#dazzling ceramic drop earrings.

[world-of-wales]

CATHERINE'S STYLE FILES - 2019

2 OCTOBER 2019 || The Duchess of Cambridge and Prince William visited the Aga Khan Centre in London.

[princesscatherinemiddleton]

WALK, WALK, FASHION BABY | The Duchess of Cambridge debuted a new designer for her visit to the Aga Khan Centre in the build up to her 2019 Tour of Pakistan. From the Aross Girl x Soler London collection, Catherine wore the ‘Amanda’ dress, in a green shade possibly chosen as a nod to the Pakistani flag. She chose to wear the new brand with two old favourites: her Emmy London ‘Rebecca’ heels and her Emmy London ‘Natasha’ clutch. Her earrings, the Dazzling Ceramic Drops, were from Zeen. Zeen are a Pakistani-based jewellery company, owned by the Pakistani-based retailer, Cambridge

[kensingtonpalace]

The Duchess of Cambridge’s Outfit for her Official Visit to Bradford. 

Coat: Alexander McQueen Bespoke Green Midi Coat( £Approx.3000)

Dress:Zara ‘Printed Dress’( £9.99)

Shoes: Gianvito Rossi ’Piper 85 Suede Pumps’( £520) 

Earrings: Zeen ’Dazzling Ceramic Drops’( £7)

Bag: Aspinal of London Midi Mayfair Black Croc Bag( £550)

Total Cost= £4086.99

Total Cost (Not including Repeats)= £3009.99

[bangtanbetchfics]

Magical Ministrations (m) | minimoni oneshot

genre: smut, fluff, romance rating: mature // 18+ pairing: kim namjoon x park jimin word count: 2.7k suggested listening: think about you - boA | eyes locked, hands locked - red velvet | playlist warnings: explicit language summary: namjoon just can’t seem to get himself together. ever. let alone enough to ask out his longtime crush -- the enigmatic owner of a tea shop that sells magical love teas. here’s the thing: namjoon doesn’t believe in magic. or does he? notes: so excited for this piece that's a part of a collaboration with some of my writing buddies. we all crafted our own works that are apart of a larger "magic shop" au -- inspired by bts' magic shop fanmeets. of course, all of us had different interpretations, but so happy to present my piece of that work to you. navigation: masterlist.

“Man, I can’t keep doing this,” Namjoon twiddles his thumbs and chews his bottom lip as he looks at Hoseok. He slips his shaking hands into the warm faux fur of his long coat while he swings his hips.

“Stop it. I can’t take you anywhere,” Hoseok demands as he smacks Namjoon’s behind -- jolting him to stand up straight.

“But we’re getting closer,” Namjoon whispers through his teeth. His eyes float toward the counter of the tea shop and land on Park Jimin -- the undeniable beauty behind the counter.

Namjoon suddenly finds himself caught up in Jimin’s features and mannerisms, even from afar. 

The way Jimin manages to giggle with his entire body, the elegant way his soft fingers caress the cool metal tools in the shop, how is shirt is ever so slightly off his shoulder revealing a collarbone, the way he pulls his hands up to his lips to stop himself from giggling -- even when he thinks he’s done laughing.

The line is nearly to the door to the shop as every customer -- male or female -- makes it a point to flirt with Jimin. Jimin just giggles, his eyes scrunching into delicate crescent moons as he watches each of them.

It’s all too much for Namjoon to take in at this very moment, and Namjoon’s mouth floats open.

“Close your mouth, please. We’re in public,” Hoseok nudges Namjoon in his side with his elbow. “This is my favorite tea place and you’re embarrassing me.”

Hoseok always knew the hippest locales -- and this shop was no exception. 

Dark wood panels and recessed lighting cover the tea shop, while greenery engulfs the place throughout. Decadent flower arrangements line the shop -- spinning the air into a delicate floral scent as it meshes with the assortment of teas floating through. Several black and white photos of customers enjoying tea complete the space.

Jimin’s eyes sparkle for a second as he notices Namjoon’s eyes on him, and Namjoon quickly lowers his own gaze to the ground.

The overwhelming nature of the brief interaction makes Namjoon’s skin prickle with heat, and he starts to hear his pulse thump in his ears.

“Fuck, I think he saw me,” Namjoon panics, his hands sinking deeper into his pockets for comfort. 

Hoseok rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

“You’re like a lovesick puppy. At this rate you should try one of their magical love teas.” Hoseok replies, and Namjoon purses his lips at Hoseok.

“You know I don’t believe in magic, Hoseok. It’s not real.” Namjoon responds curtly, and Jimin overhears as Namjoon and Hoseok finally reach the counter.

“Oh is that so? You think my teas are lame?” 

Namjoon turns his head from Hoseok to Jimin, his mouth opening in shock as Jimin’s eyes lock with his.

Jimin is dazzling up close -- and it takes Namjoon by surprise, even though he’s seen Jimin a million times before. His golden skin glistens as if it’s lit from within and his naturally plump lips are slick with gloss -- but remain in a pout due to Namjoon’s comment.

“I mean, I’m sure they work, but that’s just not my thing,” Namjoon feels his lower half rise to attention as Jimin as puts his head in his hands to lean on the counter.

“Oh, is that so? Too bad.” Jimin’s voice comes out just as saccharine as he is, and he watches Namjoon before he seductively bites his lip. He then moves to tug at one of his earrings before he stands up and tilts his head at Namjoon.

“So, what can I get you, my sweet?” Jimin asks, now trying to play nonchalant.

Namjoon pokes his jumping cock to settle down through his hands in his coat. His heart begins to swirl in a firestorm of heat and lust as he tries to breathe through a response.

“U-Uh, an...Americano?” Namjoon responds breathily, his voice trapped in his throat.

“This is a tea shop,” Jimin can’t help but giggle to himself at how cute Namjoon is when he’s nervous, and his hand floats over his lips to hide his laughter.

"Uhm...a green then?" Namjoon’s response comes out as more of a question as he swallows a bundle of nerves down his throat.

"My name is-" Namjoon begins, but Jimin cuts him off.

"I know." Jimin responds through a smile.

"Three fifty, please," Jimin's eyes triangulate Namjoon's face before he pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth.

Namjoon’s so stunning to Jimin: his platinum hair hanging into his eyes, the way his large Adam's apple bobbles up and down nervously, his thick lips as they purse in concentration.

To Jimin, Namjoon's a beautiful mess -- a perfect mess -- and so unaware of his own charms.

Namjoon feels a rush of heat and nerves course through his body before he tries to locate his wallet. He pats himself down: his chest, the inside of his coat, his pockets, his pants -- nothing.

"I think I lost my wallet, I..." Namjoon laments, his eyes growing wide with embarrassment. 

"Oh god, typical Namjoon," Hoseok steps forward with cash, but Jimin waves him off.

"On the house," Jimin's eyes are still focused on Namjoon, and all Namjoon can do is nod and cover his reddening ears. He releases all of his stress through an exasperated breath as he and Hoseok make their way toward the pickup area.

"The owner is sickeningly into you. I thought he was gonna jump your bones then and there," Hoseok chuckles as he covers his mouth, and Namjoon shakes his head.

"He can't be into me, I'm so stupid. I must've had something on my face," Namjoon grumbles.

"Ugh, I wasn't even close to asking him out!" Namjoon yells through the din in the shop unheard, frustrated with himself. He pouts, starting to pick at one of the large leaves of a nearby plant.

“For Namjoon!” Jimin calls out.

Namjoon jolts from his daze at his name being called, and quickly turns in the direction of the counter.

“Here you go,” Jimin hands Namjoon the drink and winks at him. Namjoon gasps as Jimin’s hand brushes over his before he leaves.

Namjoon turns the cup around a few times to locate his name to make sure the drink is truly his, and instead of finding his name, Namjoon sees:

FOR: THE CUTE BLONDE WHO DOESN’T BELIEVE IN MAGIC

Namjoon’s mouth drops open, and Hoseok peers over his shoulder at the cup. Hoseok rolls his eyes again as he takes a sip of his tea, chuckling to himself.

“Ah!” Namjoon coughs as he tries to ignore the writing to sip his drink, realizing the tea is too hot to consume.

Hoseok rubs his back and shakes his head.

“God you’re a mess,” Hoseok chuckles. He grabs a flyer from the counter, handing it to Namjoon. “Look.”

Namjoon takes the flyer, looking over the rose pink piece of paper:

MAGICAL MINISTRATIONS TEA SHOP

EVENING TEA READINGS

Come and see the future of your love life.

✷✷✷

Despite his protests, Namjoon somehow finds himself sitting in one of three seats in a long hall in the back of the tea shop.

Namjoon was prepared tonight: his dirty blonde mullet slicked back, a silk white button down, and his best skinny black jeans. He takes a deep inhale in, but coughs a bit as the scent of cologne burns his nostrils. 

He definitely wore too much.

Tonight, he was ready to ask Jimin out -- no holds barred -- and no matter what it took. 

Even if that meant drinking one of the shop’s overhyped love teas.

Namjoon clears his throat as he observes a paper survey below him a few times while he twirls his pen through his fingers:

What are your hopes for love?

Is there someone you’re currently into?

