#and skirting the edge of copyright infringement

[alien-shmalien]

I think you should post more weird "these are the same species" comparisons show off some fun designs!!!

you are so right. heres a few

these two are actually brothers. isnt that fun

these two are the same species, which the above two are actually hybrids of!

(the purple one is also a hybrid, but she doesnt really look like it much)

these two are the same hybrids

old bastards. (second one is from @the-mossy-green-witch heehee)

and just for the fun of it. these two are the same person

[lostinpages-99]

Once Upon a Waking Dream - Chapter 3

Pairing: Jacks x Reader

Warnings: none.

AN: none of this is related to the events in the Caraval Trilogy or OUABH and TBONA. It's just me wanting to write about our beloved Prince of Hearts. This being said, Jacks' character belongs to Stephanie Garber and no copyright infringement is intended with this fanfiction.

You visit the gardens and, as you wander in the nearby grove, you are surprised by a storm. You find shelter in a mausoleum.

(1.9k words)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You slept a dreamless sleep, which you thought being quite surprising after everything you’d been through, and considering you’d always dreamed at night since you were a child. There hadn’t been ever a night you could recall in which you hadn’t dreamed at all. You rolled onto your other side and the first thing that came into your vision was a huge vase filled with red peonies, which you were sure hadn’t been standing on your bedside table the night before.

The thought of someone entering your rooms while you were sleeping settled in your mind and you didn’t like it. You shoved it to the side for later consideration and sat up on the large bed. You looked at the vase again: the flowers were beautiful; you’d always loved peonies more than any other bloom and those made no exception, despite the worrying way they’d gotten to you. So, you stood up and placed them on the table, where the morning light could reach. As you did, you heard knocking again.

«Marie?» you inquired.

«Good morning, Miss. I’m bringing you breakfast».

«Come in.»

The maid entered and approached you at the sitting area to proceed in laying the table for you. She looked at the peonies and smiled faintly, but you decided not to inquire further, so you sat and took a sip from the cup of tea before trying the scrambled eggs in your plate.

«Do you wish me to draw you a bath?» Marie asked.

You considered for a second, but in the end, you had nothing else to do apart from sitting and reading, so you could very well spoil yourself at your captor’s expense. You thanked the girl and went back to eating breakfast as she headed to the bathroom.

Soon afterwards you were enjoying the hot water and the smells from the oils Marie had put in your bath. You decided to let yourself think about the Prince of Hearts shortly. You wondered why, if he’d decided to keep you here for his own amusement, he hadn’t jet showed up to taunt you and had given you a closet full of gowns, a library full of books and a dreamlike suite instead. Almost as if he cared, dared to speak some delusional part of yourself. Except you knew he didn’t. He was a Fate, he didn’t care for anyone precisely because of what he was; because he couldn’t feel any love, your nana had told you back then. Yet here you were, not imprisoned in some wet, cold dungeon, but safe and taken care of. You didn’t understand. As the water began turning cold, you rose from the tub and wrapped yourself in one of the soft, cream white towels to dry off. You went back to the bedroom and found that Marie had laid out some gowns on your bed. You sat on the edge of it and absentmindedly began stroking the layers of fine organza and tulle of a lilac skirt as your maid came back into the room with a pair of matching shoes in her hands.

«I selected a few gowns for you to choose from. It’s a lovely day to take a walk in the park» she said to you, smiling.

So, clearly, she didn’t know. She wouldn’t have mentioned going on walks if she’d known you actually couldn’t leave the tower. But she would soon, when the doors would refuse to open to let you out. Then you would have to tell her. For now, you just let her help you with the dress: it had a heart shaped neckline, which dipped a bit lower than what would be usually considered appropriate, and lacy, see-though sleeves. The bodice hugged you tightly, accentuating your waist, and the skirt flowed softly down your hips to the floor to form a train behind you. Looking at your reflection in the closet room mirror, you concluded you loved the dress, which left you with a melancholy feeling at the thought that nobody would ever see you in it. Nobody, apart of the cruel Fate who had locked you up here, if you happened to cross him on your way to the park. You dearly hoped you wouldn’t.

You went back to the bedroom, where Marie was waiting for you by the door holding a half cape matching your gown. She placed it on your shoulders and tied the ribbon that held it in place around your neck. She smiled at you, then walked towards the door. As she pushed the handle down, you became more and more delusional that it wouldn’t open, but it did, and Marie stepped outside. You realised you must be looking at her with disbelief in your eyes when she met your look with a puzzled one. It had you moving, closing up the distance between yourself and the threshold. You almost expected an invisible, magical barrier to stop you all the same, so, when you stepped through the open door, relief and joy washed over you and a smile bloomed on your face. Suddenly, you were eager. Eager to explore the place you were confined in, breathe the crisp autumn air outside and prove him wrong. You wanted to prove him that you didn’t fear him, that you could be happy even here, even after he’d taken you away.

«Show me the way» you told Marie.

She smiled back you and started walking down the corridor to a winding staircase that looked as if it spiralled down without an end into the castle. It seemed to you you’d walked miles long when you stepped off the last step onto a stone floor.

A vaulted loggia extended before you: on your left, you could see a formal garden enclosed between the loggia and the two wings of the castle, and a park spreading beyond it as far as the eye could reach. On your right, the wall was covered in rich, embroidered tapestries that told stories of knights and dragons and stole-away maidens. At its middle, the loggia opened up to give access to the garden through a set of steps. Opposite of it, on the wall, a wooden double door led into the castle. You followed Marie into the garden and then turned to look at the stone building behind you. It was imposing, rigorous, yet elegant, and it looked ageless, so different from the polished luxury of modern palaces. It suits him … you said to yourself. Marie was waiting for you by a shallow pond you hadn’t noticed before. A fountain sprinkled water from its centre, and you could see colourful fish swimming beneath the surface.

«It is indeed lovely. Thank you for taking me here» you told Marie.

«Now that you know the way, you are free to come here whenever you wish».

There was something in the tone of her voice as she spoke to you that had you believe she had to know more than she let on. As if she could imagine how good it felt to be granted access to the garden as a prisoner. As if she could understand. So, you decided to ask her. You sat on one of the four stone benches placed around the pond before taking your turn at speaking.

«What do you know about me, Marie?»

The maid stilled, as if someone had caught her downing a glass of her master’s finest port.

«I know that you are not a usual guest of Master Jacks. That’s because he doesn’t receive guests. He never has. But now you are here, and he is always making sure you cannot …» she abruptly stopped.

«What, Marie? What is he always making sure? Tell me, I need to know.»

«I’m sorry Miss, I can’t! I shouldn’t have told you anything. I was only supposed to show you the gardens. I cannot say anything else. Please, forgive me».

Then she had turned and run off across the garden and back into the loggia, leaving you to sit there even more puzzled than you already had been. You sighed and let your gaze wander beyond the garden and into the park. Soft, neatly trimmed grass rolled out to a group of trees. Autumn had the warm yellows and reds and oranges of the changing leaves mix with the deep forest green of century-old evergreens. It felt wild and untamed compared to the geometric shapes of the formal garden. You decided to see just how far you were allowed to go and started on your way there. As you were crossing the lawn a chill wind started to blow, taking grey clouds with it. It would rain, so you needed to make sure you had enough time to go back. I’ll just get to the trees, you resolved.

By the time you got there, most of the sky was covered in clouds. You felt reinvigorated from the walk, but as thunder rumbled in the distance, you knew you wouldn’t make it back before the storm began. So, you went deeper into the grove, looking for shelter. Fallen leaves cracked under your feet and you could hear the sound of raindrops hitting the trees far above you, while the wind fought to pass through the tight ranks of the branches around you. And suddenly there was a building in front of you. It was stone, as everything else on the property seemed to be, but this had been claimed by thorny brambles and looked clearly abandoned. Still, you stepped in. It would provide you with a solid roof until the storm was over. Inside, a small foyer led into a lager chamber. There, on the back wall, stood what looked like an altar, with a bench and kneeler in front of it. You approached it and looked up: the ceiling was domed, with a round oculus of painted glass in the centre. The left and right walls were covered in headstones. It’s a mausoleum, you realised. The inscriptions carved in each stone were faded, as if the people they were there to remember had been gone far longer than one would expect.

You found yourself tracing some of the names with your fingers. Adeline. Mikael. Thomas. Helena. Beatrice. Theodore. By the way it tapped insistently on the coloured glass above your head, the rain wasn’t about to stop anytime soon, so you first tried to read the dates on each tombstone, but without success. Then you moved to the other wall: Alexander. Georgina. You never found out the next name, because, as you fingers touched the stone, the pain in your chest you’d somewhat become familiar with in the last few days struck you again. Only this time it was harsher. You felt as if your very heart was being crushed, as if life was being squeezed out of it. Your vision blurred as panic seized you and you couldn’t seem to get enough air in your lungs as your breaths became faster and more shallow.

Then you were falling.

You braced yourself for the impact of your head hitting the floor, but that never happened. Instead, strong arms caught you before you connected with the hard stone. The last thing you saw was a pair of wide, stormy eyes staring down at you, soaked blond hair falling over them.

Jacks …

Everything about him was icy cold: his body folded over you, his wet clothes, and even his breath, hitting your face as his lips moved in an attempt to say something to you, that you couldn’t hear. But what lingered on after you passed out was his smell: apple, cinnamon, the power of ancient magic … and a soft hue of peony.

Tag list:

@tfotaandstuff

@alelinsan

@pinkapplepie

@moobell55

@lakap

@fire-in-her-veinz

[fckinsupreme]

Lesson - Hawthorne!Michael x Reader - Part 3

Description: A simple, small idea to make Michael jealous results in a pretty filthy lesson in how to behave.

Word count: 4k

Warnings: Unprotected sex, bathtub sex, female masturbation, girl on top sex, degradation, thigh riding, edging, orgasm denial, dirty talk, daddy kink, cum eating (brief), choking (brief), swearing, small amounts of fluff, mostly just some bonus filth for y’all.

A/N: I wasn’t planning on doing a third part to this series, but after a conversation with @littledemondani, I couldn’t resist! So, have this bonus sequel! I might do a part 4, because I may be able to squeeze just one more part out of this, but I’m not too sure!! Enjoy! <3

No copyright infringement intended! Any rights belong to proper shareholders and they deserve the ultimate credit.

This is a direct sequel to part one and part two!

Credit to @codyfernsource for the gif!

_____________________________________

Michael had helped you dress, offering you one of his shirts as a temporary replacement for the one he’d ruined earlier. You threw your skirt back on, not bothering with your panties or bra, and Michael decided on just a robe for himself. The two of you were sneaking out of his room, being careful to avoid anyone on the way to the grand bathroom. Ironically, it’s where everything began today, and you had your fingers crossed for the two of you being alone. You didn’t need Cordelia or any of the other witches unknowingly barging in or, Goddess forbid, the men who ran Hawthorne. It would only spell disaster, and that’s one thing you definitely didn’t need.

He had helped you out of the room, a gesture that was both surprising and sweet. He made sure you were alright enough to stand and walk, keeping an arm around you at all times in case you would fall. You didn’t know what he was playing at, or why he was giving you this extra, unnecessary tenderness. Perhaps he’d grown a soft spot for you, or perhaps he just didn’t want anything to happen to what he called his “favorite piece of ass.” Either way, you didn’t mind; it was nice to be wanted, to be needed, even if it was only to serve as his own personal sex doll.

Maybe that’s the way you wanted it, deep down. Maybe that’s how he wanted it, too.

