pursuing the love of your life. I just want to posit that there may be more than one, and you’ve gotta let it go when you know you’ve been beaten. Plenty of fish, you hear me? You’ll find more success elsewhere, young padawan.”

“Fine, Obi,” Tom sighed, rolling his eyes, “but I don’t know that I’ve been beaten yet. We don’t know for sure that anything has ever happened between them and so I might still be in with a chance. She said I was her favourite on Saturday,” he added proudly, as if that proved anything.

Jacob snorted and returned to his clay, “Alright casanova, let me know how to that goes. But I’ll bet you five quid and the snickers at the bottom of my bag that you’ll find out plenty from Harrison this evening.”

“I’ll take you up on the fiver, but I don’t want anything to do with that rank snickers.”

“Suits me,” Jacob shrugged, shooting a grin at his best friend and Tom knew he was only trying to protect him from another round of heartache and pining. This sort of thing happened every few months, where Ren was concerned. She would say something, and Tom would completely misinterpret it and get his hopes up and nothing would happen and on the cycle would go.

“Boys, come on, less gossiping more creating!” Tom’s mother’s voice brought him out of his thoughts and he grinner up at her, desperately hoping she hadn’t overheard any part of their conversation. Knowing her, though, that seemed highly unlikely. He wondered if she would bring it up at dinner, or store it away for later referral. She winked back at him as she walked away, tapping her fingers against his desk. Tom dropped his head, groaning internally at the thought of having to discuss this with her later.

---

“Alright Tom, can you grab Skylark next please, Harrison’s just arrived and he’ll want to jump right up.” Called his dad from the barn doors, a bunch of polo mallets tucked under his arm.

“Daaaaad,” Tom groaned, throwing his head back as he pulled a face, “can’t I go get someone else? Literally anyone else, please,” he begged, approaching his dad.

Peering out at the courtyard he saw Harrison talking to his mother through the open car window as he pulled on his gloves, looking clean and tidy and expensive as ever. Tom scuffed his worn out boot tip against the flagstones.

Dominic Holland looked over his shoulder to give his son a stern look, one eyebrow raised. “Now Tom, you’ve got about three minutes to pick up that attitude and get Skylark out to the field.”

“Literally anyone else.” Tom repeated himself, his eyes practically begging his father to relent.

Mr. Holland was not to be moved or swayed. “Go, now. Please Tom.”

There was no winning, and Tom just hoped that Harrison would ignore him all evening.

Alas, he had no such luck, as the second Harrison rounded the corner to the polo field, his eyes were fixed on Tom and he could have sworn he saw the star player square his shoulders as he approached.

“Evening, Holland,” Harrison greeted curtly, swinging up onto his horse without a second’s hesitation, “good weather for a game, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” Tom replied, just as stiffly as he handed the reins up to Harrison, “cracking weather.” He wondered why Harrison was talking to him about the weather at all, the fact that he had even acknowledged him without being forced to was just as unusual as it was suspicious. “Have a good rideout on Saturday?” Tom heard himself asking out loud, to his absolute horror. He tried his best not to make too much of a face as he glanced up at Harrison, who was fiddling with one of his stirrup leathers.

“Hmm?” Harrison hummed, not bothering to look at Tom, as he checked the new length of his stirrup, “Oh, with Florence?” he added, almost absentmindedly.

Tom bit down on his lip. If he had been talking to anyone else, it would have almost seemed like a normal, totally casual conversation. But it was exactly that normal, totally casual way in which Harrison spoke her name that felt like dig; like he was telling Tom how totally normal and casual it was for him to be spending time with her, when to Tom it was a treasured commodity.

All Tom could muster as a response was a nod of his head and an affirmative grunt.

If it hadn’t been for his impulsive question in the first place, he wouldn’t have to remain next to Harrison, painfully waiting for an answer he wasn’t sure he really wanted to hear. But there he was, standing next to the epitome of what he both always wanted to be and tried his best to never become, waiting for what felt like the inevitable blow that would break his heart.

“Oh it was rather good,” Harrison said, smirking at Tom as he shifted around in the saddle, his shoulders pushing back confidently. “Nice to get some one-on-one time with her, school can be pretty manic, you know how it is”.