Are you hoping to see the fate of a current love interest -- or an unknown, future one?

Namjoon scoffs before a neon pink heart symbol shuts off above the room before him. 

A woman exits the room with a smile on her face, and Namjoon watches her carefully as she grabs her coat. She notices Namjoon’s stare, and giggles to herself as she walks away.

“Do people really believe in this stuff?” Namjoon mumbles to himself under his breath.

“You ready?” Jimin pokes his head out from the room, motioning for Namjoon to come in.

✷✷✷

Namjoon looks over the questions in front of him once more before shaking his head.

“I heard that if you say anything to a fortune teller they’ll twist it and make something up. So I’m not saying a word,” Namjoon says firmly as his lips scrunch up.

“Oh? Is that so?” Jimin laughs as he crosses a leg before he pours tea from a ceramic kettle with floral patterns into a similar small cup.

“Well, I can’t dictate what your fortune is, or what you see. The tea leaves will tell me aspects of what your future looks like, but only you’ll be able to experience the full picture.”

Namjoon chuckles cockily to himself, the entire concept illogical.

Tea? Magical fortune-telling tea? Come on.

“After I read the tea leaves and snap my fingers, you’ll actually be able to live a segment of that future,” Jimin continues, handing the teacup to Namjoon on a plate.

Namjoon rolls his eyes before taking the plate from Jimin.

“Do you agree to partake?”

Namjoon gives a silent nod.

“I need you to say yes or no.”

“Yes.” Namjoon responds clearly.

Namjoon blows his tea as he consumes the drink as quickly as he can before handing the empty cup back to Jimin.

Jimin observes the blackened tea leaves pressed to the bottom of the cup.

“Ah, I see,” Jimin says, tilting his head and twirling the cup several times.

“What do you see?” Namjoon demands before Jimin snaps his fingers.

Namjoon’s head kicks back into the chair, and he falls into a deep sleep.

✷✷✷

Namjoon wakes from his sleep, groaning as the scent of a peach-scented shampoo fills his nostrils. 

As he opens his eyes -- he’s in a bed, a bed with silk sheets. He looks down at who he’s snuggled up next to -- and it’s Jimin.

“Kyah!” Namjoon lets out a high-pitched scream into Jimin’s ear as he finds himself big-spooning the other man.

“Babe, what are you doing?” Jimin groans as he begins to wake up, covering his ears.

“Tell me how I got here. Now! Was I drunk?” 

Namjoon’s eyes dart around the room as he tries to piece together how he wound up in bed with the man he’s had his eyes on forever -- Park Jimin. Yes, the Park Jimin -- his longtime crush from the tea shop.

“Are you insane? We’re married, Joonie,” Jimin chuckles. “You’re so crazy.”

“What!” Namjoon cries out, his voice cracking midway through the scream.

“Is this some new, Freaky Friday-type roleplay? If so, I’m into it. I can pretend I-” Jimin attempts to crawl on top of Namjoon’s lap, but Namjoon turns him over and pins Jimin to the bed by his wrists.

“Ooh, this is so kinky Joonie,” Jimin giggles, his head falling back in laughter.

“You...it’s you and your crazy love teas!” Namjoon’s voice is trembling by now, and all Jimin can do is continue to giggle at him. After a moment, Jimin notices that Namjoon might absolutely be serious.

“I know you’re lucky to be married to me, but this is ridiculous,” Jimin wiggles his wrists from Namjoon’s hands, and heads toward the bathroom. He returns with a hot washcloth -- placing it on Namjoon’s forehead.

“Lie down,” Jimin coos as Namjoon tries to resist, but he gently pushes Namjoon down on the bed.

"Shh," Jimin caresses Namjoon's platinum locks, watching in the dark as he slowly calms down.

"It's-it’s like I'm in a really bad dream," Namjoon whispers before closing his eyes. 

"I mean, totally good but, ah, I don't know." Namjoon rambles before Jimin places a tender kiss on his temple. 

The kiss causes Namjoon to melt into the mattress as he rests his folded hands over his abdomen.

As Jimin lays on his side, he starts to rub his nose over Namjoon’s neck, and his hand reaches over to tug at Namjoon’s ear. Namjoon lets out a velvety moan as Jimin places open-mouthed kisses on his neck.

Jimin slides his hand down Namjoon’s body, his fingers slipping under Namjoon’s boxers.

“Seems like you’re okay down here,” Jimin seductively breathes into Namjoon’s ear -- causing him to let out another moan.

Jimin’s hand caresses Namjoon’s thick, sticky cock -- spreading the drizzling precum from the head over the rest of the shaft. Namjoon turns his head toward Jimin, his lips engulfing Jimin’s lush, wet lips.

"Oh my god, you're so beautiful," Namjoon pulls back and his eyes move to triangulate Jimin’s delicate features which were illuminated by the sunset creeping through the blinds in the room.

Namjoon always wanted this -- to be with Jimin like this -- and he can't help but devour Jimin with lust in his eyes.

"You're being so weird Joonie," Jimin laughs into Namjoon’s neck as he blushes under Namjoon’s dark, erotic gaze.

Suddenly, a crash rings through the room -- jolting the two from their love haze.

The room is dark, but a light flicks on outside of the room, and small feet appear underneath the door.

“Sarang! I know you’re right outside!” Jimin yells, turning on the light at his bedside.

A small little girl with soft black hair slowly opens the door, peeking her head through. Her wide eyes look at Jimin and Namjoon, and Namjoon throws the covers from his frame to sit up and look at the girl.

As she approaches, Namjoon bends down -- caressing the girl’s long locks. He searches her eyes for a moment before looking down at the paint stains and palette in her small fingers.

“You’re always reading art books, so she thinks she’s an artist now Joonie,” Jimin shakes his head, bringing his hand up to his forehead. “Her room is probably a mess.” Jimin laments.

“She’s...mine? This is my daughter?” Namjoon asks breathlessly, his eyes shiny with tears as he looks up at Jimin. He chuckles softly at the beret on her head as he looks her over.

“That’s your father Sarang. I don’t know him,” Jimin teases while he crosses his arms. 

“Daddy is being so weird!” Sarang exclaims as Namjoon presses his forehead to hers and cups the back of her head with his hands as he looks down.

“You’re not angry?” Sarang asks, her voice in a pout.

“No. Of course not...” Namjoon chuckles -- nearly out of breath with happiness before his chest starts to heave. 

Jimin bends down, turning Namjoon’s chin toward his.

“Joonbug, what’s wrong?” Jimin pleads before Namjoon’s eyes roll into the back of his head.

Both Sarang and Jimin scream as Namjoon collapses to the ground, everything turning black behind his eyelids.

✷✷✷

“What did you see?” 

Jimin’s voice echoes through Namjoon’s ears as he slowly comes to and rubs his eyes.

Jimin looks at Namjoon, curious for an answer while Namjoon shakes his head to roll from his daze. He approaches Namjoon with a hot washcloth, lightly placing it on his forehead. 

A gasp escapes Namjoon’s mouth as the heat meets his head, and he pulls Jimin into his lap. He removes the cloth before bringing his attention back to Jimin. He then suddenly takes one of Jimin’s hands, lining it up with his own. 

Jimin’s hand is significantly smaller than his, and a warm smile spreads over Namjoon’s face before he locks their fingers together.

After a moment, Namjoon studies Jimin's deep brown eyes as he recalls the memories from his dream.

“I saw...us.” 

It takes all of the courage swirling in Namjoon's belly to pull Jimin closer by the neck -- causing their lips to meet in a heated kiss. 

As the two meld into the kiss, Jimin’s taken by the passion radiating from Namjoon. It feels warm -- familiar -- and he dives in for more just before Namjoon pulls away.

"I love the sound of that." Jimin heaves out his response, his hand gliding through Namjoon's hair as he giggles into his lips.

Namjoon savors the second embrace between their lips for a moment more, their foreheads resting comfortably atop each other.

"I do too."

[hrhprincesskate]

For her engagement at the Aga Khan centre today, Kate is wearing the Zeen Dazzling Ceramic Drop earrings: https://www.zeenwoman.com/row/wxe92033-green-dazzling-ceramic-drops

[the-romantic-lady]

It is a true honour for us that ZEEN was chosen by the honourable Duchess of Cambridge Kate Middleton to complement her look for an event with His Highness Prince Aga Khan. We cannot find the words to express our gratitude to have been a part of the prestigious occasion. At ZEEN, we practice the philosophy of creating designs that are relatable for women around the world. We are over the moon to have Her Royal Highness sport our ceramic drop earrings as she owns a unique sense of style shining through the accessories she opts for. Her support for high street brands reflects her humble personality. Our Dazzling Ceramic Drop Earrings which were part of our Eid 2019 Collection were sold out within a few minutes of the event.

zeenwoman

[aprincesadegales]

Meus looks favoritos da Kate em 2019: Brincos 16 / 18

Zeen “Dazzling Ceramic Drop Earrings”

[Fonte: katescloset.com.au]

[wickedwitchofwestminster-blog]

Catherine’s Monthly Breakdown- October

October saw the Duchess of Cambridge join her husband on tour in Pakistan, as well as carrying out solo and joint engagements back in the UK. So how did her fashion figures break down? Reworn items are in italics.