There were a couple of close calls on the way, but you managed to duck into hiding before the people fully approached. It seemed to take an eternity to finally reach the downstairs main bathroom, but when you finally did, you were relieved to find it vacated. Everyone was probably going to bed, still studying, or eating a late dinner, and likely wouldn’t use this particular area for the remainder of the evening. Michael helped you inside, making sure the door was securely locked this time before striding toward the large bathtub. He started the water, checking the temperature of the running water on his wrist before plugging the drain and allowing it to fill. He looks up, expression hard to read as he gestures toward you.

“Strip,” he instructs.

You immediately obey, unbuttoning and discarding his plain white shirt before stepping out of the skirt. He licks his lips as he glances you over, making a come-hither motion with his finger. You smile as you make your way to him, looking around you and noticing the lack of proper lighting in the room as evening drew closer. You raise one hand, making a slight sweeping motion before all of the candles in the room ignite. Michael smirks at you, standing from his position on the side of the tub and pulling you against his body. He presses a kiss to your lips, large hands grabbing your ass possessively and giving it a rough squeeze.

“Let’s review your lesson while we wait for the bath to be ready,” he says. “Who do you belong to?”

“You,” is your reply, fingers trailing over the skin of his chest exposed by the robe.

“Mmm,” he hums. “What’s my name?”

“Michael,” you say, your lips finding his pulse point as you being to nip teasingly.

“Good girl,” he praises, giving your already-sore ass another swat as your mouth works on his skin. “Who owns this perfect ass?”

“Michael.”

“Who owns that sweet little pussy?”

“You do, Michael.”

“And who is your Daddy, baby?”

“You, Michael.”

Michael smiles triumphantly, one hand finding its way between your legs. You moan as he rubs two fingers across your entrance, your eyelashes flitting as he presses the tips of them inside of you. This motion only lasts for a split second before he’s withdrawing them, his free hand yanking your head away from his neck. He holds the cum-coated fingers to your lips, not asking permission as he delves them into your mouth. You can taste his cum, mixed with yours, and it causes a downright filthy moan to rip from your chest. Michael watches in satisfaction as you eat your shared fluids from his fingers, your tongue swirling seductively around the tips of the digits. You maintain eye contact with him, his own lashes fluttering as you grab his wrist and pull him in deeper. You gag teasingly, and he growls before pulling his fingers from your mouth with a loud pop!

“Haven’t you had enough already?” he asks, untying his robe and letting it fall from his beautiful, absolutely flawless body. He’s bare in front of you again, and you can see he’s already semi-hard. “You’re truly insatiable, aren’t you? An insatiable little witch-bitch.”

You feel a jolt of arousal shoot straight to your core at the name, and your lips part in a tiny mewl. He pouts mockingly, jerking his head toward the tub before grabbing your hand. “The bath is ready. Come on.”

You look over his shoulder at the filled tub, nodding in response. He leads you to it, stepping inside before helping you in as well. He sits down at once, sighing as the warm water envelops his body. You follow suit, sitting between his legs and whimpering at how amazing the water feels on your sore, tired muscles. He guides you until your back touches his chest, his arms wrapping around you as his chin rests on top of your head. The sheer intimacy of this position causes your heart to swell, and you realize, perhaps even for the first time, that you’ve never experienced anything like this before. Sure, you had your fair share of significant others in the past, but never anything like this. None of them were this sweet with you, or showed this much affection as part of after care. Something inside of you says that Michael knew this, without being told. Of course he did; he knew everything else, didn’t he? It seemed he did, anyway. Why would this instance be any different?

“Is the water warm enough?” he asks, his voice bringing you out of your thoughts.

“Yes,” you say, resting your head against his shoulder. “It’s perfect.”

He’s quiet, his fingers tracing absent-minded circles on the skin just above your breasts. You shiver at the touch, but he doesn’t seem to notice; if he does, though, he says nothing. You can feel him getting harder against your back, and a smirk comes across your lips. You pretend to scratch your nose to conceal it, one of your hands lowering into the water after a moment. You open your legs a bit more, running two of your own fingers against your clit. You whine pleasurably as you rub soft circles against it, the back of your head pressing further into Michael’s shoulder. Michael is snapped out of his haze, reaching down to grab your hand as he gives your wrist a warning squeeze.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, hm?” he asks, bringing your hand out of the water and touching it to his lips. He bites each knuckle, icy blue eyes trained upon yours. “Don’t do that.”

“Or what?” you challenge. “What are you going to do if I keep going?”

“Did you learn nothing?” he asks, tsking and dropping your hand. It lands in the water with a soft splash, and you use it to help pivot yourself to a better angle. You’re facing him directly now, and he runs his fingers through your hair in an almost condescending manner. “I spent all of that time and energy teaching you a lesson, and it didn’t stick. Why am I not surprised? Little brats never learn, do they? It’s probably because you’re a slut who can’t be satisfied, no matter how many times that hot little cunt gets fucked. You would grind up on anything, as long as it got you off. Wouldn’t you?”

Those last words give you a big idea. You shift, straddling one of his thighs and grinding down with a sharp gasp. He groans, grabbing your hips in an attempt to move you off of him. You bear down harder, head tossing back as you grab his shoulders for support. Your nails dig into the skin, and Michael watches you in sheer fascination. Thankfully, the tub was large enough to allow you the room you needed, and you continue to ride his thigh as he guides you. You grind your clit against him, harder each time you come down, your hands pressing into him. The water sloshes, but not enough to spill over onto the floor. You figured that would come a little later, though, and the thought only turns you on even more.

“You’re so hot,” he hums, pressing his thigh further into your heated cunt. “Here.”

He holds his fingers to your lips, and you suck them into your mouth immediately. You keep rubbing yourself on his leg, and you can’t help but remember his earlier comment about how you were like a cat in heat. It was true, it seemed; you truly couldn’t quench your appetite for him. Anything he needed from you, you were his, and it seemed that feeling was mutual. The way he was allowing you to take the reins like this, to do whatever you needed to make yourself cum again, was evidence enough.

“Are you going to cum all over Daddy’s thigh, slut?” he asks, kneading your achy hips in his massive, soft hands. “Are you going to show me how good it feels to grind against me like this? Just like a bitch in heat.”

You can only nod, unable to form words as the pure pleasure ripples throughout your entire body. His hands move from your hips to your breasts, his fingers pinching and twisting the nipples there. You cry out, your hands finding his and applying more pressure on your tits. He doesn’t stop you, eyes heavily lidded as he observes you moving against him. Your faces are now mere inches apart, and Michael closes the space between the two of you with a sloppy, heated kiss. His tongue skillfully explores your mouth, your hands running through his silky blond curls as you mewl needfully into the kiss.

“Michael,” you whimper into his mouth, feeling his throbbing erection brushing your lower stomach as your pussy works even harder against his leg. “Michael.”

“Y/N, fuck,” Michael sighs, his hands travelling your body before he fully breaks the kiss. “My needy little whore. Are you Daddy’s whore, pet? You’re Daddy’s favorite little slut, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp, mouth falling open as your moans become more broken. “I’m gonna cum, Daddy. I’m right there.”

Michael growls, bringing one of his hands out of the water. He flicks his wrist, and you go flying off of his thigh at once. You land on the other side of the large tub, looking at Michael with large, stunned eyes. To your surprise, he’s laughing, running a wet hand through his messed hair before gesturing for you to come closer again. You do so, brows furrowed and a slight pout on your lips. He pulls you into his lap, your chest flush with his and his mouth at your ear.

“No,” he whispers. “No cumming for you. You’ve already had two orgasms; don’t be so fucking greedy all the time. You’re lucky that you even received those, so be grateful and don’t be such a needy little brat.”

You groan in frustration, removing yourself from his lap to sit next to him. You’re silent for a moment, before using your telekinesis to retrieve some shampoo and conditioner on the other side of the room. They land in your waiting hands, and Michael looks at you with amusement. You weren’t sure what that look was about; you had to get clean, right? That was the whole point of this bath, according to him. Since he wasn’t going to indulge you in a little fun, you were going to make a point of having it without him--after you were clean, of course.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You look at the two bottles in your hands before looking at him, a brow raised. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m going to wash my hair.”

“Allow me,” he says, gently taking the bottles from you. He sets them on the edge of the tub, navigating through the water so that he’s next to you. “Get your hair wet for me. I’ll wash it for you.”

Now, you’re genuinely confused. Why did he want to help you? Wasn’t he the type to sit back and watch you, or not pay attention at all, while you did this for yourself? This seemed too...intimate for Michael’s tastes. But then again, what did you know? You barely knew him before you hopped in bed with him that first time. All you knew was that he was breathtakingly beautiful, more-so than anyone you’d ever seen, and he knew what he was doing in bed. You’d never cum so hard in your life as you did with him the first time, and all the times after. Who knew what he was truly capable of?

This, however...this seemed different.

But, you don’t object to his command. You dip yourself further into the water, dunking your head for a moment to wet your hair. Sitting up, facing away from Michael, you hear the shampoo bottle open. He squirts a generous amount into his palm, and a moment later, you feel his fingers working the shampoo through your h/c hair. You sigh happily, closing your eyes against his soft touch. It’s a far cry from everything that’s happened today, the roughness and the dominance of it all, and you find yourself enjoying it. His fingers feel like magic against your scalp, and if you hadn’t been in the water, you would have fallen asleep almost instantly because of how relaxed you now were.

Almost as soon as it had begun, though, it was over. He instructs you to rinse, and you dip beneath the surface. You feel his fingers in your hair again, helping to work out the remainder of the shampoo. He grabs a fistful of your h/c locks once all the shampoo is rinsed clean, pulling you out of the water and kissing you forcefully again. You whimper, cupping his jaw as he guides you back to his lap. His hard cock is right against your pussy, and the weight of it causes you to moan filthily against his lips. He pulls back, smirking and holding the shampoo to you.

“My turn.”

You roll your eyes at him, watching as he mimics your earlier actions to wet his hair. You stand on your knees as he faces away from you, his blond hair dripping as you lather the shampoo into his scalp. Once his hair is washed and rinsed, he glides his hands over the soapy water. You watch in awe as it clears, all traces of shampoo now gone. It’s as clear as it was when it was fresh, and there’s also a renewed warmth to it. He winks at you, eyeing the conditioner for a moment before giving his head a quick shake. You wonder what’s going through his mind to cause that little gesture, but then you realize that you don’t have to know. You’ve already got a plan, and you’re fairly certain that it’s going to work.

You open your legs, your fingers instantly massaging the lips of your cunt. You moan shakily, smiling as you press two fingers into your entrance. Michael watches, eyes wide and full of rage as you touch yourself, and you know that this is just killing him. He shifts to stop you, but you use your magic to restrain him. Your abilities, while weaker than Michael’s in comparison, did come in handy sometimes. You knew, however, that he would break free sooner or later. This was only a very brief solution, and you were going to be in for it when he finally got out of the spell.

“You fucking brat,” he hisses, his eyes transfixed on your pussy beneath the water, your fingers working diligently as filthy sounds fell from your lips. “You’re going to get it.”

“Tell me something I didn’t already know,” you say, head falling back as you insert a third finger. “Michael! Mmm...you feel so good, Daddy.”

Michael is desperately whispering under his breath, stuttering and messing up the incantation as he continues taking in the sight before him. He starts over again, and again, and again, and it doesn’t take long before he’s broken out of your magical hold. You aren’t paying attention; your eyes are closed, and you’re too busy fixating on how wonderful it feels fucking yourself on your own fingers. But soon enough, your wrist is being violently jerked away and Michael is pulling you up; you know that he means business.