That definitely felt like another dig, and Tom swallowed as he nodded up at Harrison unable to think of a properly. Of course he didn’t know how it was at school with them. Mayfield College was a world away from St. Augustine’s, even if it was just three miles down the road. He’d been inside the old brick walls of the boarding school a couple of times for various school events, and had visited the sprawling grounds more often than that for the occasional soccer match or to cheer on his school’s rugby team, but he couldn’t really begin to imagine what it was like going there. He’d definitely never have imagined it as manic.

“Anyway, hoping to get some proper one-on-one time with her this Saturday anyway,” Harrison continued smugly, winking at Tom suggestively, who had stuffed his balled fists so deep into the pockets of his jacket he was worried he might tear the fabric. “I’m sure you must have heard all about my party by now.”

Tom just glared up at Harrison, biting down on the inside of his cheek. He didn’t like what Harrison was implying at all, and he certainly hadn’t heard of his stupid party and he was sure that Harrison knew that too. Another jab, just to be sure.

“Oh well, it really is just all Saints people anyway, so I suppose you mightn’t have heard after all,” Harrison shrugged, a smile tugging at the side of his mouth as he looked down his nose at Tom. “We’re never quite sure what trickles down to you lot at Mayfield,” he added, a smug grin spreading over his face as he urged his horse forward onto the field, without another glance back.

Tom looked over at his brother Sam, jaw dropped at Harrison’s comment. Sam was just sending another team member onto the field with a short wave when he looked over and frowned questioningly back at Tom.

“I hate him,” Tom grumbled as he stomped over to complain, hands still buried in his pockets, “so much.”

Sam rolled his eyes, looking around to see if anyone else needed any more help. “He’s really not that bad.”

“Hey, you’re meant to be on my side,” Tom replied, shooting a look at his brother before turning his attention to the riders on the field, who were all being handed their mallets by their trainer.

“It’s just an act, you know that right?” Sam questioned, raising an eyebrow at Tom.

“Did you know about his party on Saturday?” Tom continued, choosing to completely ignore what his brother had just said, he was clearly delusional. “Ren is going to it apparently.”

“Good for her,” Sam chuckled, leaning back against the fence as the game started, horses racing past them and mallets swinging. Tom had already lost sight of the ball amongst the trampling of hooves.

“Yeah,” Tom nodded, watching as Harrison sharply turned his horse around to go barrelling down towards the other end of the field. And sure, it was good for her, he was glad she was being invited to parties and having fun and had what seemed to be a great group of friends from all accounts, he just really wished it wasn’t with Harrison. He knew he sounded like an entitled child and resented that feeling inside him, but he couldn’t help being so in love with her that every time she so much as looked his way his mouth ran dry. Being seventeen and in love was hard work.

---

Even dripping in sweat Harrison Osterfield looked good, and Tom made a mental note to add that to his list of things that bothered him about the preppy polo player.

Harrison held out his muddy mallet for Tom to take as he swung down off his horse, boots hitting the slightly soggy ground with a confident thud.

“Good game, Osterfield, good game,” Remy Hii, the team captain jeered, slapping Harrison on the shoulder with a big grin.

“All down to your stellar leadership, of course,” Harrison replied, tipping his helmet like he was some sort of nineteenth century gentleman. Tom rolled his eyes as he held up a bucket of water so Skylark could get a drink.

“See you on Saturday, yeah?” Tom heard Remy say as he walked away, his own horse in tow.

“Absolutely” Harrison replied, waving his gloved hand in salute. For a second, Tom wondered what it would be like to be in Harrison’s circle of friends, to actually be privy to invites and jockular exchanges, when he felt a firm had come down on his shoulder.

“You know, Holland, Florence was saying you’re gonna be her groom for the season,” Harrison said, his voice barely over a whisper, and a shiver of dread ran down Tom’s spine at the anticipation of an upcoming threat, “and I just to make sure that you know that if anything happens to her at all, I will be blaming you, so you better do a better job at checking the leather with her than you did with me.”

Tom frowned at him, feeling like he was missing the punchline of a joke. For one, he was entirely caught off guard by Harrison’s apparent protectiveness of Ren, and secondly he had no idea what leather he meant and what could possibly be wrong with it.

Harrison didn’t wait long to illuminate him as he lifted the upper skirt of the saddle to expose the top of the stirrup strap, where the stitching keeping it all together had almost entirely come apart and the leather had worn down so much that it almost seemed like a miracle that he hadn’t entirely lost his stirrup during the two hours of training.