22/10/2019- Teen Hero Awards Reception

LK Bennett ‘Gabrielle’ Abstract Print Dress- £395

Asprey London Oak Leaf Small Hoop Earrings- £5500

TOTAL OUTFIT COST: £5895

18/10/2019- Final Day in Pakistan

Beulah London Papilio Wool Crepe Black Coat- £675

Bespoke Maheen Khan White Trousers- £125 (bespoke- price based on similar)

Russel & Bromley “Xpresso” Black Suede Flats- £185

Maheen Khan Royal White Chiffon Dupatta- £148

TOTAL OUTFT COST: £1133

18/10/2019- Departure from Lahore

Élan Black and White Embroidered Kurta- £80 (price based on similar)

Bespoke Maheen Khan White Trousers- £125 (bespoke- price based on similar)

JCrew Collette D’Orsay Pumps in Ashen Brown- £244

Accesorize Simple Filigree Short Drop Earrings- £5

Smythson Black Panama East West Tote- £650

TOTAL OUTFIT COST: £1104

17/10/2019- Visit to Badshahi Mosque

Maheen Khan Royal Teal Chiffon Shalwar Kameez- £381

JCrew Collette D’Orsay Pumps in Ashen Brown- £244

Catherine Zoraida Fern Hoop Earrings- £150

TOTAL OUTFIT COST: £775

17/10/2019- Arrival in Lahore and Cricket Match

Gul Ahmed Jasmine Embroidered Shalwar Kameez- £56

Maheen Khan Royal White Chiffon Dupatta- £148

JCrew Collette D’Orsay Pumps in Ashen Brown- £244

Asprey London Oak Leaf Small Hoop Earrings- £5500

Mulberry Bayswater Clutch in Buttercream Suede- £495

Hampton Canvas Plum Shoes in White- £28

TOTAL OUTFIT COST: £6471

16/10/2019- Visit to Hindu Kush Mountains

Really Wild Nubuck Waistcoat in Dark Brown- £495

Really Wild Seville Suede Riding Boots in Brown- £315

Mint Velvet Chocolate Utility Shirt Dress- £69

Missoma Gold ‘Zenyu’ Chandelier Hoops- £115

TOTAL OUTFIT COST: £994

15/10/2019- Diplomatic Reception in Islamabad

Altered Jenny Packham ‘Georgia’ Gown in Emerald- £3640

Jimmy Choo ‘Mimi 100′ Metallic Silver Pumps- £575

Onitaa London Gold Earrings- £290

TOTAL OUTFIT COST: £4505

15/10/2019- Private Event in Islamabad

Ghost ‘Avery’ Floral Wrap Dress- £195

New Look Low Block Court Shoes in Cream- £24

Zeen Beaded Chandelier Earrings- £8

Maheen Khan Royal White Chiffon Dupatta- £148

TOTAL OUTFIT COST: £375

15/10/2019- Political Meetings in Islamabad

Altered Catherine Walker ‘Nero’ Coat Dress- £2500

Bespoke Maheen Khan White Trousers- £125 (bespoke- price based on similar)

Bonanza Satrangi Green Patterned Chiffon Dupatta- £9

Emmy London ‘Rebecca’ Pump in Greenery- £425

Emmy London ‘Natasha’ Clutch in Greenery- £350

Zeen Dazzling Ceramic Drops in Green- £5

TOTAL OUTFIT COST: £3414

15/10/2019- Tour of Islamabad Girls’ College

Maheen Khan Periwinkle Royal Silk Kameez- £273

Maheen Khan Periwinkle Royal Silk Dupatta- £70

New Look Low Block Court Shoes in Cream- £24

Russel & Bromley ‘Xpresso’ Blush Suede Flats- £185

Zeen Beaded Chandelier Earrings- £8

TOTAL OUTFIT COST: £560

14/10/2019- Arrival in Pakistan

Bespoke Catherine Walker Ombre Shalwar Kameez- £1300 (price based on similar) 

Zeen Cream Gleam Clutch Bag- £22

Zeen Beaded Chandelier Earrings- £8

Rupert Sanderson ‘Malory’ Pump in Nude Leather- £475

TOTAL OUTFIT COST: £1805

09/10/2019- Visit to Natural History Museum

Warehouse Berry Pointelle High Neck Jumper- £39

Jigsaw Khaki Relaxed Gathered Waist Culotte in Khaki- £130

Chanel Nouvelle Flap Bag With Enamel Handle- £3800

Tod’s Fringed Leather Pumps in Brown- £195

Asprey London Oak Leaf Small Hoop Earrings- £5500

TOTAL OUTFIT COST: £9664

02/10/2019- Meeting with the Aga Khan at the Aga Khan Centre

ARoss Girl x Soler ‘Amanda’ Belted Maxi Dress- £825

Zeen Dazzling Ceramic Drops in Green- £5

Emmy London ‘Rebecca’ Pump in Greenery- £425

Emmy London ‘Natasha’ Clutch in Greenery- £350

TOTAL OUTFIT COST: £1605

In October, Catherine was seen in items worth an approximate £38244, of which £10697 was new.

British brands and labels were represented in 56% of the items the Duchess was identified as having worn this month. 34% of the items worn by Catherine in October were from Pakistani labels. 

With an estimated total spend of £38244 across 12 appearances this month, Catherine wore £3187 worth of items on average per appearance. (Or £891.41 if we exclude items that have been recycled and reworn).

[born-in-the-wrong-multiverse]

The Anomaly

​So this is the first one shot I have written in…probably forever. And more importantly, the first piece I’ve actually finished in forever. Thank you greatly to @sherrybaby14 for setting the writing challenge; it was exactly what I needed to give myself a kick up the butt and get back to doing something I love.

As a massive fan of the hugely underrated Mr Clint Barton, this is a little something for him. No warnings, just fluff. Mention of pregnancy and a touch of violence but nothing OTT. A drastic change of pace from the smut I usually write haha! Hope you all enjoy; I’d love to flesh this out more one day, but for now, I am so excited to finally have something on paper!

The plan was pretty straightforward. Perhaps a little too straightforward. Which is why Clint seemed so reluctant to go ahead with it. “You know what you’re asking me to do here, right?” Cradling his cheek in your hand gently, brushing the pad of your thumb against the prickly scruff on his top lip, you nodded, trying to soothe the waves of anxiety radiating from his entire body. “I’m asking you to trust me,” you placated. “I can do this. And I have you, and the rest of the team, to back me up and keep me safe. Nothing is going to happen to me.” Closing his eyes, Clint rested his calloused hand over yours, the internal war between his need to protect you, and his desire to respect your assertion that you could handle yourself playing out on his face as he searched for the strength to say what you needed to hear and not what he wanted to say. After the longest of moments, he finally nodded. “Just remember later that I said this was a bad idea if things do go a bit pear-shaped,” he chuckled, taking your hand and grazed his lips against your knuckles before turning to former AIM agent turned SHIELD insider, pointing a finger at him threateningly. “Anything happens to her, I’m gunning for you.”

It was a simple plan. Months of planning and careful negotiations had convinced Morgan to swap sides and act as an insider to help infiltrate a high security AIM facility that was responsible for illicit experimentation on humans. He’d never wanted to be a part of it in the first place, so it wasn’t all that difficult to talk him around to joining the cause. Now, the team was finally ready to put their play into action, and you were a key component of the plan’s success. As a renowned biochemist with a groundbreaking understanding of neurotoxins and their practical applications, you were wanted property. AIM wanted you. Even if they knew you would never willingly help them. And so the plan was pretty basic; Morgan would walk right in through the front doors with you bound and gagged like a trussed pig ready for slaughter. A sacrificial offering to guarantee any guards at the door would allow you entry. Ergo, Clint wasn’t exactly on board with the whole idea. ​"She’s in good hands, Barton, i promise,“ Morgan assured him, even as he bound your wrists together with a length of rope. He secured it tightly but, crucially, he tied your hands in front of you rather than behind; everyone on the team could only pray that the AIM agents at the facility wouldn’t clock on to how odd this was until it was too late for them to do anything about it. With a grunt, Clint watched, arms folded over his chest, as Morgan took the rag he would use as a gag and held it aloft, waiting for you to give him permission to press it to your mouth where he can tie it in place. Holding your bound hands up, gesturing with a finger for Morgan to give you just a moment longer first, you turned to Clint and held his gaze firmly. "Remember, wait for my signal, okay?” Sighing, Clint nodded, resigning himself to the inevitability that you weren’t going to relinquish your stubborn determination to see this through, no matter the risk to yourself. “As long as you remember to get the hell outta there the moment it starts looking too dicey, ya hear me?” You nodded, before looking at Morgan and signaled that you were ready for the gag. A quiet mousey voice inside was squeaking at you that this was a bad idea, that it wasn’t too late yet to throw this whole thing in reverse and forget you ever suggested it. But you were committed now.​