“You’re going to fucking learn now,” he snarls, sitting back against the tub. He gives your breasts a squeeze so hard that they feel as if they’d explode in his hands, and your mouth opens in a soundless scream. “You didn’t learn earlier, apparently, but that’s because I was too lenient with you. This time, you won’t get that luxury.”

He immediately sinks you onto his thick, throbbing cock, and you cry out in pure ecstasy as he fills you up again. You wiggle a little on him, trying to adjust to his massive girth once more, your hands on his upper chest to brace yourself. He moans as your warm wetness swallows him, his hands on your lower back as you slightly rock your hips. “Michael...mmm….”

“That’s my good girl,” he coos, sinking you further down on his length. “Take it all, baby; it’s all yours. All of this is for my slutty baby girl.”

You throw your head back, beginning to bounce on him as the water begins to splash around the both of you. Your arms wind around the back of his neck, wanting to bring him even closer to you. He hisses, spreading your asscheeks and rubbing the pad of his finger against the tight ring of muscle there. You cry out, shaky and needy, and Michael hoists both of you up so that he can bury his face between your tits. You whimper as his lips find the sensitive skin of your sternum, his mouth leaving an obscene dark mark in his wake.

“Michael,” you sigh. You grip the damp hair at the base of his neck and give it a rough tug. In response, Michael shoves your hips down so that he’s fully seated inside of you again, a lewd groan ripping from his open lips.

“Do you like that?” he asks, one arm wrapping around your lower back to press your tits even further into his face. “Do you like bouncing on Daddy’s thick cock?”

“Yes,” you say, looking down into his ravenous eyes as you pick up the momentum. “I do.”

“Touch yourself,” he demands. “Rub that clit for me. Cum around my cock again, like you did earlier. Show me just how much you enjoy it.”

You do as you’re told, bouncing harder and faster as Michael starts sucking on one of your nipples. Water slops over the edge of the tub, making a small mess on the floor, but neither of you care. You pull at his hair, feeling the tightness in your stomach threatening to snap at any given second. You start rubbing at your clit, trying to coax your third orgasm of the evening, wanting to feel it hit you in a wave. You knew it was going to be a big one; you could feel it. You wished that you weren’t in the water, because you knew this one was going to be so intense that you’d likely squirt everywhere. Michael always loved it when you did that; it made him feel superior to everyone else you’ve been with, because none of them had ever gotten you to squirt. It was something that truly was reserved just for him.

“Michael,” you moan hotly, chest heaving with your impending orgasm. “I’m going to cum. Daddy...please...”

To your horror, Michael lifts you completely off of his cock and starts jerking himself off. You stare him, eyes wide and mouth agape, and he begins to laugh evilly at you. “What did I tell you, you fucking whore?” he rasps, grunting as his fist pumps his cock in an inhumanly quick manner. “You need to learn. Allowing you to cum and giving you what you wanted didn’t teach you anything, but this will.”

You’re so stunned and so upset that you could cry, but you don’t. Instead, you watch him, your cunt absolutely aching for his touch. It doesn’t take him long to cum, and he does so with a loud cry and hot mewl, his essence floating in the water. You pout, watching as he stands with a devious grin at you. That fucking bastard. He wasn’t going to do what you thought he was going to do...was he?

“I have to get to bed,” he says, stepping out of the tub and grabbing a towel. He sets another one out for you, running the towel through his dampened hair to collect any excess moisture. “Stay in here as long as you want. Just make sure to clean up before you leave, or Behold will throw a huge hissy fit. I don’t think anyone needs to hear that first thing tomorrow morning.”

You can’t say anything. You’re too surprised and angry to speak; your mouth just opens, then closes again, opens. You look like a pathetic fish, and Michael is watching you with bright, joyous eyes. Damn him. Damn him all to fucking hell. He was doing exactly what you thought he was going to do--leaving you here without allowing you to cum.

“Don’t even think about masturbating,” he cautions, drying off his body and grabbing his robe from the floor. He puts it on, tying it shut and leaving some of his chest exposed as he had previously. “I’ll know if you do, and you won’t like the next lesson you have to learn. You thought this one was bad? If you don’t listen to me, then just wait and see what happens next. But, before I go--”

He walks over to the tub again, reaching into the water and running a finger over your folds. Despite your lower half being submerged, your arousal was absolutely evident and plentiful, and he gathers some of the cum on his finger. He smears it over your lips, grabbing your throat and tilting your head so that you’re looking directly at him.

“Do you feel that?” he questions. “Lick it off.”

You do as you’re told, fighting back a whine. His grip tightens, to ensure that you’re still looking at him. “Do you taste that? That’s what your perfect little pussy did because of me. Never forget it. I fucking did this; not that warlock whose name you were moaning earlier to piss me off. Me.”

He lets you go, and you cough slightly. He strides toward the door and, with one last wink at you, saunters out of the bathroom. You’re left to yourself, and you suddenly remember what Michael had said to you earlier. It was something about how brats never learned, about how you were insatiable. What if that was going to be your entire arrangement from now on? He tries to teach you a lesson, and you just disobey and don’t allow it to stick every time? It would result in worse punishments, yes, but would that always be a bad thing? You didn’t think so.

You lay back until your head rests on the edge of the tub. Your fingers rub your nipples for a moment before trailing down your stomach, finally finding your sore, needy cunt. What Michael wouldn’t know, would never hurt him. You were willing to call his bluff; after all, what’s the worst he could do to you?

Nothing you couldn’t remedy yourself.

_____

Taglist!

@littledemondani, @diamcndscarred, @svjourn, @sebastianshoe, @hisgirlwonder, @rocketgirl2410, @langdonsinferno, @lokixadcmxaddict, @a-supernatural-girl, @femaleantichrist, @trishvaylar, @codyswhore, @langdonshell

[miraculousmumma]

The Cream That Got The Chat - A Miraculous One-Shot

Before you get into the story, I just wanted to thank everyone for their interest in this, but especially @minetteenfers for hearing me ramble on and producing some crazy beautiful artwork to go with it!  I’ve had so much fun!

Marinette wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

A few weeks ago it had come to her attention that a local company had started selling what they called “Sexy Bug Hero” and “Sexy Cat Hero” costumes, just in time for Halloween.  They had been vague enough in their description that it wouldn’t have been a copyright infringement, not that they had copyrighted their costumes, but the designs were also vague enough that…well, they weren’t even close to accurate.

What they were was an insult.  The absolute minimum of fabric used to make them passable as vaguely decent, and a little extra thrown on for extra slutiness.

And that wasn’t the worst of it.  She had left making an outfit for the annual costume party so late she had no time to make one.  Guess what her only two options were?

She stood looking at the two costumes in disgust.  They were the last two in the entire shop in her size and she knew Alya wouldn’t let her get away without being in costume.  She had to make a decision.  And fast.  She sighed and grabbed one of the costumes, steeling herself for the looks she would no doubt get, before taking it to the till.

As Ladybug, she had brought the costumes up with Chat Noir, half expecting him to comment he would love to see her in them, but to her delight, if you could call anything about this situation delightful, he had done the exact opposite.  Chat Noir’s rant had gone on for almost an hour, about how they were degrading to women, how they demeaned their repeated heroics and what they represent.  She had been pleasantly surprised and impressed by just how passionate he had been.

Even now, on Halloween, Adrien was still mad about it.  So mad, he was determined to make a point.

‘You look ridiculous.’  Plagg remarked around a piece of ripe camembert.

‘That’s the point.’  Adrien replied as he adjusted his top.

‘Where am I meant to hide?’

‘Use your imagination.’  Adrien shifted he weight from foot to foot, testing his unfamiliar shoes.

Plagg sighed.  ‘I really don’t want to.’

‘Plagg?’  Adrien gave him a stern look.

‘Okay, fine!’  He swallowed the cheese whole.  ‘I’ll figure it out.’

‘Thanks.’  Adrien replied as he disappeared.  ‘Time to go.’

‘I don’t want to go.’  Marinette groaned as Alya dragged her down the street arm in arm.  ‘It’s embarrassing!’

‘You look amazing.’  Alya replied.  Again.  ‘Everyone is going to be floored by it.’

‘Everyone is going to laugh.’  She pouted in reply.

‘Are you kidding?  Nino is going as Ginger Rogers.  I don’t think you’re the one anyone is going to laugh at.’

Marinette knew Alya had a point but as the music grew louder as they approached the venue her heart leapt into her mouth.  ‘Maybe I’ll keep my coat on.’

‘You will not!’  Alya shot her a glare.  ‘Everyone will be in costume, not just you!’

‘It’s alright for you though, you’re wearing a tails suit!’

‘Of course I am.’  She tilted her top hat with a grin.  ‘What would Ginger be without Fred?’

Marinette gave up arguing.  They had reached the doors anyway and would soon not be able to hear one another unless they yelled.  She was definitely going to need a couple of drinks to see her through the night.

Adrien knew there was only one way to handle the party, and that was to walk in with his head held high and absolutely work this look.  He had modelled in less before and he decided to treat this no differently.  Coat checked, he walked into the party hall confidently, taking in the reaction from those nearest him as his eyes searched the crowd for his friends.  Which was when his eyes found her.  His jaw almost hit the floor as he took in the vision before him.

Marinette had chosen to wear the “Sexy Cat Hero” costume.  He would never have thought she would wear something so…revealing, but there she was.  There a lot of her was.  His eyes trailed from the cat ears resting amongst her hair, which she had caught up and styled to look short and spiky.  She wore the mask on her head as a band and in its place her eyes were dark and smoky with a heavy cats eye flick that emphasised them greatly.  Her throat held a choker and bell, the low cut black crop top hugged a small portion of her torso, showing off assets he had never before considered.  Her hands and arms were covered with long gloves, one holding a cup which she drank from regularly.  Standing side on he could see how the booty shorts clung to her, her tail bobbing behind her as she shifted nervously from foot to foot.  The final piece of the costume was thigh high heeled boots.  The entire costume left very little to the imagination, and his right now was running rampant.

Shaking himself from his daze, which was weird, he edged around the room, planning on surprising Marinette.  Sure, he didn’t approve of the costumes but he wanted her to know she looked amazing.  As he got closer, Alya spotted him over Marinette’s shoulder, her eyes going wide until he shushed her, allowing him to get right behind Marinette.  Slipping his hands over her eyes he spoke close to her ear to ensure she heard him.

‘Guess who, chaton?’

Marinette froze as the room was blacked out by hands over her eyes, a voice speaking so close to her ear she felt the heat of breath on her skin.  What the hell?  Why was Chat Noir sneaking up on her?  ‘Chat Noir?’  She asked hesitantly.

It took Adrien a moment to remember he wasn’t here as Chat Noir.  Had Marinette recognised his voice?  Had she thought that his use of chaton was a clue?  He had to act fast.  He dropped his hands and stepped around her.  ‘No, it’s me, Adrien.’  He raised his mask to rest on top of his head.  ‘You didn’t really think I was Chat Noir, did you?’

‘What?  No!  I thought you saying chaton was a clue!’  Marinette laughed to cover up her embarrassment.  Then she took in his costume fully.  ‘Oh my God.’

‘Tada!  What do you think?’  Adrien did a twirl for her while Alya laughed.

‘Oh, I love the socks, Adrien.’  Alya shook her head.  ‘I didn’t realise they did those in your size.’

‘I did have to special order it.’  He admitted.  ‘But it’s worth it.  Why should it just be women who have to dress sexy on Halloween?’

Marinette just continued to stand and gawk at him, rendered absolutely speechless.  Adrien was wearing the “Sexy Bug Hero” costume.  Which meant a spotted mask, a polkadot bikini, over the bottom of which sat a stiff net skirt.  His legs held socks, just as Alya said, but they came up over his knees, the final part of his costume being polkadot heeled shoes.