Tom didn’t know what to say; with the level these people were riding at, a sudden loss of stirrup at the wrong moment could be fatal, and he had no idea how he’d missed it. He looked at Harrison, eyes wide, hoping he wouldn’t say anything to anyone about it or he’d be off the roster for the next two millennia and he could wave goodbye to ever getting to hang around Ren again.  

“Now, I’m going to let this slide on the conditions that you fix this immediately,” Harrison said, voice low and holding one finger up to Tom like a stern parent, “you make sure my tack and horse are in proper riding condition from this moment forth so I never have to deal with your utter incompetence again,” he continued, holding up a second finger, “ and, that nothing even remotely like this happens to Ren or I will make your life so much worse than it already is,” he finished, holding up a rather menacing looking third finger. “Don’t test me.”

All Tom could do was nod, still totally caught off guard to Harrison’s attitude towards Ren. He’d always seemed like a slimy git and he was at least seventy five percent sure he was some kind of psychopath, but maybe Sam was right. But then again, maybe Sam was wrong and Harrison was just playing mind games with him and knew Tom’s weakness was always and forever going to be Ren, and the momentary reprieve in animosity he had felt for Harrison dissipated pretty swiftly.

“I’ll take Skylark in for you then,” Tom finally said after enough tense seconds had passed between them, taking the reins and making a move back towards the stables.

“Absolutely not,” Harrison hissed, snatching the reins right back, “I’ll leave the saddle on the bench in the tack room for you to fix, and mark my words: I’ll be checking every last stitch before I get on next time and if even one thing is out of place I will be informing your father of your sheer incompetence.

Tom watched as Harrison led Skylark away, the half empty water bucket still dangling from his fingertips, totally ignoring the other team members that were still bustling around that might be in need of some assistance.

“What was that all about?” Harry asked, sidling up next to him with a dirty towel used for rubbing down the sweaty horses flung over his shoulder.

Tom pursed his lips and glanced over at his brother, “So, I almost killed Harrison Osterfield and then he threatened me.”

“Fair,” Harry shrugged casually, “but better luck next time.”

---

TAGLIST (let me know if you want to be added!)

@crownedbyluke @24kcalum @vnv21

[theywerero0mates]

An act of kindness

[thecynicalm]

Gerard Nolst Trenité - The Chaos (1922)

This poem is great for training your pronunciation if you’re not a native speaker of english and I love it. Dearest creature in creation Studying English pronunciation,   I will teach you in my verse   Sounds like corpse, corps, horse and worse.

I will keep you, Susy, busy, Make your head with heat grow dizzy;   Tear in eye, your dress you'll tear;   Queer, fair seer, hear my prayer.

Pray, console your loving poet, Make my coat look new, dear, sew it!   Just compare heart, hear and heard,   Dies and diet, lord and word.

Sword and sward, retain and Britain (Mind the latter how it's written).   Made has not the sound of bade,   Say-said, pay-paid, laid but plaid.

Now I surely will not plague you With such words as vague and ague,   But be careful how you speak,   Say: gush, bush, steak, streak, break, bleak ,

Previous, precious, fuchsia, via Recipe, pipe, studding-sail, choir;   Woven, oven, how and low,   Script, receipt, shoe, poem, toe.

Say, expecting fraud and trickery: Daughter, laughter and Terpsichore,   Branch, ranch, measles, topsails, aisles,   Missiles, similes, reviles.

Wholly, holly, signal, signing, Same, examining, but mining,   Scholar, vicar, and cigar,   Solar, mica, war and far.

From "desire": desirable-admirable from "admire", Lumber, plumber, bier, but brier,   Topsham, brougham, renown, but known,   Knowledge, done, lone, gone, none, tone,

One, anemone, Balmoral, Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel.   Gertrude, German, wind and wind,   Beau, kind, kindred, queue, mankind,

Tortoise, turquoise, chamois-leather, Reading, Reading, heathen, heather.   This phonetic labyrinth   Gives moss, gross, brook, brooch, ninth, plinth.

Have you ever yet endeavoured To pronounce revered and severed,   Demon, lemon, ghoul, foul, soul,   Peter, petrol and patrol?

Billet does not end like ballet; Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.   Blood and flood are not like food,   Nor is mould like should and would.

Banquet is not nearly parquet, Which exactly rhymes with khaki.   Discount, viscount, load and broad,   Toward, to forward, to reward,

Ricocheted and crocheting, croquet? Right! Your pronunciation's OK.   Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,   Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Is your r correct in higher? Keats asserts it rhymes Thalia.   Hugh, but hug, and hood, but hoot,   Buoyant, minute, but minute.