What could possibly go wrong? You had the whole team of Avengers poised to leap into action the moment you gave the signal. Morgan marched you through the doors of AIM’s front doors, hands bound in front of you and  voice caged behind the gag. You had no choice but to trust that the man who was essentially still a stranger to you wasn’t about to double-cross you. But, if he’d done enough to earn Stark’s and Rogers’ trust, then that was good enough for you, too. You counted sixteen agents storming the foyer the moment you entered the building. Feigning resistance, you tugged on the ropes by which Morgan hauled you, stumbling on the slick ceramic tiles as a grunt of faux terror hurled itself at your gag. “Thought I’d come bearing a gift,” Morgan proclaimed to his small audience, yanking on the rope, forcing you to stagger forward as though presenting his prey to the pride. “Where’s the boss?” “Nowhere you need to know,” one of the agents hissed, training his crosshairs on the tiny crease between your eyes. “You think you can just go missing for weeks without reporting in, and waltz on in here like it’s no big deal?” “Well, yeah,” Morgan rolled his eyes, “I have something the boss wants. I’m sure she’ll understand, I had to go pretty deep undercover to earn this bitch’s trust enough to get her alone long enough to knock her out and haul her ass here. So, if you don’t mind, get…the…boss.” From somewhere behind the crowd of AIM personnel, a clipped voice rang out, accompanied by the clicking of heels against tile flooring. “No need to raise your voice, Morgan. I’m here. And I’m going to ask you to explain what happened later. Right now, all I’m interested in is meeting my prize.” Up in his nest, hidden amongst the rafters after gaining access through the ventilation ducts, Clint’s jaw clenched as his fingers twitched around his bow. Nothing about this plan felt right to him. Trusting your life in the hands of a stranger was far from his idea of a solid strategy, but he’d been outnumbered during the briefing with the rest of the team; more to the point, he’d been strong armed by your stubbornness, your determination to play your part in the plan. “You’ll be the death of me, Y/N,” he muttered to himself, watching the scene play out below, arrow notched and bowstring drawn, staring down the length of the arrow as he trained its tip on the woman who was currently circling the woman he loves like a lazy shark toying with its prey. He watched. Waited. Adjusted his aim in anticipation of the signal you would give. He listened, his aids straining to hear what was being said as the stern looking woman spoke to you in hushed tones. He cursed himself again for agreeing with this stupid plan. And then he tensed, as the woman turned her back on you. Your bound fists flew up in the air. Without even a heartbeat’s pause, Clint let his arrow fly, piercing through the ropes that bound your wrists as all hell broke loose. His teammates burst into the room from all angles, but Clint’s sight remained locked on you as he dropped from the rafters and hurled himself into the fray.

It was far from an elaborate plan. But one thing was had been certain in Clint’s mind, and that was his singular mission to keep you safe. As bullets pierced the air all around you, Clint battled the melee in his effort to reach your side. In such close quarters, he relied on his bow as a blunt instrument, sweeping it beneath his opponents’ feet to compromise their footing, before slamming the butt of the bow into their temple, knocking them out and removing them from contention. His eyes scanned the room, finding you in an instant as Morgan covered you. You were armed, as per the plan, with a handgun, firing off one shot after another and fumbling to reload when you emptied the clip. “Y/N! GET DOWN!” Clint hollered across the room, his voice lost amongst the chaos of grunts and curses of exertion. Not hearing the warning, you dodged too late to avoid the AIM agent’s backhand as it swiped you across the face, sending you flying to the floor. There was a bright starburst of pain and dazzling lights, before total black as you slid clumsily to the floor, landing in a heap, vaguely hearing voices that seemed to be drowning in an ocean’s current, before finally slipping into unconsciousness.

Why did any of us agree to this plan, Tony thought. It was too simple. There was no contingency plan for things going wrong. “I’ve got her, Barton,” Stark nodded, shielding your body with his suit as he scooped you into his arms. “I’ll get her to safety and be back to finish this whole mess.” Ignoring Clint’s protests, Tony jetted you back to the safety of the Quinjet, the pointless maelstrom of bullets bouncing off the titanium of his suit, like so many feeble bee stings. Laying you down on a gurney, he sighed. “JARVIS, scan vitals for me.” He waited patiently, praying for Clint’s sake that you would be okay. He’d never seen Barton so happy before, never seen him so alive before. He didn’t want to imagine what would happen if he lost you. “Breathing is stable. Pulse is steady. However, I appear to be detecting an anomaly, sir.” Tony’s ears pricked up, a frown furrowing his brow. “What do you mean, an anomaly?” “Sir, I appear to be detecting a second heartbeat.”

Somehow, the team made a simple plan work. Perhaps not as intended, but it paid off. And now Clint was running to be by your side. As he rounded on the infirmary, he frowned, slowing his step at the sight of Tony sitting by your bedside, deep in conversation with you. There were tears streaming down your cheeks, but you didn’t look upset, just confused, and…happy? Keeping his distance, Clint tried to read your lips, only vaguely registering his own guilt for eavesdropping, but with Tony blocking you, he could only catch a few words. ‘Safe,’ 'alive,’ and 'are you sure’ stood out the strongest. Shaking his head, Clint knocked gently at the door, clearing his throat. “Am I interrupting something?” “Nope,” Tony shook his head, rising to his feet. “Just keeping her company while we waited for you, birdbrain.” Snorting a laugh, Clint muttered a thank you, before he looked back at you, concern crowding his features. “How’s your head? What was Tony saying?” Blinking back the tears, wiping at them furiously with the back of your hand, you shook your head with a laugh. “My head is fine, just a small bump, nothing to worry about.” You patted the patch of bed beside you. “Tony was…he was telling me…” you paused, trying to find the words as you looked up at Clint, searching his azure eyes for the strength you needed to share the news with him, taking a deep breath before you continued, “He was telling me that JARVIS detected a second heartbeat. A baby’s heartbeat.” You paused again, waiting for Clint’s brain to tick over, before adding conclusively, “Our baby.” For the longest moment, Clint just stared, his jaw working uselessly to form words, before he looked down at your still flat stomach, struggling to compute what you’d just said. “You’re…you’re pregnant? With my baby? I mean our baby? I mean…aww man…I’m gonna be a dad?” The look on his face, the joy that reached the creases at the corner of his eyes, was all you needed to break down into sobs of joy as you nodded at him. “You’re going to be the best dad.” Releasing all the air that had gathered in his cheeks, Clint broke into the biggest grin you’d ever seen on his face before, knowing that behind that grin there were doubts, concerns that he would turn out just like his own father, but right now, Clint confident that with you, he could conquer the world and prove that he wasn’t his father. He gathered you in his arms and held you close, pressing his lips to yours firmly, over and over again, your tears mingling with his on your cheeks. “This is the best futzing news I’ve had…ever…” he shook his head, and pressed his lips to your forehead, for the longest beat of time just sitting there in silence with you, wanting to shout the news from the rooftop, but reminding himself that you needed rest. “You need to sleep. You need to rest.” Chuckling softly, you took his hand, and rested it over your stomach. “The only thing keeping me awake right now is you. And I don’t want you to go. So stay here with me, celebrate this with me, I can rest later. Right now, I need to be with the man I love, and the father of my child.” Hanging his head with a laugh, a fat tear sliding down the crook of his nose, Clint nodded as he pressed his lips to yours again, as though never wanting the kiss to end. “I’m gonna hold you to that, that promise to rest later. But right now, staying with you sounds like the best idea ever.”

[hetawrite]

Not sure if this one it’s so obvious about you being self-conscious. I mean, not as intensely as the Russia one. Also, I named Neko!France! I couldn’t find a name for him online with a brief search, so I just looked at male cat names. Hope this suffices!

When you stand with Francis, you can't help but notice your lack of shape. You feel rectangular. Like there's no curves to your body like there should be. You feel... bad about your body.

"Can you help me a second please, mon amour?" You get out of the bathroom, cut through your bedroom and trot down the hallway to look for him. Faint french music can be heard from the radio. You never spent a lot of time in Paris, but his small apartment it cute with the million and one tiny potted plants everywhere.

"What do you need help with?" You ask, watching his practically dance around the kitchen.

"Can you squeeze those lemons for me? And mix the juice with icing sugar?" You nod, even though he isn't looking at you, and grab some lemons from the fruit basket.

"What are we making?" You question, cutting them in half before squeezing them into a bowl. You feel something brush against your leg, and you look down to see Francis's white Ragdoll cat. Felix. He purs against you, practically begging for food as he blinks his blue eyes at you. You open up a cupboard and get out his food, before putting it in his bowl. Francis is so fancy that he buys all of Felix's food in those little metal tins. You sign, scooping it out with a fork before dropping the cutlery in the sink and washing your hands.

"Eggs Benedict."

"With lemon icing?" You question.

"Yes, I had it in London. It's quite nice, especially with where it’s from and all." You chuckle at the shade he's throwing.

"Maybe we can try making some American food. I bet those extra calories will give me some curves." You half-joke as you lift the spoon, checking the viscosity of the icing sugar. Francis stops what he's doing, and turns slightly to face you.

"You want curves?" He questions, raising a brow. He's not being rude, not sceptical, just merely asking.

"Er." You scrunch up your face. Honesty is the best policy. "Yeah, sure. I'm not really as defined as you are."