‘What…uh…what, what?’  Marinette managed to spit out and Alya patted her on the back.

‘I’m going to go find Nino.  You two have fun in your couples costumes.’

Neither one knew quite how to answer, they simply looked at one another.  Eventually it was Adrien who broke the silence.

‘So, erm, what made you come as Chat Noir?’

‘I left it too late to get anything else.’  She admitted sheepishly.  ‘Not that he’s a bad person to dress as, but I’d rather something less…’  She indicated to herself.  ‘Maybe more is the right word.  What about you?’

‘Protest.’  He admitted, trying very hard to maintain eye contact.  ‘You know, why should girls have to wear such degrading costumes, and it’s demeaning to the heroes, don’t you think?’

He continued to talk but Marinette switched off, his wording striking a chord in her memories.  No, it couldn’t be.

Adrien was just expressing to Marinette why he had decided to make his point when she put her drink on a nearby table and reached up as though to touch his hair.  He paused, wondering what she was going to do, until her fingers reached the mask and she pulled it down over his eyes and stared into them.

‘Chat?’  She said, just loud enough for him to hear.

‘No, you’re Chat.’  He said quickly in his defence but she wasn’t done.  She pulled the mask off him, took hers from her head and held it over his face.

‘Don’t lie to me, I’d know those eyes anywhere!’

‘You know Chat Noir that well, huh, Marinette?’  Adrien laughed nervously, knowing his eyes looked different like this.

‘Yeah, I do.’  She replied as she held the Ladybug mask up to her own face.  ‘Really well.’

Adrien’s jaw flapped a couple of times.  He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.  Adding the mask to Marinette’s face changed her eyes.  They were suddenly confident, strong, determined, and he was so in love with them he would know them anywhere.  ‘My la…?’

She pressed her finger to his lips and handed him back his mask.  ‘Not here.  Later.’

‘Later.’  He repeated.  ‘I can’t wait until later!’

‘You have to.  People will notice if we leave now.’

He glanced around as his mind whirled.  Marinette.  Ladybug.  It made so much sense and the reality hit him like a bucket of cold water.  ‘Then dance with me?’  He took her hand.  ‘No one will overhear us.’

She sighed.  Dancing with Adrien sounded amazing but the truth of what she had just learnt had shook her more than she cared to admit.  It turned out she was in love with her partner all along.  ‘Adrien…’

‘Please?’

‘One dance.’  She held her finger up between them.  ‘Then I need a drink.’

‘Great.’  He grinned as he grabbed her hand and pulled her to the dance floor, turning and resting his hand on her hips to avoid pressing them to her bare flesh.

‘This isn’t a slow song.’  She narrowed her eyes at him even as she brought her hands up to rest on his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his body even through her gloves.

‘I don’t care, I’m scared if I let you go now that I’ve found you I might lose you.’

She smiled at the goofy look in his eyes, shaking her head slightly.  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Good.’

They began to sway to the music far too slowly, not caring about what else was going on around them.  There was no one but the two of them.  They stayed like this the entire night, as tempos changed and the number of people on the dance floor began to wane, and it was only when the lights went up they realised they were the only guests left.

‘I think we overstayed our welcome.’  Adrien laughed.

‘I think so.’  Marinette’s cheeks flushed pink and he was able to finally appreciate her outfit in its entirety.  She was so beautiful.

‘You want to go get a coffee?’  He asked.

‘I’d like that.’  She nodded.

You could have cut the silence between the pair with a knife.  They sat on opposite sides of a small table at the back of an all night coffee shop, coats fastened firmly over their costumes, Marinette staring into her coffee as she stirred it, all too aware of Adrien’s eyes on her.

‘So…’  He prompted and she looked up, the sudden word jolting her out of her overthinking.

‘So…I don’t know what you want me to say.’  She said quietly.

‘Tell me again.’  He smiled softly and she felt her own lips twitch in response.  He was infectious.

‘You’re not mad?’  She asked hesitantly.

‘How could I be mad?’  He asked.  ‘Just tell me.’

She swallowed hard and glanced down again.  ‘I’m Ladybug.’  She murmured so quietly he could barely hear her.

‘A little louder.’  He encouraged her and she looked up, finding him grinning an entirely Chat-like grin.

‘You’re not funny, you know?’

‘I’m a little funny.’  He tilted his head.

‘You’re funny in that outfit.’  She laughed slightly.

‘I was going for crazy hot, but okay.’  He shrugged.

‘Shut up.’  She looked at her cup again as a gentle blush coloured her cheeks.  He was right, he was crazy hot, but she wasn’t about to admit that to him, not knowing what she knew now, but that could work in her favour.

He narrowed his eyes and ducked his head to try and meet her gaze.  ‘Wait, are you blushing?  Do you actually think I’m crazy hot?’

She gave him a deadpan look.  ‘I’m shy, Adrien, not blind.’

‘Huh.’  He had a far too satisfied look on his face.  Talk about the cat that got the cream.  ‘But just say it one more time?  Please?’

She huffed out a sigh.  He wanted her to say it, fine she would say it.  Pressing her hands on the table she stood, leaning towards him until her cheek was almost touching his.  Finally she whispered; ‘I’m Ladybug.’  Directly into his ear.

Adrien swallowed hard as her breath tickled his skin.  He could feel the heat from her skin, he could smell the sweet scent of her with fruity overtones from her shampoo, and as she sat back again he could see every freckle on her face, every fleck in her bluebell eyes.

Marinette sat down and picked up her coffee, blowing across the surface to hide her flushed cheeks as her heart raced.  She had decided to surprise him with a little confidence he was only used to seeing from her in costume, and it seemed to have had the desired effect.  He had shut up, at least.  ‘It’s your turn.’  She prompted him.

Adrien’s mouth flapped twice before any sound came out, and then he had to clear his throat.  ‘Do you want to go on a date after patrol tomorrow night?  He said rapidly.

Marinette choked on her coffee, causing it to swallow the wrong way, scalding her throat in the process.  ‘What?’  She asked when she could speak.

‘Nah, forget I said anything.’  He shook his head.  ‘It was a stupid thing to ask, I know you’re not interested I just hoped, now we knew each other’s identities, that you might give me a shot.’

Marinette looked at him in disbelief, which he took completely the wrong way and continued to ramble.

‘You have to be disappointed, I would be, I’m not exactly superhero material like this.  I’m a model, that’s not really what you expect from Chat Noir, and you’ve always told me you don’t feel that way about me, that there’s someone else.  I won’t ask again, let’s just pretend that I never said it.’

‘Well, if you’re not going to ask again,’ she said as she pulled the mask down off her head to cover her eyes, ‘then maybe this Chat should ask his bugaboo.’

‘Maybe what now?’  Adrien asked in confusion.

She sighed and sat forward, pulling his mask down over his own eyes.  ‘Would you go on a date with me after patrol tomorrow night, my lady?’

‘But…’  The look of confusion on his face was absolutely endearing.  ‘What about the other guy?’

‘You pretty idiot.’  She rolled her eyes.  ‘You’re the other guy!’

‘I’m…I’m what?!’  He said louder than he meant to and it made her laugh.

She slid out of her seat and beckoned to him with her finger.  ‘Try to keep up, chaton.’  She walked towards the exit and knew he was following from the sudden scraping sound of the chair and his rapid heeled footfalls following her.  Smiling to herself she mulled over how things had turned out and how she had it all to thank the very costume she had so despised.

[ghostradiostoryhour]

Ghostwriter

When he figured it out, Drake McConn was on his third smoke break, leaning against the grey marble of the Dallas Morning News building. He stared at the front page of that day’s Fort Worth Star-Telegram. THE FARMER SLAYER STRIKES AGAIN, the headline read, stamped black above a graphic photo of a man in overalls lying dead in a pasture, glassy-eyed, a smear of dark blood across his temple. In the relatively plain background, behind the crime scene tape, McConn could just see the outline of a handsome man in a rain slicker and a felt fedora, a press card sticking up from the hatband. Himself.

Sensational though it was, this was Maude Drooby’s picture. McConn had last seen it curled and drying in Drooby’s dingy apartment, clipped next to her shots for the week on a metal wire she’d stretched across her bedroom. He’d seen the photo when he came out of her bathroom in his towel after his morning shower. That was last weekend. McConn frowned. Today was Tuesday.

He glanced at the article’s byline. Ace Maven. Of course. For a month and a half now, the bastard reporter had been stealing McConn’s articles for the Star-Telegram. The quotes were the same, as were the details Maven included. The articles printed practically his own words. He had to admit that Maven’s stories did use better vocabulary, but any decent journalist knew that kind of thing only bogged down the story, made it sound stilted. His Dallas readers didn’t take to such highbrow stuff. No way the shit-kickers in Fort Worth had the brains for it. Still, it was Maven’s work that made the front page, not McConn’s. Maybe those cowboys out in the sticks didn’t care about world events like the Communist threat, or pressing matters like Senator McCarthy’s views on the war. The fact remained that Maven continually beat McConn to the front page, and today’s article was no exception.

McConn folded the newspaper in one hand, then took a long drag off his cigarette. The wind flapped his trench coat around his knees. He grimaced. It was getting colder. He checked his watch. Five more minutes.

Over the last month, McConn had taken to buying a Star-Telegram every morning to check for stolen articles. On the rare day that McConn didn’t put a story out, Maven didn’t either. That Arlington murder story was his, just like his piece on the disappearance of the Dewitt girl, or the expose of the prostitution ring run by Red sympathizers in the upper echelons of the Dallas Country Club. All Maven seemed to write were the stories McConn had already written himself.

McConn looked out on the flat grey parking lot, on shined sedans and coupes that gleamed like jewels on the pavement. His own black Oldsmobile was parked next to a beat-up station wagon. Colin Grant, editor-in-chief. McConn leaned into another gust of wind and flicked the butt of his cigarette to the curb.

Whenever Grant emerged from his corner office, McConn expressed his concerns about Maven. He was a menace and a phony, andthe Star-Telegram had frankly no right to print Maven’s work; couldn’t Grant see that? They were being robbed, robbed! But Grant always seemed to be only listening halfway, his sharp black eyes floating over the most recent proofs, searching for any last-minute flaws before sending them down to the presses in time for deadline. That’s when McConn took matters into his own hands.

He called up the Star-Telegram. No dice. Apparently, they’d never even seen the elusive Maven. He always sent his secretary to drop off his articles, to pick up his checks. All they could tell McConn was that the secretary in question was attractive, in the dumb way most blondes were. She didn’t like to talk much, probably because there wasn’t much in her pretty little head to begin with, the man at the Star-Telegram joked. Then the paper dismissed McConn with a sharp warning: if he so much as thought about suing the Star-Telegram for copyright infringement, they’d have him over a barrel sooner than he could say Ace Maven.

He’d even spoken to Drooby about it. For a woman, she was surprisingly insightful when it came to reporting. McConn had noticed her for her looks, but over time, he came to realize that she was as ruthless with the red pencil as he was determined to get the best stories on his beat. They made a great team. Why wouldn’t he ask Drooby for her opinion? As his photographer and his typist, she was essentially a secretary, wasn’t she? It wasn’t crazy to assume that she might be able to help identify Maven’s woman. But the one time he’d brought it up, he was in bed with her, running his fingers along her bare spine. She’d only pressed her lips to his ear and said, “Shhhh,” before ducking beneath the sheets. He smiled a little, thinking of her body, the way she always smelled like rosewater and darkroom chemicals. Drooby was certainly useful for more than just clerical matters; unlike his timid wife at home, Drooby was fearless.