Say abscission with precision, Now: position and transition;   Would it tally with my rhyme   If I mentioned paradigm?

Twopence, threepence, tease are easy, But cease, crease, grease and greasy?   Cornice, nice, valise, revise,   Rabies, but lullabies.

Of such puzzling words as nauseous, Rhyming well with cautious, tortious,   You'll envelop lists, I hope,   In a linen envelope.

Would you like some more? You'll have it! Affidavit, David, davit.   To abjure, to perjure. Sheik   Does not sound like Czech but ache.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven, Rachel, loch, moustache, eleven.   We say hallowed, but allowed,   People, leopard, towed but vowed.

Mark the difference, moreover, Between mover, plover, Dover.   Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,   Chalice, but police and lice,

Camel, constable, unstable, Principle, disciple, label.   Petal, penal, and canal,   Wait, surmise, plait, promise, pal,

Suit, suite, ruin. Circuit, conduit Rhyme with "shirk it" and "beyond it",   But it is not hard to tell   Why it's pall, mall, but Pall Mall.

Muscle, muscular, gaol, iron, Timber, climber, bullion, lion,   Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,   Senator, spectator, mayor,

Ivy, privy, famous; clamour Has the a of drachm and hammer.   Pussy, hussy and possess,   Desert, but desert, address.

Golf, wolf, countenance, lieutenants Hoist in lieu of flags left pennants.   Courier, courtier, tomb, bomb, comb,   Cow, but Cowper, some and home.

"Solder, soldier! Blood is thicker", Quoth he, "than liqueur or liquor",   Making, it is sad but true,   In bravado, much ado.

Stranger does not rhyme with anger, Neither does devour with clangour.   Pilot, pivot, gaunt, but aunt,   Font, front, wont, want, grand and grant.

Arsenic, specific, scenic, Relic, rhetoric, hygienic.   Gooseberry, goose, and close, but close,   Paradise, rise, rose, and dose.

Say inveigh, neigh, but inveigle, Make the latter rhyme with eagle.   Mind! Meandering but mean,   Valentine and magazine.

And I bet you, dear, a penny, You say mani-(fold) like many,   Which is wrong. Say rapier, pier,   Tier (one who ties), but tier.

Arch, archangel; pray, does erring Rhyme with herring or with stirring?   Prison, bison, treasure trove,   Treason, hover, cover, cove,

Perseverance, severance. Ribald Rhymes (but piebald doesn't) with nibbled.   Phaeton, paean, gnat, ghat, gnaw,   Lien, psychic, shone, bone, pshaw.

Don't be down, my own, but rough it, And distinguish buffet, buffet;   Brood, stood, roof, rook, school, wool, boon,   Worcester, Boleyn, to impugn.

Say in sounds correct and sterling Hearse, hear, hearken, year and yearling.   Evil, devil, mezzotint,   Mind the z! (A gentle hint.)

Now you need not pay attention To such sounds as I don't mention,   Sounds like pores, pause, pours and paws,   Rhyming with the pronoun yours;

Nor are proper names included, Though I often heard, as you did,   Funny rhymes to unicorn,   Yes, you know them, Vaughan and Strachan.

No, my maiden, coy and comely, I don't want to speak of Cholmondeley.   No. Yet Froude compared with proud   Is no better than McLeod.

But mind trivial and vial, Tripod, menial, denial,   Troll and trolley, realm and ream,   Schedule, mischief, schism, and scheme.

Argil, gill, Argyll, gill. Surely May be made to rhyme with Raleigh,   But you're not supposed to say   Piquet rhymes with sobriquet.

Had this invalid invalid Worthless documents? How pallid,   How uncouth he, couchant, looked,   When for Portsmouth I had booked!

Zeus, Thebes, Thales, Aphrodite, Paramour, enamoured, flighty,   Episodes, antipodes,   Acquiesce, and obsequies.

Please don't monkey with the geyser, Don't peel 'taters with my razor,   Rather say in accents pure:   Nature, stature and mature.

Pious, impious, limb, climb, glumly, Worsted, worsted, crumbly, dumbly,   Conquer, conquest, vase, phase, fan,   Wan, sedan and artisan.