"Do you want it because you don't like your appearance or because you want a body like mine?" He's straight to the point, and he continues making the eggs. You get out the bagel, turning on the oven. It gives you time to delay your response.

"Both, I guess..." You mutter, embarrassed.

"I'm lucky that my body is like this. But it took a lot of manipulation. Did I ever tell you that corsets were originally designed for males?" He mentions, grabbing two plates from the cupboard.

"Oh, no. You haven't told me that." You say slowly. You look at Francis, him reaching up and his top lifting. He is in a lazy outfit, either pyjamas or just lounge clothing. Cuffed jogging bottoms and a top that could pass as a tank top. As he reaches up, it exposes his slim waist. He has a very feminine body with an hourglass figure. And a lot of hair. Blond hair everywhere that grows three shades darker in some areas... The sound of the ceramic plates being laid on the table snaps you from your day-dream.

"Would you like me to help you make a work out routine?" He questions as he leans over towards you, grabbing the bagels you had cut in half for him and pops them into the oven. Your breath hitches as he does so, his forearms tensing and your eyes wondering.

"Routine?" You question.

"Yes." He stands up beside you, giving you a dazzling smile. "You either put on weight and become mon petit lapin grassouillet." He reaches forward and wraps his hands around your waist, smiling softly at you. "Or you work out and get muscles." You lift your hands to place them on his shoulders. He then gives a coy look to you. "Either way, it gives me something to praise when we're in bed." He wiggles his brows and chuckles deeply. You feel that bolt going straight to your loins. You flush, becoming acutely aware of his warm, rough hands on your hips that at an excruciating pace pull you closer to him. He hears you say something under your breath. He raises his hand and tilts your chin up and sees the brilliant red flush reaching up to your ears. He smirks. "Speak up so I can hear that pretty voice of yours."

"Benedict." You whisper. His face falls, confused. That certainly isn't the name he thought you'd be saying. "Eggs Benedict."

"My bagels!"

[namesnot-rick]

Johnson and Gilligan’s “Two Weeks in Hell”

(And Other Strange Purchases from the Dream Marketplace)

“Excuse me, is that a Boeing-737?”  I say, shuffling my feet toward the sun-bathed creature at my direct far-left.  She looks puzzlingly; examiningly, I may say.  The hiss and growl of machinery crawl in my ear and scream me deaf.  I point the ample-titted Mary toward the hulking plane which soars just overhead and nearly rips my head in two.

“I said- is that a Boeing-737!”

“I can’t hear you over this Boeing-737!”

“What!”

“I said-”  Useless.  The woman-species has proven futile in the quest for a simple inquiry; not the first, nor the last time.  The beastly idiot-mother - she which has denied the relinquishment of her youth for twenty years beyond her prime - those which should sag, perpetuated unnecessarily by the vanity of the grotesque, obscene, leech-brained Mother of the illiterate and the neurotic.  I dream of heaving those mammaries-in-denial straight into the sky - sending them through a jet engine, shredded upon contact, clogging the deafening mechanical beast with silicon and sending it spiraling into the Atlantic abyss!  What a glorious lark, what a plunge, what a-

“Excuse me, is that a Boeing-737!” says a blind fellow, whose grasp encompasses my shoulder.

“What!”

“I said, is that a-”

“Is that a Boeing-737!”  He shrugs and falls away.  Signs read, ‘Florida Man mauled to death poking alligator with stick down in the bayou’, and then flash green, and bathe under the sunlight for two hours, and then melt away.  It is silent now except for the radiating humidity and a hose attached to an extinguisher, whirling in the air and spouting ocean-water until the water goes back in the ocean.  The ocean is next to the road and the road is next to a highway and the highway is next to three buildings; one looks like Miami and the other looks like an airplane and the other looks like a hit disco nightclub, in bright blue neon script, “Havana.”  Vehicles zip through the interstate route, six lanes of terrifying speed and inhumanity, the road threatening to jump up and and strike my elbow bloody and pull me down; litter-infested industrial non-sentient rats screaming by at eighty miles an hour and blowing down palm trees as they go by,

All standing between myself and the hit disco nightclub, “Havana.”  Threat levels rise as I inch forward with a single-toe, testing the dangerous and rabid white-foaming waves, biting back, and

I close my eyes and hold my breath and plunge into the polychromatic midnight-indigo entrance of the hit disco nightclub, “Havana”; there’s another doorway and I’m in a dimly-lit waiting room.  A bouncer stands before me, an immovable palm tree of a man with laser-show pink stealing through the cracks and reflecting against his massive white shoes.

“Tell me the business,” I say.  He nods and steps aside.  The beat rises like heat from the pavement, the funk pours in as the doorway proceeds open, lights dazzle epileptically across the purple-checkered dance floor, littered with inflatable tube men embracing and assaulting each other; simultaneous and communal and chaotic, stuck in their single inflatable spot and reaching across and then up and falling down, to repeat the process.

“A sight to behold,” a voice comes over the PA.  I nod.  Four non-inflatable men, apparently Puerto-Rican or Dominican, donning green-striped zoot suits, dart their eyes my way.  Two drop their shades, like Risky Business; one spills his drink all over himself and blushes; the other, long and handsome, hair slicked all the way back, pulls me forth on an invisible rope, stringing me toward the floor and dancing away.  I feel my bones give way to the liquid-

“Feel your bones melt into the radioactive beat, my sweet child,” says the PA.  I am amid the chaos of dozens of inflatable men and four zoot-suited Dominicans, shoulders and waist in unison; the disco-flavor is ingestible, and open my eyes to see that I, too, am donning the slick-sly-livin’ green-striped zoot suit.  This is the moment; I am the moment; I am not me; I am- I am- I am-

“You are the child of a new funk,” says the PA; euphoria emanates from my core, stings my extremities; I feel alive and dead and passed on to a higher groove.

“Florida Man mauled to death,” says the PA, and a beat drop.  “Poking alligator,” the voice melts into the music, “down in the bayou.”

* * *

“We may have to commit violent crimes,” says the slick green zoot to his friends, over a radioactive yellow drink that spills over the side and melts through the wood floor.

“I don’t think.”

“We could, but the logistical processes are immense.”

“Is she prepared for-”

“Of course she-”

“The island is a horrible dangerous venue, complete with razor blades on all corners of the mountain, and such a trek could not possibly be expected of a mere-”

“Are you in?”  The zoots pause their quibbling; they shoot expecting glances toward me.  “Are you in,” he repeats.  Anticipation motors overhead, lingers in the air like silicon-shredded tits behind a malfunctioned jet engine.  The inflatable tube men lean closer.  The music ceases; the frogs no longer croak; the world is at a stand still.  “Are you-”

“Well, is this Havana?” I reply.  It remains still for a moment; the men then throw their collective arms up with all the inflatable tube men, and a ‘huzzah’ the size of Tampa overtakes the “Havana.”  I relish briefly in the sweet moment and three of the zoots melt into the floor; the remaining one follows me toward the backroom.  There stands another palm-tree bouncer with huge white shoes.

“It is Tuesday,” he tells me.

“Now it is Thursday,” I reply as Christ himself, shattering the previously accepted bounds of time and space.  He complies.  The zoot hurries alongside my epochal steps, which surpass thousands of documents in a mere instant.  The room we enter is dark, noir-esque; my zoot suit turns monochromatic.  The room is heated, dry like baked ceramic.  It pervades my lungs.  It smells of vast conspiracy.

“We’re looking for a book,” he says.  I slant my eyes and light a cigarette, and look about the room.  A small office, blinds drawn, entirely black and white.  A coat rack in the corner is bare; papers are strewn hectically across the desk in front of dozens of filing cabinets.  The door reads, backwards, ‘FITZGERALD, M.D.’  I remember being here before; scheming of some sort, and the overwhelming existential dread of a plan gone awry.  I clear my throat, compose myself, exhale smoke from my nose, and speak from the far corner of my mouth:

“What kind of book… fiction?”  The zoot falls silent and looks suspiciously at the oncoming shadow; he hides behind the coat rack.  A dame staggers in and falls drunkenly across the desk, failing to notice me standing there with a cigarette frozen to my lips.  An incoherent tune passes through her messy red lipstick in heaving, inebriated sighs.  Some sort of old jazzy standard, mixed with a cheap perversion of the Star Spangled Banner.  Her sweeping, bare leg knocks a stapler across the floor, and she looks up with the expression of a junkie whose stove has caught fire.

“Who are-” she burps, the words falling from her slacken jaw.  “You’re not supposed- this isn’t your office.”

“Dammit, Johnson, get this whore out of here!” the zoot exclaims fiercely, storming out from behind the wall with a ‘FITZGERALD, M.D.’ nametag sewn to his shirt.  “This is no time for games; I, the owner of this fine establishment, have pressing matters to attend to.”

“I don’t understand-”  the zoot knocks her unconscious with a swift and gruesome blow to her painted cheek; the whore goes flying into the back wall, and the zoot turns away with the look of a prize fighter, shaking his hand painfully.  He rips off the nametag, crushes it beneath his foot, and spits on the remains.

“My name’s not Fitzgerald, anyway.”

“Who’s Johnson?”

“We’re in too deep now, Johnson.”

“What about the book,” I reply.