But how was Maven getting access to his work? The only other person who saw his writing before it went to press was Drooby. He walked a few steps, scuffed his shoes on the sidewalk. Then a creeping dread filled his veins. She would never—

He shoved the newspaper under his arm, pushed through the rotating door. His shined leather oxfords clacked satisfyingly as he crossed the polished marble floor to the elevators. A caustic feeling rose like steam in his chest. The elevator dinged to the fourth floor and the paneled wood doors opened into the newsroom. He made his way to Drooby’s desk, pushing past the men in rolled shirtsleeves and women in tweed pencil skirts rushing between desks with sheafs of paper in their arms. The clatter of typewriters at work filled the dusty air. McConn could see Grant pacing in his office, arguing with someone on the telephone and smoking a cigar. Drooby was at the water cooler, laughing at something one of the other secretaries had said, looking as vapid as ever. Quiet, McConn pulled open the drawer of her desk. Inside, along with some pencils and loose paperclips, was a little black book. He opened it. There, on the first page, the only entry: contact information for the editor-in-chief of the Fort Worth Star Telegram. From across the room, Drooby caught McConn’s eye, flashed a smile. He dropped the book, pushed the drawer shut, and stepped away from her desk. McConn decided to swallow his rage, for now. He would handle the problem later, in the cool blue of her little apartment downtown. In a feline motion, Drooby took a seat and looked hard at the fragmented poem in the spool of her typewriter, running a finger along the edge of the paper.

“Have you been reading my diary, Mr. McConn?” she asked, then turned to arch an eyebrow at him.

McConn forced a smile back, did his best to keep his voice light. “Just looking for a piece of paper,” he said, and tapped the little spiral notebook in his shirt pocket. “I always forget.”

Drooby’s lips parted in a smile, but her brown eyes held the same cruel expression they did when she was working through a particularly difficult grammatical problem, or writing a new line of poetry.

“Silly of you,” she said, still watching him. McConn felt her betrayal sear into him. She was a liar. She had lied, stolen his work, and now here she was, mocking him in front of everyone. The photo in the paper under his arm seemed as though it would burn a hole in his jacket. Looking at her now, at her small, fox-shaped face, he wondered what else she had lied about. There was no way he could wait until the end of the workday. Drooby needed to be dealt with now. But not here. He cleared his throat.

“How’s the poetry coming?” he asked.

“Oh, you know. Slow, as usual,” Drooby said and shrugged. “Nothing like your articles, speedy and efficient.”

“I should think not,” McConn said. “I’ll leave the poetry to you.”

“Probably smart,” Drooby said. “Where journalism is a dead body surrounded by white chalk lines, poetry is a difficult phantom, ever racing away.” She laughed, placing her hand with its long white fingers on his forearm. “Listen to me. Ridiculous. How was your smoke break?”

“Insufficient,” McConn said. He grabbed her elbow, pulled her face close to his. “Come on,” he said. “I’ve been dying to get you alone.”

She batted her eyes, then stood and swung her coat around her shoulders. “Whatever you say, boss.” McConn winked at her andripped the sheet of poetry from the typewriter, folded it into a little rectangle, and stuck it in his hatband next to his matches. Drooby grabbed her purse and followed him out for the last time.

Back at her apartment, Drooby and McConn slammed into each other violently. Up against the bar in the kitchen, they rattled the spirits in their glass decanters. Down on the bedroom floor next to the radiator, their breath rose, spectral. McConn could see the name Ace Maven ghosting through Drooby’s eyes. When they were naked, McConn felt her tense beneath him. He lifted her fragilebody to the long desk, where her most recent photographs bobbed, bloated cadavers on the surface of three plastic tubs filled with developer, stop bath, and bleach. He dropped her on the table, sloshing chemicals. She brushed her nose along his shoulder, bit his collarbone. She dug her fingernails into his back. He pulled away, the metal wire where she hung her photos bumping against his fedora. Drooby tried to stand, but McConn grabbed her brittle wrists in one hand, pushed her back against the table.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Drooby yelled.

With his free hand, McConn reached for the metal wire and pulled until it ripped from the wall. Curled, drying photos scattered to the floor and fell into the tubs of liquid.

“You’ve been stealing from me, Mr. Maven,” he said.

He wrapped the wire twice around Drooby’s skinny neck.

“Drake, no—“ she said, and her voice came out fuzzed and weak.

“I’m only here to take what you stole, to collect on what you owe me,” he said, and let go of her wrists. In one swift motion, he yanked as hard as he could on both ends of the wire. The sharp metal slid through her frail skin and arteries like cheese. She coughed and the blood came haltingly at first and then in a steady pour, gurgling out of her throat onto her fallen photographs. His palms stung where the wire had cut them. He watched the pool of red around her body spread. Blood dripped from the table in thick streams.

He pulled her poem from his hat. Then he struck a match, lit it on fire over her dead body, and threw the burning sheet of paper at her makeshift darkroom. Flames grew and jumped along the legs of the table. The phantom forms of people bubbled and cracked in her photos. Drooby was slumped on the table, an unresponsive pile of flesh. McConn watched the flames climb over her spine, crackle in her hair. He felt nothing, only stared. Drooby’s skin blistered and smoked under the fire. Then a sudden shudder rocked her whole body, and she sat up with a sudden jerk, like a marionette pulled upright. She ran to the kitchen.

“Drake!” Drooby yelled, and McConn heard the sound of turned faucets, of water pouring into the metal sink. “Help me put it out!”

McConn looked down at his hands. Two matching horizontal cuts were still there from when he had pulled down the wire, when he had strangled Drooby. Only now when he looked, the metal wire stretched across the bedroom as though nothing had happened. The cuts were painful to the touch, but they had already started fading. He looked up at the burning darkroom before him. The photos clipped to the metal wire started to smoke and warp. The odor of spilled chemicals, sticky and dark like blood, rose from the soaked carpet where the tubs of stop bath and developer lay overturned. McConn breathed through his mouth.

Drooby ran into the room, carrying a pot filled with water. She heaved it toward the flames, and the water hissed into steam. Casting the pot aside, she rushed to her closet and pulled on a nightgown. McConn watched her, disbelieving. She looked almost blurry as she moved through the apartment, but maybe that was just the smoke. Drooby threw his slacks at him and he yanked them on. She picked up the phone on nightstand and dialed 9-1-1.

“Fire,” she was saying. “213 Elm. Yes. Please hurry.”

When she disappeared outside, McConn followed her, his hands stinging.

The next day, everyone in the office brought Drooby some kind of condolence: flowers, Bundt cakes, cards. Even Grant pitched in for a floral arrangement, though he was pretty miffed about losing the photos set to run that week. It seemed that Drooby was rattled, but by all appearances she was the same old Drooby, sweet and coy, quiet, hard-working.

Still, McConn felt something sinister lurking beneath her newly repentant demeanor.

“Afternoon, Drooby,” he said as he passed her desk to drop off a draft of his new story. The office clacked and rang around them, as it always did. But just beneath it all, McConn could hear a sound like flames crackling. It got stronger as he moved closer to Drooby’s desk.

“How’s everything at your mom’s place?” he asked politely, picking up one of the cards on her desk. His fingers smudged through the air, as though they were made not of solid flesh. He dropped the card in fear. Drooby frowned at the page stuck in her typewriter.Clearly the fire hadn’t affected her futile obsession with her idiotic little poems, anyhow.

“It’s fine,” she said. Then she lowered her voice. “You have every right to be angry with me, but you didn’t have to burn down my damn apartment just to make your point.”

McConn placed his hand on her shoulder and immediately regretted it. Her skin didn’t feel like skin but like ice water, more liquid than solid. He jumped when she turned to face him. Her features had been scrubbed down, erased. Two burned out holes had replaced her quick brown eyes. When she spoke, the twisted gash that was her mouth didn’t move, but a deep slit at her throat gushed blood as red as her editing marks.

“You destroyed my photos, my poem,” she said. “Your writing wasn’t worth that.”

McConn’s palms started to burn. The skin around his new scars was dissolving. It bubbled and cracked with the sick noise of popping grease.

The rest of the office went about business as usual. It was as though nothing were out of the ordinary, as though this—thing—wasn’t sitting in their midst, searing people’s hands off. He tried to walk away from her desk, but he found that he could not move from the spot.

“What are you doing to me?” he hissed.

Drooby just pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear. Small blue sparks snapped at her fingertips, and soon, her entire body crawled with fire. Flames singed the desk where she rested her elbows. The chair burned beneath her.

“What am I doing?” she laughed. “You of all people should understand the concept of editing.”

“Editing?” McConn asked. Brown burnt spots speckled her already face, and sheets of her skin flaked away to burn in the air like newsprint. “Editing what?”

“Reality,” she said. “You are a superfluous detail in this reality.”

His ears filled with the sound of flames, and he could not move. Grant approached the desk with brows furrowed.

“Excuse me, Ms. Maven,” Grant stopped and rapped on the edge of the desk by way of introduction. “You were saying?”

McConn felt his breath quicken.

“Just thinking aloud,” she said, with a smile. She glanced at McConn and curled her fingers into her ponytail.

“Well,” Grant said. “I just wanted to say nice work.  He tugged on his sport coat. “That article you wrote about the apartment fire was gold, pure gold.”

“Writing is my life,” Drooby said. McConn could see a hint of fire in her lips.

Grant flicked the brown felt hat on her desk. He nodded toward a large brown spot on the floor next to her desk. “What’s this? It looks as if something burned.”

“Oh, that?” she said. “You’ve got me. I have no idea.”

As Grant walked back to his corner office, Drooby turned to McConn one last time, looked him hard in the face. Then she reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, but he couldn’t feel it. All he felt was flame.

[sethwriting-blog]

Chapter One — Seeking-Arrangement “Free”

word count : 1, 514 words

 Disclaimer : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter One

Let me give some explanation on how I arrived in a hotel room, half naked.

FEW MONTHS AGO

Xenia’s P.OV

I watched people arriving in the garden by my window, people which were neither of my family nor my friends, people of “our class” said my mother. I couldn’t calm the anger which burned in me, this stupid party of “graduation celebration” is so useless, these 7 years of studies in law were a real torture. My family dreamed of seeing me taking back the law firm that my father opened around thirty years earlier. He built a small empire in the world of the justice, but he would not be eternal and as an only child I was intended to take back his firm.  Since I understand the senses of the words, I hear the same bullshit “You’ll take back the cabinet, my daughter and your children also… ” NO ! That’s not my dream. I always tried to follow the rules that my parents impose to me to the letter because I’m fucking naive and I thought that the only things of good in life were what they told me.

I was supposed to be ready fifteen minutes ago, my mother turned in ass and the governess didn’t stop tapping on my door.

“Mrs Phillips, your-,” Her small piping voice resounded in my room.

I left the edge of the window to open the door. The English governess jumped in the abrupt movement of the door.

“Tell to Victoria Phillips that I will not put a foot in this party, Mrs. McGeen.” I hissed by basing me in the doorframe.

A sad smile appeared on her face, I know this woman since my tender age. “You should go over there and speak your mind. If becoming an author is your dream…”

“You should follow it,” I continued with a slight smile.”You always say this sentence when it’s about my fucking of future.” I mumbled.

She’s a small woman, a blonde, with hazel eyes, she doesn’t look impressive but her character can be very authoritarian. Since I know her nothing changed with her: her low bun, her small pink polo accompanied by a grey cardigan, she always wears a long black skirt.

“XENIIIIIIAAAAAAA,” I heard the steps of my mother approached in a few seconds, she was in front of me. “HOW ?! What were you doing ? Everyone is waiting for you outside !” She yelled at me.