The th will surely trouble you More than r, ch or w.   Say then these phonetic gems:   Thomas, thyme, Theresa, Thames.

Thompson, Chatham, Waltham, Streatham, There are more but I forget 'em-   Wait! I've got it: Anthony,   Lighten your anxiety.

The archaic word albeit Does not rhyme with eight-you see it;   With and forthwith, one has voice,   One has not, you make your choice.

Shoes, goes, does *. Now first say: finger; Then say: singer, ginger, linger.   Real, zeal, mauve, gauze and gauge,   Marriage, foliage, mirage, age,

Hero, heron, query, very, Parry, tarry fury, bury,   Dost, lost, post, and doth, cloth, loth,   Job, Job, blossom, bosom, oath.

Faugh, oppugnant, keen oppugners, Bowing, bowing, banjo-tuners   Holm you know, but noes, canoes,   Puisne, truism, use, to use?

Though the difference seems little, We say actual, but victual,   Seat, sweat, chaste, caste, Leigh, eight, height,   Put, nut, granite, and unite.

Reefer does not rhyme with deafer, Feoffer does, and zephyr, heifer.   Dull, bull, Geoffrey, George, ate, late,   Hint, pint, senate, but sedate.

Gaelic, Arabic, pacific, Science, conscience, scientific;   Tour, but our, dour, succour, four,   Gas, alas, and Arkansas.

Say manoeuvre, yacht and vomit, Next omit, which differs from it   Bona fide, alibi   Gyrate, dowry and awry.

Sea, idea, guinea, area, Psalm, Maria, but malaria.   Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean,   Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian, Dandelion with battalion,   Rally with ally; yea, ye,   Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, key, quay!

Say aver, but ever, fever, Neither, leisure, skein, receiver.   Never guess-it is not safe,   We say calves, valves, half, but Ralf.

Starry, granary, canary, Crevice, but device, and eyrie,   Face, but preface, then grimace,   Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass.

Bass, large, target, gin, give, verging, Ought, oust, joust, and scour, but scourging;   Ear, but earn; and ere and tear   Do not rhyme with here but heir.

Mind the o of off and often Which may be pronounced as orphan,   With the sound of saw and sauce;   Also soft, lost, cloth and cross.

Pudding, puddle, putting. Putting? Yes: at golf it rhymes with shutting.   Respite, spite, consent, resent.   Liable, but Parliament.

Seven is right, but so is even, Hyphen, roughen, nephew, Stephen,   Monkey, donkey, clerk and jerk,   Asp, grasp, wasp, demesne, cork, work.

A of valour, vapid vapour, S of news (compare newspaper),   G of gibbet, gibbon, gist,   I of antichrist and grist,

Differ like diverse and divers, Rivers, strivers, shivers, fivers.   Once, but nonce, toll, doll, but roll,   Polish, Polish, poll and poll.

Pronunciation-think of Psyche!- Is a paling, stout and spiky.   Won't it make you lose your wits   Writing groats and saying "grits"?

It's a dark abyss or tunnel Strewn with stones like rowlock, gunwale,   Islington, and Isle of Wight,   Housewife, verdict and indict.

Don't you think so, reader, rather, Saying lather, bather, father?   Finally, which rhymes with enough,   Though, through, bough, cough, hough, sough, tough??

Hiccough has the sound of sup... My advice is: GIVE IT UP!

[yogurtbattle]

Because English pronunciation is random

Gerard Nolst Trenité - The Chaos (1922)

Dearest creature in creation Studying English pronunciation,   I will teach you in my verse   Sounds like corpse, corps, horse and worse.

I will keep you, Susy, busy, Make your head with heat grow dizzy;   Tear in eye, your dress you'll tear;   Queer, fair seer, hear my prayer.

Pray, console your loving poet, Make my coat look new, dear, sew it!   Just compare heart, hear and heard,   Dies and diet, lord and word.

Sword and sward, retain and Britain (Mind the latter how it's written).   Made has not the sound of bade,   Say-said, pay-paid, laid but plaid.

Now I surely will not plague you With such words as vague and ague,   But be careful how you speak,   Say: gush, bush, steak, streak, break, bleak ,

Previous, precious, fuchsia, via Recipe, pipe, studding-sail, choir;   Woven, oven, how and low,   Script, receipt, shoe, poem, toe.

Say, expecting fraud and trickery: Daughter, laughter and Terpsichore,   Branch, ranch, measles, topsails, aisles,   Missiles, similes, reviles.