“Yes, of course; nonfiction.  Island based.  Look for the volcano with razors,” says the zoot.  I drag the befallen whore across the floor to get to the ‘I’ filing terminal.  Behind her is a pool of dried blood; her lipstick has turned a shade of grey.  Sunlight, peering through the drawn shades, strikes obliquely across her exposed cleavage.

“What a mess,” I comment.  The zoot spins his detective hat around and removes a magnifying glass from the front of his pocket.

“We’re in too deep now,” he says.

“We haven’t much time.”

“We’ve committed a violent crime, Johnson.  Barbaric, illegal, striking at the very core of man’s depraved soul.  The question is: whether you, a capable man but surely one of a decent moral fibre, maybe a tinge of childhood innocence lurking in your soul - whether you are willing to confront those demons when the inevitable day comes.”

“Volcano with razors,” I reply.

“This is not a game.  The stakes have been raised infinitely.  This poor woman, probably a mother, certainly a daughter - her blood is on our hands.”

“Volcano with razors.  Volcano with razors.  Volcano with”

“That is the owner’s daughter which you’ve so ruthlessly struck down, Johnson.  Notice the dark-grey appearance about her; lifeless! just as every other god-forsaken item in this room.  Gone.  Dead.  Sunken into the earth, receded into a dark and timeless void beyond our solar system.  She, whose demise is a mere infinitesimal speck on the blood-stained shirt of humanity’s graveyard!”

“Volcano with razors.”

“Murder, Johnson; goddammit, it’s murder!”

“Got it!  Volcano with razors.”

“Delightful!”  The zoot rubs his fingers across my cheek affectionately, burns my temple with a wet kiss, and removes the book from my grasp.  He rotates it thrice, and sifts through the pages hastily.

“Aha!” he exclaims.  “This is it.  You’ve done it again, Johnson!”

“Volcano with razors.”

“Yes, Johnson, very good.”

“Volcano with razors.”

“We must first attain a million dollar boat; inflatable, preferably.  And then we may proceed to the next step of our plan.”

“What is the next step,” I inquire.

“We may have to commit more violent crimes, Johnson.”

“It’s Tuesday now,” I reply five days later.  The zoot has crowded himself into the back corner, five o’clock shadow stuck indelibly to his chin.  He gnaws hungrily at the cuff of his suit, struck by the vanity of it all.

“Johnson, we’ve killed the owner’s daughter.”

“Have we yet attained the million dollar boat.”

“I cannot stand to look anymore at these grey walls.  A man needs color in his life, Johnson.  A man needs sexual gratification.  Will you make love to me, Johnson?”

“It is Wednesday now.”

“Have you any idea what it is like to starve oneself of physical intimacy and nutritional sustenance for nearly a week, Johnson?  I could eat my own suit.”

“You already have,” I reply.

“That is correct, yes.  I remember yesterday quite clearly.  The pain is immense, but my memory is still sharp.  I say, Johnson, the digestion of that seersucker cotton has certainly been something of a struggle.”

“Yes, it has.”

“Oh, the defecation, don’t mind that.  Merely the sign of a healthy and functioning digestive system.  In the black and white you cannot make out the entrails quite so clearly.”

“It is Sunday now.”

“The Lord’s day on Earth, Johnson.  Perhaps this time he shall save us from this noir-influenced hellhole.  Johnson, are you going to eat that suit anytime soon?”

“I am quite full, courtesy of the dinners brought to us by the owner’s secretary.”

“May I have that suit?”

“It is Thursday now.”

“One week and nine days, Johnson.  An insufferable experience, surely; but there is no man I would have rather spent it with than you.”

“I’m a woman.”  The phone rings.

“Yes,” the zoot says.  “Killed the owner’s daughter, yes.  Banned from the club, you say?  The most expected route of action, undoubtedly.  I am truly sorry for going through your things, sir.  Yes, I will let Johnson know.  Yes, yes.  No, no.  Perhaps.  Well, I would not say I was discourteous in refusing the secretary’s dinners, but I was quite full from the suit; you could understand.  Mmhm.  Repulsive, you say?  Well, I have not exactly kept my body in peak physical condition, but that seems a bit harsh.  Get the Hell out?  Surely, sir.  Thank you for the extended stay.”

“Johnson.”

“Yes?”

“Check the phone, please.”

“But you’re holding the phone.”

“Not this phone; the computer… no, not that computer; the printer.”  There is a letter, in color, designed much in the way of a diploma.  It reads: ‘We hereby grant the deed of  ONE ONE-MILLION DOLLAR INFLATABLE BOAT  to a Mr. D. Gilligan, courtesy of the Avalanche Holding Company.’

“Who is D. Gilligan,” I inquire.

“Avalanche Holding Company… where do I know that name?”

“Who is D. Gilligan?”

* * *

“I tell you, I’ve had plenty of fine meals in my lifetime, but nothing in life compares to the pop! of the reds and blues and yellows after two weeks and two days in that monotonous hellhole.”  Gilligan has one hand on the steering wheel of his classic convertible sportcar, and the other is chomping on the blunt end of a thicket of seersucker cotton.  His teeth gnash expertly through the various tightly-wound fibers, and sit dryly at the back of his throat.

“Johnson, grab me a glass of water, will you?”

“You haven’t any water in here.”

“Grab it from the ocean, Johnson!  The coastline is your proverbial oyster!  Nothing can stop us now; ‘tis but a dreamland!”  I do exactly so, and he thanks me kindly while removing his other hand from the wheel to suck down the musty ocean water.  “Doesn’t it feel good to be alive once more, my friend?”  Johnson throws the glass across the interstate pavement, and places a pair of sunglasses at the tip of his nose.  “Miami Vice, Johnson!”

“I suppose it feels positively enlivening to be alive, Gilligan.”

“You know, Johnson, I’ve grown quite fond of you over these past two weeks in Hell.  You’ve danced with the inflatable, committed violent crimes, graciously surrendered your suit to my digestive tract, and then watched me strain and yank that very suit from my bloody asshole.”

“I suppose I have, Gilligan.  I’d like to think of us as partners; quick-thinking, detective types.  Struggling immensely through the hard times, and, as of now, enjoying the fresh and colorful breaths of a life on the run.”

“Indeed, Johnson, a positively liberating lifestyle.  That was very well put; have you considered writing the next great American novel?”

“I fancy a working class tale myself, Gilligan.  One which speaks to the fiercest plights of our downtrodden peoples; the chilling battle cry of a hundred million in unison, calling upon Marx’s inevitable ascent and ushering in the calm and slumbering twilight of man’s existence.”

“Yes; yes!  That which shall tickle furiously at the very pudenda of the working man’s discontented soul!”

“A tale of sound and fury, Gilligan, though told by an idiot it shall not be!  I envision the vanguard of a new and permanent order, under which our people shall at last flourish in material and intellectual prosperity.”

“I have always desired the stately mustache of an absolute ruler, Johnson.”

Perhaps I shall entitle it: Gilligan and Johnson’s ‘Two Weeks in Hell.’”

“Try this on for size: Johnson and Gilligan’s ‘Two Weeks in Hell.’”  The flattering sentiment hangs in the air, accompanied by a coastline peace and the low whirring of a well-functioning motor vehicle.  Before us, the sunset twists into deep blues and reds, the palette of God’s own improvised brush for the enjoyment of a few appreciative mortals.  The highway breeze spindles delicately about my bonneted hair; I feel like Elizabeth Taylor from the movies.  No - Thelma and Louise.  No - Bonnie and Clyde.  Outlaws on the run, mired in chaos; forced by our respective low upbringings to commit violent crimes, and finding in the process that we love the thrill of it all.  And what better place

“What better place,” I look over at Gilligan, “than sunny Miami, Florida.”

“I tell you, Johnson, I am not set at ease by this whole Avalanche Holding Company thing.  It feels like a classic ploy from the movies.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, what the hell would an avalanche be doing all the way out here in the sun and bayou?”

* * *

Feeling several miles beyond the civilisation of the metropolis, Gilligan and I look about the shipping yard with squinted eyes.  Silent apprehension creeps toward and festers under our fingernails.  It is thick with flour.  It pervades like bacterial mud-soup.  It leeches at the sides of our matching leather platforms; unties our premium polyester shoelaces; discolors the bottoms of our four-hundred dollar green-striped zoot suits.

“Tragedy strikes,” says Gilligan, “in the muddiest of crevices.”

“Vanity is not a luxury afforded to the working class,” I reply.

“Even Tony Montana had to dirty his shoes every once in a while.”

“Montana, you say?”

“What about it?”

“Don’t they have avalanches in Montana?”

“My God, Johnson!  Where is our  MILLION DOLLAR INFLATABLE BOAT????”  In pure shock and revulsion, I turn to see a strange man charge Gilligan with a crowbar and strike him twice across the skull!

“The zoot man is dead!” he exclaims in an Eastern European accent to his charging accomplice, a table-sized pizza box with eight menacing legs extending well over a foot into the air.

“O zoot está morto!” responds the beastly creation, its pizza-box mouth flapping triumphantly.