“I don’t wanna go there.” I argued. “I don’t know these people. What am I going to say to these people ? Oh I know, as always my dad and you are going to speak in my place.” I smirked by noticing that the lines of my mother face frowned more and more, her ebony skin contrasted with her clear eyes.

“No ! These are important people …

“I don’t give a fuck,” I crossed my arms on my breast. “I don’t wanna be a lawyer, I never wanted to be a lawyer,” I admitted.

She opened her eyes in big and covered her mouth. I had never managed to tell him, but in a moose of anger, it is going out alone. Mrs. McGeen had left, the steps of someone else listened and this time it was my father. The relation with my father degraded lately, we didn’t speak to each other anymore. He was blazing with anger, he held his jacket in his hand and his shirt collar was opened.

“I’ve had to lie to all the guests ! Why !?” he bawled.

“Tell him ! Tell your father what you’ve just told me,” my mom came back from her silence.

The look of my father had turned to my mother then to me. I felt that he could slap me if he had the opportunity to. No sound could go out of my mouth. My father intimidated me in a point that I couldn’t impede him. The scene was extremely weird, my two parents in front of me, on the landing of the door of my room, and a tension glided in the air.

“You’ve lost your tongue ! SPEAK !” my father yelled at him by getting closer to me.

“I…” I stammered softly, “I don’t wanna take back your firm.” I finally said it.

A sarcastic laughter brought out of my father’s mouth, “This is a joke, right.”

“No.” I replied firmly, he lost immediately his smile.

“Tell that’s a fucking joke Xenia, after all I’ve done for you ?” he stared at me.

“Why ?” my mom asked, tears in his yes, “Tell us why ?” she repeated.

“I want to a writer. I always wanted to be an author. Law, court etc… Isn’t my thing. If I studied to be a lawyer, it was to make you guys happy, but for once, I want to live my life in whatever way seems best to me,” My father rolled his eyes then he blew of nervousness.

“I worked like a dog in this cabin of a lawyer to offer you a future and you want to become a writer? You think that I am going to pay you studies to write books which nobody will read ?” He bent down towards me, “I give you a last chance to turn back Xenia: do you really want to be a writer?”

I cannot explain what passed in my head at this moment. So many things crowd but for the first time in my life, I had to make a choice, nobody can decide in my place. The looks of my parents were stuck on my lips.My mother had begun to cry and my father couldn’t stay in place anymore.

I nodded. Then my father stopped to move, he looked at me then he said, “Leave and never come back here,” he left and my mother give an angry then she followed him.

Now, I’m alone. But free.

Paul’s P.O.V

I filed paperwork with my partner and best friend, Shawn. Work was the only thing which managed to remind me something else, it is necessary to say that the atmosphere at my home was great.

“How are you man ?” Shawn raised an eyebrow by tidying up certain document in his briefcase. “Steph again ?”

“Steph again,”  I confirmed his mind, “This isn’t getting any better.”

He shook his head, “You should move on and have some fun too.” He advised by getting up from his chair.

“Well, If I move on, I also lose everything,” I said, swinging on my chair.

“Yeah but you can’t live like that…,” I got up to accompany him up to the door, he turned to me, “You already tried to fuck with a hooker ?” he asked.

I frowned. Or what was his point? “Shawn…” I began.

“It’s actually a good idea,” he shrugged.”There is a good website of hooker or escort, whatever. Wait, I am going to write it to you on a scrap of paper.” He took out a pen and cut a scrap of paper of mini pad of note. He writes on the paper then he handed it to me. “Check their website and don’t worry about your privacy.”

“I can’t promise you anything, mate.” I opened the door for him.

“If you try this, you’ll not regret it.” he winked at me then he left.

I wondered if he had already tried one of these escorts. I put the paper that he gave me in my pocket then I got back to work. I went back home, it was near 10:00 pm. The house was quiet, the girls doubtless slept.

I put my affairs on the sofa then I went in the kitchen, Stephanie was drinking a glass of champagne. She stared at me then she put her glass on the work surface.

“Hey.” I greeted.

“Where were you ?” she inquired softly, crossing her arms over her chest, “You were at work, as always. I had to put the girls in beds alone,” she complained.

“I’m sorry but…”

“I have enough Paul !” she ended my sentence, “I didn’t make kids to play the single mother.”

“Can you stop complaining please ?! I AM tired too, I HAVE problems too and I HAVE work too,” I answered by raising the voice.

“You know what Paul? Go fuck yourself,” she swore and left by pushing me.

I blew then I took her glass of champagne to end it sharply. I thought of our relation which degraded from day to day, and I didn’t understand why Stephanie blamed me so much. I left in the room that I occupied alone then I took my computer, I answered certain emails. When I felt a scrap of paper in my pocket, read it and I remembered my small conversation with Shawn. I hesitated before looking for this site on Google but I had nothing to lose. I signed up then I visited this website. The mounts which took these girls were horribly high. We could choose the girl according to criterion on the skin color, the eyes, the age etc…

“Bullshit,” I muttered.

I shook my head and closed my laptop.

A/N : Hope you enjoyed it. I hope the second will be more interesting.

TAG LIST : @thiickreigns

[sarahvampgrl-blog]

Now Kiss

Disclaimer Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Chapter 1 "Oh my Gawd!" The girl screamed. "It's Buffy Summers!" Buffy sighed and rolled her eyes before turning to see who'd screamed her name. It wasn't the barista. There was no reason to say her name like that just to let her know her coffee was ready. Most of the rest of the coffeeshop ignored them though there were a few curious glances. One advantage to living in a big city like San Francisco was how much people pretty much ignored the weird. A tall girl in what Buffy thought was a really cute sari wrap skirt bounced in glee as she stared at her. "I'm her." Buffy said. "You're the best Slayer!" the girl gushed happily. Buffy flushed a little at the compliment. "Well, I don't know about that…" "You are, I have all your posters, you're like the most extra Slayer ever," the girl continued. "Extra?" Was that good, Buffy was confused, was she getting old? "Yes! Even vampires fall in love with you," the girl said, not noticing how uncomfortable Buffy suddenly looked, "you're the one meant to kill them like they're own personal grim reapery death and they fall in love with you. It's so intense. I have all your posters." "Who slow down, posters?" Buffy asked, she knew she'd been splashed across the headlines for the last few years. She was used now to getting recognized since the supernatural world was out but this was weird. This girl knew a lot about her. And who was making posters? Times like this she wished someone in her squad was better at finances. Besides Kennedy. "I'm not really comfortable talking about… did you want an autograph? Or something…" Buffy trailed off. "Yes, oh all the other girls will be so jealous!" the girl said as she looked around frantically for something to be signed. Her face lit as she dug a stake from her bag and a thick black sharpie. Buffy raised her eyebrows questioningly. "I'm a slayer too," the girl said and her joyful grin transformed into the smile of the steely and confident. Buffy took the stake and marker and swiped her autograph across the light wood. She handed it back just as she heard the barista call her name quizically like it was a joke name, "Buffy?" As she turned to go with a wave the girl said, "The next time I dust a vampire it'll be by driving your name into their evil heart. Thank you, Buffy." All giggles gone and replaced with solemn sincerity. Whoa, intense much? "Be careful out there," Buffy said, "Don't forget your backup." This was the world now. The world she had remade. If there was one rule out there that had kept her alive, would hopefully keep them alive, and it was the one she wanted them to remember it was this; Don't push people away, count on your friends. She had a new duty now on top of her old ones. With this platform she now had she always had to try. To make the world around her a better place one slayer and demon at a time. Whether that was through love and support or the end of Mr. Pointy varied on a case by case basis. This was the closest she'd ever come to 'The Buffy Summers' Brandy thought with excitement. She carefully set the autographed stake on a small table under her Buffy wall. The wall was completely covered with newspaper clippings, magazine photos and official posters. She'd staked out that coffee shop for weeks but she finally had something that Buffy had actually touched. She was so close. The next person was even harder to track down. She needed something from Spike. He had a soul of course so he wouldn't hurt her but he was just hard to pin down. Tonight the stars were aligning. The SFPD was going to raid a nest that had been killing humans and they'd called for backup. All slayers welcome to the party. The best part was the featured guest, Spike the resident vampire expert was leading the raid with the cops. She glanced to the right with a dreamy sigh. Her Spike corner. There were no pictures oh him, just artist renditions. She'd collected any she could find. Their story, the ones she'd learned in Slayer school aka training, had blazed like a fire and purpose inside her ever since she first heard it. She'd followed them, collected, obsessed. Their love became her love. When magic had come blazing back her feelings had only intensified. The world was flipped on its head again and there were new rules, new changes every day. She was on the knife edge of excitement as night fell and she prepared to join the fray. Spike stood with Detective Dowling looking at the abandoned Circuit City. And the detective was asking his opinion, how they should proceed. It was nice. He was surprised at how nice it felt but he was damn well respectable now. Made a bloke want to hold his head up high and puff out his chest. They had ten specially trained police officers, but they were still human. They also had three slayers. Three slayers were easily equal to another 30 men. He wasn't too worried about this nest of six even though they could shapeshift and took a lot more force to kill. Spike looked back at the group behind him, at the ready to charge. "Hammers ready?" he called back. A chorus of readys as well as raised stakes and mallets were his answer. He put on his game face with a growl and commanded, "It's ok to have some fun with it!" They they were busting through glass doors and windows into the middle of a very angry vampire keg party. Spike came to a screeching halt. There were more than six vampires here. And a few other things. He had not known this was going to be an actual party. He wanted to curse. Instead he looked over his shoulder at the three slayer girls. "Am I glad I brought you ladies." Then he charged into the fray, firsts flying. To be honest, he wished he'd brought Buffy on this one. But he always wished that. One of the cops was down and Spike smelled blood but he didn't think he was dead yet. The slayers were cutting through the crowd and four vampires had already been dusted. Spike was enjoying punching all his strength into the demons and vampires, watching them fly back. It was always hard to worry about your problems when you were stabbing something. He grabbed the bat wings of a shrieking half transformed vampire as one of the slayers charged towards them. Just as she plunged her stake forward the bat wings shook and wrested from him for a moment. As he adjusted his grip the slayers arc kept falling. And it missed the batpire! It sank into his side with a wet noise. He jerked and lost his hold. "The bloody hell?" he cried incredulously. "Sorry, Spike," said the unknown girl as she pulled the wood out of him and ran back into the fight. It was just a graze and hadn't punctured anything important but it was still annoying as hell. Silly chit. But he couldn't stay mad at a slayer for long. He'd healed but his clothes were ruined as usual as he stood surveying the aftermath of the battle. They hadn't lost anyone but hadn't killed everyone either. A few had gotten away. It irritated him. More than his ruined shirt. "Want to get a pint?" Dowling asked. The detective was pleased with what they'd accomplished and happy no one had died. "I'm not really dressed for it," Spike said dryly. "No prob, you know I keep my kitchen stocked. New microbews…" Dowling cajoled. Spike couldn't resist trying a new brew. He loved the boys obsession and never failed to take him up on the offer. "Sure,"; Spike relented. He and Xander had spent enough nights this week playing Xbox in their boxer shorts he could spend a night alone even if he was nursing a broken heart. "Glad we had those three slayers tonight or we probably wouldn't be enjoying those microbrews." "Three?" Dowling said, "I thought we were only getting two."

[anneedmonds]

Weekly Window Shop: The Best Pink Beds

I know that it’s entirely possible that pink velvet is going to be one of those fleeting trends that disappears into the interiors ether as quickly as it arrived, but please humour me. Because I’ve always wanted a pink bed. Not the type of pink bed that looks as though it’s been stolen from an eighties prom queen, with Pepto Bismol woodwork and frilly polyester skirting that presents a worrying fire risk. No, I’m talking cool pink beds; vintage shapes, muted shades of rose, non-crushed velvets and legs of brass and wood.