Wholly, holly, signal, signing, Same, examining, but mining,   Scholar, vicar, and cigar,   Solar, mica, war and far.

From "desire": desirable-admirable from "admire", Lumber, plumber, bier, but brier,   Topsham, brougham, renown, but known,   Knowledge, done, lone, gone, none, tone,

One, anemone, Balmoral, Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel.   Gertrude, German, wind and wind,   Beau, kind, kindred, queue, mankind,

Tortoise, turquoise, chamois-leather, Reading, Reading, heathen, heather.   This phonetic labyrinth   Gives moss, gross, brook, brooch, ninth, plinth.

Have you ever yet endeavoured To pronounce revered and severed,   Demon, lemon, ghoul, foul, soul,   Peter, petrol and patrol?

Billet does not end like ballet; Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.   Blood and flood are not like food,   Nor is mould like should and would.

Banquet is not nearly parquet, Which exactly rhymes with khaki.   Discount, viscount, load and broad,   Toward, to forward, to reward,

Ricocheted and crocheting, croquet? Right! Your pronunciation's OK.   Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,   Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Is your r correct in higher? Keats asserts it rhymes Thalia.   Hugh, but hug, and hood, but hoot,   Buoyant, minute, but minute.

Say abscission with precision, Now: position and transition;   Would it tally with my rhyme   If I mentioned paradigm?

Twopence, threepence, tease are easy, But cease, crease, grease and greasy?   Cornice, nice, valise, revise,   Rabies, but lullabies.

Of such puzzling words as nauseous, Rhyming well with cautious, tortious,   You'll envelop lists, I hope,   In a linen envelope.

Would you like some more? You'll have it! Affidavit, David, davit.   To abjure, to perjure. Sheik   Does not sound like Czech but ache.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven, Rachel, loch, moustache, eleven.   We say hallowed, but allowed,   People, leopard, towed but vowed.

Mark the difference, moreover, Between mover, plover, Dover.   Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,   Chalice, but police and lice,

Camel, constable, unstable, Principle, disciple, label.   Petal, penal, and canal,   Wait, surmise, plait, promise, pal,

Suit, suite, ruin. Circuit, conduit Rhyme with "shirk it" and "beyond it",   But it is not hard to tell   Why it's pall, mall, but Pall Mall.

Muscle, muscular, gaol, iron, Timber, climber, bullion, lion,   Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,   Senator, spectator, mayor,

Ivy, privy, famous; clamour Has the a of drachm and hammer.   Pussy, hussy and possess,   Desert, but desert, address.

Golf, wolf, countenance, lieutenants Hoist in lieu of flags left pennants.   Courier, courtier, tomb, bomb, comb,   Cow, but Cowper, some and home.

"Solder, soldier! Blood is thicker", Quoth he, "than liqueur or liquor",   Making, it is sad but true,   In bravado, much ado.

Stranger does not rhyme with anger, Neither does devour with clangour.   Pilot, pivot, gaunt, but aunt,   Font, front, wont, want, grand and grant.

Arsenic, specific, scenic, Relic, rhetoric, hygienic.   Gooseberry, goose, and close, but close,   Paradise, rise, rose, and dose.

Say inveigh, neigh, but inveigle, Make the latter rhyme with eagle.   Mind! Meandering but mean,   Valentine and magazine.

And I bet you, dear, a penny, You say mani-(fold) like many,   Which is wrong. Say rapier, pier,   Tier (one who ties), but tier.

Arch, archangel; pray, does erring Rhyme with herring or with stirring?   Prison, bison, treasure trove,   Treason, hover, cover, cove,

Perseverance, severance. Ribald Rhymes (but piebald doesn't) with nibbled.   Phaeton, paean, gnat, ghat, gnaw,   Lien, psychic, shone, bone, pshaw.

Don't be down, my own, but rough it, And distinguish buffet, buffet;   Brood, stood, roof, rook, school, wool, boon,   Worcester, Boleyn, to impugn.

Say in sounds correct and sterling Hearse, hear, hearken, year and yearling.   Evil, devil, mezzotint,   Mind the z! (A gentle hint.)

Now you need not pay attention To such sounds as I don't mention,   Sounds like pores, pause, pours and paws,   Rhyming with the pronoun yours;

Nor are proper names included, Though I often heard, as you did,   Funny rhymes to unicorn,   Yes, you know them, Vaughan and Strachan.