“You fucking bastard!” I shout, pulling a four-inch dagger from my green-striped zoot suit and promptly jabbing it several times into the side of the wicked Bulgarian swine.  He falls to his side wheezing, splattering mud across my green-striped zoot suit; he convulses erratically in the desperate fashion of an inflatable tube man.

“It is the tube man!” I respond horrifically, the full weight of this conspiracy before my disbelieving eyes.

“Ah, veja, ele é o cara do metrô, mas eu sou o Avalanche!”  The arachnid pizza box rears his back toward me, and reveals the letters upon it, spelled across the cardboard in faded ink: ‘COURTESY OF THE AVALANCHE HOLDING COMPANY.’

“It cannot- no, it cannot be!”  I fall back several steps as the table-board-eight-legged-freak inches toward me, cackling heinously, deafeningly, each leg stabbing inexorably into my predestined fate.  I hold to my dagger in trembling fear; the beast’s shrills grow nearer.

“A avalanche atinge o pior ao amanhecer!”  With a single crow-barred blow, the revived Gilligan collapses the monster in the stew-thickened mud.  The beasts transmutes immediately into a vile, Portuguese conquistador, whose twirling facial hair and fragile, South European frame are caked in the bayou earth.

“O sofrimento; O sofrimento,” he whispers despairingly.  Stimulated by the violent crime and the near death of my closest companion, I throw myself onto the useless conquistador and jab my dagger into his belly repeatedly.  Entrails spill out onto the tip, which I promptly wipe across his teary, dirt-plastered cheek.

The imperialist cunt cries aloud, pleading for mercy, claiming his innocence in the vain last breaths of the desperate and pathetic; in his infantile hysterics, I derive a cold and unfeeling pride, that of the unchallenged victor, forgetting the presence of my faithful companion for the briefest moment.  With a swift one-two, I pull his blood-suffocated tongue from his throat and cut horizontally, leaving a long gash which flows exceptionally across quivering lips.  Pulling the tongue apart, I peer in as one might at a piece of seared pork, to make sure it is of an acceptable internal temperature.

“O, ye sweet red-milk of the soon deceased, ye tender flesh of the befallen conquistador!”

“Johnson.”

“O, ye convulsing body of the sick Portuguese whore!  O, ye bloody triumph and arousal!”

“Johnson!”

“My Lord, Gilligan; when did you arrive?”

“Johnson, we must make it to the sea; the great pangs of our journey lie ahead yet.”

“A volcano with razors?”

“Indeed, my dearest friend.  Now, that  MILLION DOLLAR INFLATABLE BOAT has got to be around here somewhere.”

“Could it be near the sea?”

“Genius, Johnson!  Simply stupendous, on the ball, on top of one’s feet, thinking on the balls of your feet, Johnson!”

“It is Friday now.”

“That it is, Johnson, and the shallow Everglades are nearly behind us.  Phone for you, Johnson.”

“Hello?”

“This is your mother; when will you be coming back home to Nebraska?”

“Whenever; I have new a new friend now.”

“The meatloaf is almost cold,” she responds in a heaving sigh.

“I’ve committed serious violent crimes, Mother.”

“You’ve what?”

“And I’ll commit them against you if you’re not careful, you crustaceous, obscene, darling bovine cunt.”  I drop the phone in the water, and a stillness permeates the air.  Gilligan continues chewing on the sopping ends of a thin slice of seersucker cotton, stabbed through on the end by a wooden prod.

“Easier for bayou dipping,” Gilligan explains, to which I nod agreeably.

“Say, Gilligan?”

“What’s the word, Johnson.”

“I’ve been thinking.  We haven’t quite confronted the nature of our violent crimes, have we?”

“Death toll of three, Johnson.  Such is the life of crime-detectives on the run; we who’ve lived an extensive two weeks through the fiery plight of Hell, endured hardship and near starvation in the depths of a noir-influenced catatonia.”

“Well… what will I tell my kids?”

“Have you any children, Johnson?  This is pertinent information, you should’ve warned me sooner.  Kids carry diseases, Johnson.  Swampy diseases.  Dysentery, chlamydia, influenza, schizophrenia, the like.  Have you dysentery?”

“No; nothing of the sort.”

“Then get to the point, you sentimental bastard.”

“Well, provided I do.  How do I look them in the eye and tell them I murdered a table-sized, pizza-box, Portuguese, arachnid conquistador in cold blood?  That I truly enjoyed slicing open his tongue like a pan-seared pork fillet?”  Gilligan mulls over the question pensively for several moments, seeming quite perplexed by the potential moral quandary of our actions.  Looking ahead toward our destination, he responds:

“That is something you’ve got to confront, my dearest amigo.  In the meantime, we’ve a volcano with razors on our mind.”  Gilligan, finishing his piece of seersucker, looks about himself, and has tragically run dry of the digestible fabric.  He clutches impatiently at his stick, slaps it against the side of his boat to the tune of Smoke on the Water.  Smoke rises from the water; something sinister stirs beneath the surface.  “Say, could I get a slice of your shirt, Johnson?”

“Why, you’ve ate it all alread-”

“Johnson, look - a beastly gator; a dirty swamp-toothed reptilian of the sea!  Perhaps I shall poke it with this handy stick!”

“Gilligan, no!”

[world-of-wales]

CATHERINE'S STYLE FILES - 2019

15 OCTOBER 2019 || The Duchess of Cambridge and Prince William visited the Presidential Palace and then met the Prime Minister at his official residence on Day-2 of their Royal Tour of Pakistan.

[gothify1]

Kate Middleton  definitely plays favorites. No, not with her children (that we know of) but with her shoes. She's nothing if not reliable when it comes to her footwear choices for different kinds of occasions. Yes, she'll sometimes throw us for a loop  and introduce a new brand or different color into the mix, but overall, her outfits follow certain formulas. For instance, she loves to color-coordinate her shoes. If she's wearing a green dress, she'll either go matchy-matchy and choose shoes in the exact same hue, or she'll do a tonal look by selecting shoes in a different shade of the same color family. In the same vein, she also likes to match her accessories to her shoes, so if she has a black bag and belt, you can pretty much guess what color her shoes will be. Scroll down to see and shop the rest of Middleton's favorite shoes to wear with dresses. When in doubt, go with color-coordinated shoes like Kate Middleton always does. She either goes for a full monochrome look or chooses shoes in a slightly different shade than her dress for a cool tonal look.  On Middleton: ARossGirl x Soler Amanda Dress ($434); Asprey clutch bag; Zeen Dazzling Ceramic Drop Earrings ($8); Emmy London shoes Wear these with a green dress à la Middleton. On Middleton: Preen dress; Gianvito Rossi shoes Hurry: This great sale price is calling your name. On Middleton: Catherine Walker coat; Jimmy Choo shoes So practical, so classic. On Middleton: Needle and Thread dress; Gianvito Rossi pumps If you want to invest in a designer version, this is your best bet. Kate Middleton's favorite shoes to wear with more casual dresses are undoubtedly her Castañer tan wedges. Specifically, she always wears them with floral short-sleeve midi dresses. She owns versions by Sandro, L.K.Bennett, and others.  On Middleton: Castañer Carina Espadrilles ($119); Catherine Zoraida earrings Middleton's favorite wedge brand is a foolproof purchase. On Kate Middleton: Sandro dress; Castañer Carina Espadrilles ($119) The shoes come in a variety of colors both neutral and bright. On Middleton: L.K.Bennett dress; Castañer Carina Espadrilles ($119); Mulberry bag Another perfect option. These pink ones are on sale just in time for spring. Middleton also loves to wear ankle boots with dresses and tights. These L.K.Bennett boots are one of her newest additions, and we have a feeling she'll get plenty of use out of them.  On Middleton: L.K.Bennett Mollie Boots These will go with everything from jeans to dresses. On Middleton: Eponine London dress; L.K.Bennett Mollie Boots Yes, you can wear these well into spring and summer. For chillier weather, the Duchess of Cambridge's outfit formula is simple: midi dress and coat of the same length plus knee-high suede boots. If it ain't broke, why fix it?  On Middleton: Hobbs coat; Zara dress; Stuart Weitzman boots Hurry: These are 50% off right now. On Middleton: Sportmax coat; Michael Kors dress; Manu Atelier bag; Stuart Weitzman boots Emulate Middleton and wear these with your favorite midi dress. You can always rely on Vince for well-made basics that will last forever. Next, Jennifer Lopez's favorite under-$50 basics just hit Nordstrom .

[orangeyouglad8]

8. clexa of course ;) so nice you are doing these thank you

Things you said when you were crying: (from this)

You stare down at the coffee cup in your hands. The warmth seeping from it, through the thick ceramic and into your palms.

You wish you could feel it.

You wish you could feel anything but broken.

The dark brown liquid sloshes around as you move it. Resettle the mug against the pillow that sits on your lap, your legs tucked up underneath. Almost as if pulling all of your extremities closer to you will help. Will protect you somehow from the ache that floods your system.

You take small sips. Little by little. Regretting the bitter taste as soon as it hits your lips, and putting it down again quickly. Your body not ready for this assault. Not yet.

Not now.

Not while it’s already dealing with one.

She moves through the apartment like a shadow.

Quiet.

Stiff.

Her jaw set and her brows furrowed. Her shoulders tight and tense.