Quite honestly, I would have gone for something pink years ago had it not been for Mr AMR, who is of the hard-edged no-pastels modernist school of interiors; only now that I have my own room to decorate can I fully unleash my decorating desires. Now that I have my studio, with its dual-aspect windows and soothing views and steady, flat northern light (excellent for filming in), I feel like a teenager again – a world of possibilities in terms of paint and furniture and lighting… And no clue where to start.

Which is why my studio room set (aka Ted’s Old Bedroom) sits forlorn and empty, furnished with oddments of furniture and the weird, badly-sized bed that Mr AMR bought from America a few years ago. (There’s a huge gap between mattress and frame – you could almost lose a child down it.) The walls need re-plastering, the radiator needs moving and the air is freezing (which is why Ted only stayed in it for about two weeks before we moved him); it’s really hard to get motivated to make any plans. I mean it’s beautiful, original Georgian windows and fireplace and all, but white paint with the north light makes for an inspiration-sapping combo.

So I’m starting with the bed and it’s going to be pink. To warm things up. I’ve given this a lot of thought, so don’t try and talk me out of it. The overall style of the room will be “Handful of mid century, mixed with a huge dose of vintage, with some country house cool” – plush fabrics, decadent prints, some rich wood, a smidgen of antiqued brass – Babington House meets, well, Babington House.

(I spend a lot of time at Babington House, in case you hadn’t picked up on that from various vlogs and stories; it’s my local. Local gym, local pub, local restaurant, local anything. Pretty lucky place to land as your local, but there you go. The only problem is that it’s going to cost me a potential fortune in redecorating fees – I see a little quirk I feel inspired by every time I walk in through the door and then wheee, off I go into a fantasy world of art collections and artisan wallpapers and interesting table lamps.)

(Soho Home have an amazing bed called The Manette. It’s just so cool and interesting and all of the things I wanted to be at school and I’m sorely tempted to get it for our actual bedroom. Y’know, to sleep in, and not as part of a studio background. Mr AMR complains about our current bed because the end bit (foot? footboard?) restricts his leg movement. Don’t even ask, but I feel as though that gives me an excuse to buy one with more leg room…)

Anway, back to pink beds, which is the priority here; I’ve rounded up my favourites for the studio below. For those wondering what the hell this studio is; it’s where I shoot most of my videos. Except you’d never know because it just looks like a white wall. I want it to look more like my bedroom – fantasy bedroom – with all of the interesting things Mr AMR hates. Although if I make it too nice then Mr AMR will find himself in trouble, because I might take a shine to it and move myself in!

My pick of the best pink beds:

Conran Elycia Bed Frame, from £899 here.

This one triggered off the original pink bed obsession. I just loved the deco-style simplicity of the headboard and the fact that the bed didn’t cost as much as a brand new Fiat 500.

The same Conran range has another lovely bed frame called the Avery, which is very similar to the…

…Margot Bed Frame from Made.com, £649 here*.

Be still, oh be very still, my spendaholic heart. Actually, this is the most affordable of the pink bed bunch and would make my accountant incredibly happy. The way they’ve dressed it in some of the web pictures makes it look a bit like a sofa bed but you can see from the undressed image that it’s a very fine shape indeed.

Dark wood legs with brass tips, beautiful dusty pink velvet, rock and roll headboard shape. Tick, tick, bloody well tick.

Raul Bed Frame, from £899 at Barker & Stonehouse here.

Prepare to be very divided because this is the one I’m least sure on. I’ve included it as a wild card because I love the slouchy cushions attached to the headboard but at the same time I’m not sure whether it’s a little too retro for my current tastes.

Either way, it’s a funky addition to my edit. And it’s pink. The least “pretty” option, if you’re after something slightly more edgy! That’s assuming you’re after anything at all…

Ariel Bed, from £2410 at Sweetpea & Willow here.

I mean, please: what gorgeousness lies before us here? This is girly bed perfection, surely? I actually felt slightly sick with lust when I saw this bed, but then I configured it in pink velvet and felt sick for an entirely different reason, because the price shot up to over £3300 and I knew that it was way out of my dreamy reach.

But look! The wicker peacock chair! It’s as though this bed was made for me! I could almost recreate this entire room set and wouldn’t even have to paint my walls. If I just skimmed over the patches where the drainpipe leaked water through the wall then we’d be good to go…

Right, party people: which is your favourite? All of the above come in grey as well, by the way, in case you’re looking for something a little more subdued. Actually the Conran bed, Ariel bed and Raul bed all come in a load of different fabric options – it’s a bit like upholstering a sofa – and the Margot bed from Made.com comes in grey and also teal. I do love teal, but it’s such a strong colour that I really feel that it might be a bit unworkable and extreme once the fad for it dies down…

        The post Weekly Window Shop: The Best Pink Beds appeared first on A Model Recommends.

Weekly Window Shop: The Best Pink Beds was first posted on February 19, 2019 at 10:36 pm. ©2018 "A Model Recommends". Use of this feed is for personal non-commercial use only. If you are not reading this article in your feed reader, then the site is guilty of copyright infringement. Please contact me at contact@amodelrecommends.com Weekly Window Shop: The Best Pink Beds published first on https://medium.com/@SkinAlley

[neptunecreek]

How Have Europe's Upload Filtering and Link Tax Plans Changed?

Although we have been opposing Europe's misguided link tax and upload filtering proposals ever since they first surfaced in 2016, the proposals haven't been standing still during all that time. In the back and forth between a multiplicity of different Committees of the European Parliament, and two other institutions of the European Union (the European Commission and the Council of the European Union), various amendments have been offered up in an attempt at political compromise. Unfortunately, the point at which these compromises seem to have landed still poses the same problems as before.

What Has Happened with the Link Tax?

Article 11 is its official designation, but "link tax" is a far better informal description of this proposal, which would impose a requirement for Internet platforms to pay money to news publishers for providing links to news articles, accompanied by a short summary of what they are linking to. This isn't a copyright, because the link tax is paid to the publisher rather than the author, and because it is payable even if the portion of the news article taken isn't copyright-protected, falls within a copyright exception, or is freely licensed.

It's unclear why this proposal wasn't abandoned a long time ago. A similar link tax in Spain resulted in the closure of the Spanish version of Google News, a German equivalent has also been deemed a dismal failure, and both small publishers and even a European Commission-funded study have slammed the proposal. Nevertheless as of February 2018, it remains firmly on the table, with virtually nothing to sweeten the thoroughly rotten deal that it offers to Internet platforms and publishers alike.

The most recent attempt at compromise comes in a discussion paper [PDF] from the Bulgarian Council Presidency, prepared as input for a meeting of the Council's Intellectual Property Working Party that was held on February 12. The paper proposes only minor tweaking to the European Commission's original text, such as excluding individual Internet users from liability for the tax, and carving out "individual words or very short excerpts of text" from its scope, but without specifying what "very short excerpts" actually means. 

The discussion paper also briefly acknowledges the alternative proposal of dropping the link tax altogether, and instead addressing publishers' concerns without creating any new copyright-like impost. This alternative proposal would create a legal presumption that news publishers are entitled to enforce the existing copyrights in news articles written by their journalists. If Internet platforms are reproducing such large parts of news articles that permission from the copyright owner is required, this would enable the publishers to negotiate directly with those platforms to license that use. This is the only sensible compromise that can be made to the Article 11 proposal, but it is one that the Bulgarian Presidency unfortunately gives short shrift.

What has Happened with Upload Filtering?

The same discussion paper also tinkers around the edges of the upload filtering mandate, without addressing the fundamental dangers that it continues to pose to freedom of expression online. For those who came in late, the European Commission's initial upload filter proposal,  formally designated as Article 13, would require Internet platforms to put in place costly and ineffective automatic filters to prevent copyright-infringing content from being uploaded by users, creating a kind of robotic censorship regime.

What has changed since then? Not much. The Bulgarian Presidency proposes being slightly more specific about what kinds of online platforms are the target of the measure ("online content sharing services"). It also proposes introducing a new, expansive definition of "communication to the public"; an exclusive right reserved to copyright holders in Europe that had previously only been defined by way of a complicated series of court decisions. By deeming an Internet platform to be engaged in "communication to the public" whenever it allows a user to upload a copyright-protected work for sharing, the Bulgarian Presidency aims to justify excluding that platform from the copyright safe harbor that the existing E-Commerce Directive provides.

The only other change worth noting is that the proposal is now more equivocal about whether Internet platforms would actually have to install automated upload filters, or whether it would be sufficient for them to prevent the uploading of copyright-infringing material in some other way. But as European Digital Rights (EDRi) has cogently pointed out, this is a distinction without a difference.

To comply with Article 13 and to avoid liability under the E-Commerce Directive (per the Bulgarian Presidency's amendment), platforms are required to "take effective measures to prevent the availability on its services of ... unauthorized works or other subject-matter identified by the rightholders," and if such works do nevertheless appear on the platform, must "act expeditiously to remove or disable access to the specific unauthorized work or other subject matter and ... take steps to prevent its future availability."

There is no way in which platforms could possibly comply with this directive other than by agreeing to monitor all of the content they accept, either manually or automatically. By daring not to speak this uncomfortable truth, the Bulgarian Presidency skirts around the fact that such a general monitoring obligation would contravene both Article 14 of the E-Commerce Directive and European human rights law. But that kind of clever circumlocution can't hide the repressive nature of this censorship proposal, and does nothing to improve on the flaws of the original text.

What Can You Do?

The fight against Article 11 and Article 13 is entering its closing days. That makes every voice that we can raise in opposition to these harmful proposals more important than ever before. European voices are best placed to convince European policymakers of the harm that their proposals would wreak upon European businesses and users. Thankfully, our allies in Europe are on the case, and if you are European or have colleagues or friends in Europe, here are the links you need to contact your representatives and speak out against their misguided plans:

Mozilla has put together an awesome call-in tool and response guide, which makes it easy to identify your specific concerns as a technologist, creator, innovator, scientist or librarian. You can also read more on Mozilla's site about how all of these category of user, and more, are affected by the Article 11 and Article 13 proposals, along with some of the other more obscure (but still important) provisions of the broader Digital Single Market Directive.

A coalition called Create.Refresh have a brilliant, viral campaign that encourages creators to create and share their own works that address the problems inherent in restrictive filtering systems, such as those that Article 13 would effectively mandate.

OpenMedia's Save the Link network has updated their click-to-call website this month with a brand new petition on Article 11 that enables you to identify yourself as one of the impacted groups, from a drop down menu on the new page. If you are a librarian, software developer, creator, researcher, or journalist, you'll be able to demonstrate how the link tax proposals are harmful to you specifically.