No, my maiden, coy and comely, I don't want to speak of Cholmondeley.   No. Yet Froude compared with proud   Is no better than McLeod.

But mind trivial and vial, Tripod, menial, denial,   Troll and trolley, realm and ream,   Schedule, mischief, schism, and scheme.

Argil, gill, Argyll, gill. Surely May be made to rhyme with Raleigh,   But you're not supposed to say   Piquet rhymes with sobriquet.

Had this invalid invalid Worthless documents? How pallid,   How uncouth he, couchant, looked,   When for Portsmouth I had booked!

Zeus, Thebes, Thales, Aphrodite, Paramour, enamoured, flighty,   Episodes, antipodes,   Acquiesce, and obsequies.

Please don't monkey with the geyser, Don't peel 'taters with my razor,   Rather say in accents pure:   Nature, stature and mature.

Pious, impious, limb, climb, glumly, Worsted, worsted, crumbly, dumbly,   Conquer, conquest, vase, phase, fan,   Wan, sedan and artisan.

The th will surely trouble you More than r, ch or w.   Say then these phonetic gems:   Thomas, thyme, Theresa, Thames.

Thompson, Chatham, Waltham, Streatham, There are more but I forget 'em-   Wait! I've got it: Anthony,   Lighten your anxiety.

The archaic word albeit Does not rhyme with eight-you see it;   With and forthwith, one has voice,   One has not, you make your choice.

Shoes, goes, does *. Now first say: finger; Then say: singer, ginger, linger.   Real, zeal, mauve, gauze and gauge,   Marriage, foliage, mirage, age,

Hero, heron, query, very, Parry, tarry fury, bury,   Dost, lost, post, and doth, cloth, loth,   Job, Job, blossom, bosom, oath.

Faugh, oppugnant, keen oppugners, Bowing, bowing, banjo-tuners   Holm you know, but noes, canoes,   Puisne, truism, use, to use?

Though the difference seems little, We say actual, but victual,   Seat, sweat, chaste, caste, Leigh, eight, height,   Put, nut, granite, and unite.

Reefer does not rhyme with deafer, Feoffer does, and zephyr, heifer.   Dull, bull, Geoffrey, George, ate, late,   Hint, pint, senate, but sedate.

Gaelic, Arabic, pacific, Science, conscience, scientific;   Tour, but our, dour, succour, four,   Gas, alas, and Arkansas.

Say manoeuvre, yacht and vomit, Next omit, which differs from it   Bona fide, alibi   Gyrate, dowry and awry.

Sea, idea, guinea, area, Psalm, Maria, but malaria.   Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean,   Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian, Dandelion with battalion,   Rally with ally; yea, ye,   Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, key, quay!

Say aver, but ever, fever, Neither, leisure, skein, receiver.   Never guess-it is not safe,   We say calves, valves, half, but Ralf.

Starry, granary, canary, Crevice, but device, and eyrie,   Face, but preface, then grimace,   Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass.

Bass, large, target, gin, give, verging, Ought, oust, joust, and scour, but scourging;   Ear, but earn; and ere and tear   Do not rhyme with here but heir.

Mind the o of off and often Which may be pronounced as orphan,   With the sound of saw and sauce;   Also soft, lost, cloth and cross.

Pudding, puddle, putting. Putting? Yes: at golf it rhymes with shutting.   Respite, spite, consent, resent.   Liable, but Parliament.

Seven is right, but so is even, Hyphen, roughen, nephew, Stephen,   Monkey, donkey, clerk and jerk,   Asp, grasp, wasp, demesne, cork, work.

A of valour, vapid vapour, S of news (compare newspaper),   G of gibbet, gibbon, gist,   I of antichrist and grist,

Differ like diverse and divers, Rivers, strivers, shivers, fivers.   Once, but nonce, toll, doll, but roll,   Polish, Polish, poll and poll.

Pronunciation-think of Psyche!- Is a paling, stout and spiky.   Won't it make you lose your wits   Writing groats and saying "grits"?

It's a dark abyss or tunnel Strewn with stones like rowlock, gunwale,   Islington, and Isle of Wight,   Housewife, verdict and indict.

Don't you think so, reader, rather, Saying lather, bather, father?   Finally, which rhymes with enough,   Though, through, bough, cough, hough, sough, tough??

Hiccough has the sound of sup... My advice is: GIVE IT UP!