The way the cupboards close more loudly than usual make you jump. Coil.

You try not to look at her but you can’t not.

You’ve never been able to not look at her.

It’s how you got here in the first place. Here in this small apartment. The only one you two could afford. The one with your names on the lease and your mismatched, patchworked furniture and hand-me-down dishes.

The one that felt like home the second you walked through the door with her hand in yours.

It’s how you got her hand in yours in the first place.

Studying her from across the room. The party loud and festive around you, but the quiet girl with the dazzling smile who sipped slowly from her red cup was the only thing pulling your attention.

It took you all night to work up the nerve to talk to her.

And then, just as you saw her round the corner near the door with a jacket in her hand did you make your move.

Heart in your throat, pulse pounding in your ears.

You followed her.

Up the long driveway, that sloped down towards the road.

Calling out to get her attention. Flushed and flustered and breathing heavily from the adrenaline and the cold air and the way her eyes were curious as she turned to you.

She stood there regarding you for a long moment before she spoke. The way your hands clutched at your crossed arms, willing heat back into your skin. The way you shuffled your feet entirely unsure of what to say now that you had her attention. Now that you had her waiting on you. The way you opened your mouth once, twice, to speak.

Before she swooped in, “I was wondering if you were ever going to talk to me.”

And that smile again, brilliant in the moonlight. You matched it, and moved closer to her. “And yet, you didn’t come over and try to talk to me.”

She shrugged, “I like to play the long game.”

It’s how you got a date, and another, and another.

Until they all spilled and pooled together and you struggled to remember what it was like before her. What your life looked like before this wonderful, beautiful, constant presence.

It’s how you got her to admit just how much she felt for you, in the quiet of your room late one night. How the words you so longed to hear but longed even more to say yourself, fell from her lips and into your soul.

How you never thought you would be here. Now.

Inextricably tied together and yet falling apart.

Fraying.

Too far away from each other to remember how to be one, but too close to each other to remember how to do anything else.

You know she won’t talk.

Won’t bring it up.

It’s not in her. Not in her makeup or her routine.

Once it’s done it’s done and that’s something you’ve struggled with. Struggled with in loving her.

Choosing your battles. Choosing the ones to not let her drop, to pick up your shield and resolve it.

But this one, this one feels different.

The tone of her voice and the way her eyes turned hard. The way they so rarely do when it comes down to anything involving you.

Pulling down her mask of cool indifference so easily, it struck you deep and hard.

Reverberated and rattled throughout.

You can’t even remember what started it. The tension, the frustration that had built so quietly, so slowly, you didn’t even notice it at all until it was too much.

Until it was too hard to ignore.

And it happened like a wildfire.

The way the words spilled up from your chest, filling every inch of you with something strange on their way out.

A perfect storm rolling together between you.

Hurt and anger and love and longing spiraling into this.

This here and now.

With you on the couch, your heart bleeding in your hands and your tongue frozen. The words not enough, never enough.

With you on the couch and Lexa in the kitchen. Stalking and storming. Her disagreeable temper usually endearing but it feels so different when it’s a result of something relating to you.

The tears come slowly. Angry and hot.

Sad and broken.

They drip down your cheeks one at a time, gathering at the edge of your chin before dropping onto the pillow.

Dripping and dripping.

Faster and faster.

You sniff, run your hand under your nose and wish the tissues were anywhere closer to you in this moment but you don’t move.

You hear the box being set gently on the table next to you.

Her socked feet coming into view when you open your eyes. The little penguins on them more adorable than they have any right to be. Softening her into the person you know, the person you love, more than anything else.

“Clarke?” She asks tentatively. You feel her struggle to reach out and touch you.

Both so tenuous around each other still.

You finally look up and see the same turmoil on her face. The same feeling you have moving and eating you up inside lives in her eyes.

And you crack into sobs.

She pulls the coffee mug from your hand and sets it next to the box of tissues. Crouching down and finally, finally touching you.

It’s the touch that does it. Warm and loving and familiar.

It thaws whatever still clouded the apartment from the night before.

Her eyes are watery and her lip quivers in the way that signals she’s holding back. And you can’t take it anymore.

The broken feeling still heavy but something else crawls out of the darkness. You lean forward and kiss her.

Her lips pliant. Accepting.

Forgiving.

You kiss her and don’t think about anything else. Not about the fight. Not about the way you tossed and turned. Or her cold voice.

You kiss her and breathe, for the first time in what feels like forever.

She cups your face and pulls you closer and you feel her tears.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry….” It’s hushed, whispered into skin in between kisses. Folded away and heard.

“We can’t do that again.” You pull away just enough to see her eyes, focused and clear.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry, too.” You rest your head on her shoulder, inhaling the smell of her and rubbing your hand along her side.

“Don’t be… we let it, we weren’t talking. We…”

“And now we know.”

You feel her nod and clutch tighter around your shoulders and your tears slow down.

She sighs heavily and tucks her head against yours, and you feel more whole than you have in days. The reset button hit in the worst way possible.

“We’re gonna fight, it’s bound to happen.”

“Not like that… we can’t fight like that, Lex.” You shake your head and brush your lips against her skin, feeling her pulse strong and steady beneath them.

“No, we can’t.” She kisses the top of your head. And you know, it’s now or never.

That same impulse rises up again inside of you, screaming and taking over all good sense except this time it’s not a fight that pushes itself from your lips.

“I want to marry you, you idiot.”

[norapayne18018234-blog]

✩10 images that interest me✪

Mini Market Leaflet

St. Nicholas Church (Malá Strana), Prague

The Baroque and Renaissance  style has captivated me both in Art and Literature since my AS studies. I find the ostentatious and almost egotistical display of wealth and power by Religion from the 13th to 16th century incredibly fascinating. The delicate palette of the soft depictions of  heaven; powder blues, blush pinks and subtle yellows contrasted with dazzling gold accents is beauty that I find truly unmatched.

Karin Hagen, "Some kind of Cat"

Hagen produces fantastically quirky ceramics inspired by her illustrations. I love the translation of Illustration to 3D design, and I find this particular sculpture interesting due to it's peculiar proportions and imperfections. Ceramics and 3D modelling is an area I have been eager to experiment with and have been attracted to these more eccentric takes on sculpture.

Wendy Buttrose, Cosmopolitan Magazine July 1972

I have a huge interest in how society and history influences an artist's style. Societal 'norms' during the 1970s; sexual freedom, LGBT awareness and a general attraction towards being different can be seen through Buttrose's illustration which was widely published. 70s printing created beautiful, intense colours with a delicate sepia undertone; the simple use of flowing line glamorizes and celebrates the human body.

Edward Hopper, "Automat"

I have been in love with Hopper's beautifully ambient paintings ever since I discovered his work. "Automat" is my favourite piece because the dusty reflection of the lights in the back window pull you further into his scene and you cannot help but connect with the solitary figure. Hopper's ability to make you feel both comfortable, with the warm yellow and orange hues, and yet equally as uncomfortable; the empty vastness reaching out behind the window, is nothing but pure artistic talent.

Federica Arancello, Liqueur Packaging

In recent years Illustration based designs have found themselves becoming more and more popular on the packaging and commercial market. I particularly love this Spanish Liqueur design because its simplicity is very refreshing and eye catching among highly graphic and overwhelming packaging designs. Its impressive how one illustration can tell so much about the brand and product; the quaint design reflecting on the small-batch style of the company.

Di Oliver, Linocut

Printing has been my primary medium for a few years and I have a distinct 'fondness' for Lino prints. Imperfection is something I embrace, especially in printing, and the bulky lino cutters create serendipitous strokes and smudges that a pen can't. This particular lino print captivates me because I feel as though I am among these winding roads, the line style to create highlights and shadows is beautiful and very effective.

The Golden Ratio

Going back to basics, I have a profound interest in the science behind art. It is so fascinating that such a simple mathematical equation can be applied to the most iconic pieces of art- The Last Supper, The Mona Lisa and Girl with a Pearl Earring, and how the Golden Ratio appears in every element of nature. Composition is everything, and the Golden Ratio seems to genetically implanted on the minds of artists and even those with little artistic talent  

William Branton, Magnitude

I was given the opportunity to go wild with screen printing in my A Level studies and naturally fell in love with it. Branton's limited edition screen prints show how versatile the method is, creating prints that almost appear digitally produced. The hands on, small batch style is exactly what I admire in artists- a devotion to each print; the unique variations of each copy making it a fantastic medium to work in.

Mini Market Leaflet

London has an incredible art scene and the small independent artists in and around Camberwell and Peckham are clearly thriving. To me this leaflet is very representative of the contemporary styles which are becoming more and more popular; what I particularly love about this design is the character illustration, the artist has created a sense of energy and movement that I feel and witness everyday living in Camberwell.

Guy Bourdin, Drop a Gear and Disappear

Photography is a field of art that I am still to discover, but I have been a long time fan of Bourdin's provocative images. What is exceptional about his 70s photography for Vogue is the 'clumsy' style of his models, taking Vogue's provocativeness to a whole new level. His images have a cheekiness to them that I adore, and along with the warm sepia tones and soft cigarette smoke I think it is an outstanding piece.