As you can see, there are many options for you to get involved in this fight—and with the final Committee vote in the European Parliament coming up on March 26-27, now is the best time to do so. If we lose this one, the link tax and upload filtering mandates could be here to stay, and the Internet as we know it will never be the same.

from Deeplinks http://ift.tt/2o4QZaX

[creativehack01]

16 Simple Life Hacks to Help You Look Great Every Single Day Clingy pants that stick to your legs, new shoes that don’t quite fit right, a t-shirt that shrank in the wash — now you can say goodbye to all of these problems. All you have to do is read this selection of 16 life hacks we’ve put together for you. 1. Getting rid of stains on leather: Just apply a mixture of water and vinegar and gently rub it over the stain. 2. Keeping jewelry clean: This applies only to the non-precious metal parts of your jewelry. Cover the inside part of a ring with clear nail polish. You’ll never have to worry about getting marks on your fingers again. 3. Getting rid of oily stains on your clothes: Use baby powder to get rid of the stain. 4. Rescuing a shrunken t-shirt: Put your shrunken item of clothing into water with some kids’ shampoo (one liter of water for every spoon of shampoo). Leave it to soak for half an hour. Squeeze out the water and place the t-shirt between two towels for ten minutes. Then stretch the item out to its original size, putting something heavy on the edges to keep it stretched, and leave it to dry. 5. Use a razor to get rid of fluff from your clothes: 6. Stopping jeans from fading: Add half a glass of vinegar to the washing machine to stop dark jeans losing their color when being washed. 7. To quickly iron a collar: Hair straighteners can help you to quickly iron the fabric around buttons and folds on shirts and skirts. 8. Removing scuff marks from suede shoes: Use an ordinary eraser to clean your suede shoes. 9. Cleaning the white part of your sneakers: Mix some cleaning solution with baking soda in a bowl, take an old tooth brush and use the solution to thoroughly clean the white rubber parts of your shoes. 10. How to fit the bottom of your jeans into your boots: 11. Removing sweat stains from your clothes: These stains can be cleaned using a mixture of lemon juice and baking soda. 12. Putting a cord through the hood of your hoodie: Use a straw to push the cords through the narrow holes. 13. Breaking in new shoes: Pour some water into sealable plastic packets, place them inside your shoes and put the shoes in the freezer. When the water freezes, it expands. Take the shoes out of the freezer, wait for the ice to melt a little and take the bags of water out. N.B: this method doesn’t work for patent leather shoes. 14. Getting rid of the static on your pants: To get rid of static, place a safety pin on the inside seam of each trouser leg. 15. To stop the zipper on your jeans from coming undone: Attach the ring from a key ring on the zipper and hook it over the button of your pants. 16. Hiding the camel toe: An camel toe can appear when your clothes are too tight. Usually it happens with jeans, leggings or shorts. To hide the embarrassing detail it’s necessary to wear clothes that fit you. Choose those of your size and not less. Using comfortable clothing like dresses from soft tissues can also be important. Note: All information provided by Creative Hack is of a general Information and is furnished only for educational/entertainment purposes only. Please use those tips & tricks At your own risk. If happens any damage, Creative hack is not Responsible. You agree that use of this information is at your own risk and hold Fitness Blender harmless from any and all losses, liabilities, injuries or damages resulting from any and all claims. Follow US ! Facebook : http://ift.tt/2lo7L38 Twitter: https://twitter.com/CreativeHack2 Reddit: http://ift.tt/2lfjcM1 Google+: http://ift.tt/2lo7PzY Digg: http://ift.tt/2lfriEl Blogger: http://ift.tt/2lo2cBG Wordpress: http://ift.tt/2lfmvTu =========================== Fair Use Disclaimer =========================== This channel may use some copyrighted materials without specific authorization of the owner but contents used here falls under the “Fair Use” Copyright Disclaimer under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for "fair use" for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, and research. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favor of fair use. by Creative Hack

[anneedmonds]

Cashmere, Cold Snaps and The Squeezable Cat

The items in this post are #gifted items and links marked * are affiliate links. I have previously worked with Boden and have received samples and gifting from Boden, M&S, ME+EM and Next. Please click here for more info and my disclosure policy.

A cashmere round-up for you, if you were thinking of investing in some before the “big freeze”. (Where is this big freeze? It keeps faffing about and then disappearing. I like to know where I stand with the weather, I want to know exactly how many days I have left until the spring when I can throw open my sash windows and sleep without a hat and coat on. So if this big freeze is coming then I’d rather it just bloody well got on with it and snowed us in for a few days. Big freeze? Big tease, more like.)

Where was I? Yes. My edit of the best jazzed-up cashmere; stripes and prints and colour-block sleeves. No plain knits here. These are the jumpers you can throw on with jeans (as inevitably I do) and still look as though some effort has been made. The only thing you need to rootle in your cupboard for is a t-shirt of vest top to put on underneath, though all of these jumpers are soft enough to wear against skin if that’s your bag.

I personally worry about only wearing one layer – once I went to a meeting in a cashmere jumper and almost fainted because I got too hot. I couldn’t take the jumper off because I didn’t even have a bra on underneath – I think I must have been pregnant. I mean, imagine treating everyone to that sight in the boardroom. Saucer nipples and a sweaty torso.

Right, which lucky brand gets to follow up that visual image? Let’s start with Boden and their amazing Celia jumper. Boden are getting good at sneaking rainbow stripes into unexpected places; here on the shoulders they look bright and cheery without edging into the realms of “Children’s TV Presenter”. You can find the Celia online here* – it’s £140, but you can usually find quite a good Boden discount code online if you look. My Mum sends me them almost daily. It’s an issue.

The fit of the Celia is relaxed and flattering – perfect if you hate your jumpers fitted around the tummy area. The drop shoulders make it slightly sexy and cute, I think – it’s the ultimate wardrobe-cheerer. It also comes in grey, if pink isn’t your thing…

You’ve seen the cat pics, I know, but here he is again, Mr Bear giving his best faces for the camera. He is for hire, should anyone want him to advertise Sheba or what have you. I usually feed him on Royal Canin British Shorthair biscuits but – to be honest – he’s easily bought and probably dying for a bit of culinary variety.

The marvellous cashmere number I’m modelling is from Made East and is called the Tina. Those who snapped it up in the sale when I mentioned it recently will be feeling very smug because it’s now back up to usual price. I have to say, the quality is up there with the best I’ve ever seen (and worn); the knit is really dense but very soft. Find it online here.

I’ve featured this Mix/J.Won roll-neck sweater before, just in a different colour. The panelled, block-coloured arms are really different and add a nice flash of coral to what would otherwise be a plain (but very chic!) knit. I think that the colour contrast really makes it modern and fun.

This roll-neck is great with jeans – the coral sleeves look particularly nice with light denim, I think. Find this at Next here* – it’s £120.

And here I am seductively holding my cat. Doing “come hither” eyes whilst holding my fur baby. It’s all mildly inappropriate in a way…

You might think that Mr Bear looks desperate to escape, but don’t let appearances deceive you. He is, in fact, signalling for me to hold him tighter. “More!” he says, telepathically, “more squeezing! It’s what cats like!”

See? He loves it. So squished he’s almost flattened – it sometimes surprises me that he even has a skeletal system under all of that fluff.

This animal print jumper is from M&S (£99 here*) and is possibly the best high street example du jour when it comes to interesting, patterned cashmere. With a soft, fine knit it is relatively fitted, so could tuck into a pencil skirt or paperbag-waisted trousers if you fancied that sort of styling.

And the earrings were six quid from Topshop – I bought them a few weeks ago so I’m not sure whether or not they will have them now, but there are loads of OTT seventies-style hoops online. Which I seem to have a thing for at the moment.

Now will you just look at this absolute beauty of a top? The ME+EM Cashmere Zip Jumper is like the world’s most luxe version of the tracksuit tops I wore in my teens. Something this nostalgic and well-executed just cannot fail to be cool. I felt eighteen again as soon as I put it on. I even slung a gold chain on over the top (Chloe, I’ve had it for ages and never find the right time to wear it) to complete the Ruth Circa 1998 look.

It’s quite a saucy little top and very fitted at the bottom – not one of those comfort-zone jumpers that covers hips and keeps your kidneys warm! Although it’s not cropped, so don’t die of fright just yet. It looks amazing with wide-leg trousers (I’ll be back with more pics) but equally, if you want to go down the Flashiest PE Teacher In Britain route then zip it on over posh jogging bottoms.

If you a) live in Gucci (or Gucci-style) trainers, b) want to inject a serious flash of colour into your life and c) need something good to take you into spring then this is your jam. When spring actually arrives, you can wear it as a jacket!

The Cashmere Zip Jumper is £249 here*.

Tell me, incurable jumper-wearers/those living in cold houses/climes; how many days in the past week have you not worn a thick sweater? It occurred to me this morning that I hadn’t opened my wardrobe doors for over ten days, which means that all of my garments have come from a drawer, which in turn means that I have only worn jeans, pyjamas and jogging trousers on the bottom half and jumpers on the top. Not even a cardi! Talk about getting into a comfortable rut…

The post Cashmere, Cold Snaps and The Squeezable Cat appeared first on A Model Recommends.

Cashmere, Cold Snaps and The Squeezable Cat was first posted on January 31, 2019 at 7:55 am. ©2018 "A Model Recommends". Use of this feed is for personal non-commercial use only. If you are not reading this article in your feed reader, then the site is guilty of copyright infringement. Please contact me at contact@amodelrecommends.com Cashmere, Cold Snaps and The Squeezable Cat published first on https://medium.com/@SkinAlley

[anneedmonds]

Bap Scooping, Boot Slouching and 100 Denier Tights

Here’s one for those of you who wanted a more affordable take on the “floral noir” trend; a delightfully frippy little number that’s almost more lingerie than it is clothing, thanks to the pretty lace trim and tie-front. Obviously it must be balanced out with black tights and boots, to give it that cooler, harder edge, but if you’re on the hunt for something quite graphic and punchy rather than Laura Ashley pretty, this could be your bag. (Dress.)

The length and style is, I have to say, rather out of my comfort zone. I don’t tend to go short these days, neither am I inclined to reveal very much cleavage, but as I was trawling the virtual aisles at Missguided a few eye-catching prints jumped out at me and I thought, why the hell not? Short things worn with tights and boots used to be my going out winter uniform (daytime uniform was always skinny jeans, vest top or t-shirt, leather jacket, like an extra from Grease) and you can get away with quite brow-raising skirt lengths so long as you’re wearing your 100 deniers underneath.

I know that I sound like a Victorian (“brow-raising”! “comfort zone”!) but I do think that having babies does that to you – it takes a while to get back into the swing of things when it comes to clothing. I see myself swerving towards the mid-shin dresses, the weirdly-cut jeans that flatter nobody, roomy tops, things that I think I should be wearing but that do me no favours. And then I try on things I have in my wardrobe already, pre-baby things, and they don’t look half bad. So sod it – I’m wearing what I want this winter, and that’s going to involve quite a lot of leg. Not least because I have these slouchy Hush boots and don’t really want to take them off…

So, plunge-necklined Missguided dress could be the start of something new. I had better get myself some bras that fit properly, though, if I’m going to be flashing the old decolletage – I have visions of myself looking like Eva Herzigova from those old Wonderbra ads, but in reality I have to forcibly scoop up my baps and push them skywards to get anything remotely resembling uplift!

You can find the Missguided Floral Lace Trim Tea Dress here – it’s £20. If you want 20% off your Missguided shop then there’s a code on every can of Colab’s new GRL PWR dry shampoo – it’s our latest collaboration and the scent is fruity with a gorgeous sandalwood base. The usual award-winning no-residue formula, of course. You can find Colab (I am a founder of the brand, for those who are new here) at Boots.com here – it’s £3.49.

The post Bap Scooping, Boot Slouching and 100 Denier Tights appeared first on A Model Recommends.

Bap Scooping, Boot Slouching and 100 Denier Tights was first posted on October 18, 2018 at 5:48 pm. ©2018 "A Model Recommends". Use of this feed is for personal non-commercial use only. If you are not reading this article in your feed reader, then the site is guilty of copyright infringement. Please contact me at contact@amodelrecommends.com Bap Scooping, Boot Slouching and 100 Denier Tights published first on https://medium.com/@SkinAlley