Let the Bells Ring

ask and rp blog for Sidney Mayfield, oc. Run by Bruno, 27.

[once-minted-made-vinted]

As the door opens, it’s almost impossible to move through the initial overwhelm of shelves and boxes scattered around. A labyrinth through to the till, with a set of stairs roped off behind them. Sat behind the counter, flicking through a few magazines and order lists, is Sidney. Pulling at his fringe and finding a handful of grey hairs mixing in with his hair. Barely making a noise as the bell above the door rings.

Name- Sidney Mayfield

Age- 48

Height- 5’10

Rules

-Minors DNI

-No homophobes, racists, etc

-Respect the mod, if I don’t reply for a day or so don’t spam me.

[thunderousmemes]

𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 

(starters inspired by too many drinks, city lights, and the kind of honesty that only comes after midnight)

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐆

“You look like you could use another drink… or a bad decision.”

“Don’t tell me you came here alone.”

“I’m not drunk, I’m just—emotionally flexible right now.”

“One more round, and I might actually tell you what I’m thinking.”

“I didn’t plan on running into you here.”

“You’ve got that look—like you’re either about to confess something or start a fight.”

“You’re staring again. Should I take that as an invitation?”

“You ever think about how many bad ideas start with a shot glass?”

“You dance like you’re trying to forget something.”

“It’s way past decent hours—what are you still doing out?”

𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐘 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆, 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓

“You can stop pretending you’re fine. Nobody believes it after their third drink.”

“I thought you didn’t drink anymore.”

“It’s funny—liquor makes you honest, but you still can’t say what you really want, can you?”

“You shouldn’t walk home alone. I’ll come with you.”

“You always talk like this when you’ve had too much.”

“You smell like smoke and regret. It suits you.”

“Let’s make a pact—we don’t talk about this in the morning.”

“You shouldn’t have kissed me. But I’m not asking you to stop.”

“You ever get drunk enough to think the world might love you back?”

“We’re both going to regret this tomorrow, aren’t we?”

𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑, 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? I’ll go first.”

“Tell me a truth—just one. The kind you’d never say sober.”

“You’re going to forget this conversation in the morning, right?”

“If I told you I missed you, would you blame the alcohol?”

“You keep drinking like you’re trying to forget something. Or someone.”

“I didn’t mean to call you. My hands just remembered your number.”

“Why are you crying? Don’t tell me it’s just the gin.”

“You said you don’t love me anymore, but you’re still here.”

“Do you ever wonder how we got this lost?”

“Sometimes, I think the night listens better than people do.”

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐖 — quiet streets, unspoken things

“I’ll walk you home. You can pretend you don’t need me to.”

“It’s too late for goodbyes, isn’t it?”

“We shouldn’t have let it get this far.”

“You can hold my hand. Just for tonight.”

“Do you ever wish you’d met me sober?”

“Don’t fall asleep yet. The world feels softer when it’s still spinning.”

“Stay until the city forgets our names.”

“You look different under the streetlights.”

“Promise me you won’t vanish when morning comes.”

“I don’t know what I’ll remember most — the taste of the drink, or you.”

[wonderful-rp-resources]

send one for my muse’s reaction to your muse ---

Alternatively, send ‘ + ‘ after the symbol for the roles to be reversed where possible! Please specify the muse for multimuses!

✘ = hugging them.

Δ = playing with their hair.

❤ = kissing them.

₪ = asking them out for dinner.

☀ = giving them a gift of _ ( asker’s choice ) .

♘ = stabbing them.

♕ = bowing down before them.

♒ = lying to them.

✿ = buying them flowers.

☾ = being found shirtless.

♢ = reading them a story.

☂ = giving them their jumper to keep warm.

✎ = speaking in a different language.

✏ = teaching them a different language.

▄ = telling them a joke.

♬ = singing to them.

☹ = insulting a loved one.

ஐ = slapping them.

✂ = threatening them.

❃ = dancing with them.

▤ = falling asleep on them.

☮ = waking them up after a nightmare.

♣ = discovering them crying.

回 = patching a wound.

✮ = stargazing.

▓ = caught stealing their belongings.

☽ = wandering alone at night.

♡ = complimenting them.

≡ = offering a place to stay overnight.

☢ = falling over.

✦ = being well-dressed.

❂ = wiping blood off their face.

◎ = taking care of them while ill.

☁ = being caught in the middle of a storm with them.

⇕ = holding their hand.

↱ = being lost with them.

☠ = pushing them against a wall.

[lost-soul-in-time]

Aside from the masses of boxes that piled his uncles slightly dilapidated antique shop, there wasn’t much to sell besides whatever filled up the tiny back room and the crammed shelves within the entrance. Sidney was running out of things to sell, surprisingly. And more than a few have been shattered in some way as he tries to navigate the fairly narrow pathways of the shop. After living in a ‘complex’ that had hallways wide enough to accommodate a barbershop quartet and a small group of tap dancers, squeezing past delicate shelves was an adjustment. It’s only been a few months since he got out, but ultimately stayed pretty close to himself. There was Birta, a very enchanting lady at the tea shop next door he’d have a chat with every now and them, and his pen pal Yancy, who’d only just gotten out on parole himself. Pickles was always there, inexplicably tiny and wide eyed all the time.

Hauling out a crate from the back of his truck, he trepidatiously moves over the small step into the shop, careful to keep his elbows tucked in to stop himself from smashing them in the frame (he needs to get Frank to do some work on this place, it’s a death trap some days). Hugging the box to his chest as he walks up the stairs to the apartment, Pickles scurries across the floor and bangs her head against the sofa. Eventually, Sidney manages to get into the living room, still in a state of half packed, balancing the crate on the creaky coffee table. It was a steal, twenty bucks for this box. Little bits of jewelry, novelty souvenirs, and a watch. Ignoring the quiet voice in the back of his head telling him it’s likely stolen, he pulls the watch out from the pile to start examining it.

@once-minted-made-vinted

It's his first time outside of the house when he goes after them and ends up at an unfamiliar thrift shop. It's terrifying.

There's– everything is– the world around him is different. Barely anything he sees is recognizable. The music, the cars, the clothing, the language, the buildings, the technology... he could go on. He saw glimpses of this future he ended up in when residents would move in, but seeing it for himself is just– something else entirely. The thrift shop is the only thing with one or two familiar trinkets and clothing. A wedding dress from the 40s, a ring from the 30s. A theme was evident here. Only his watch broke it.

He watched two women look at the wedding dress and one of them commented how she was going to "wear something like this to our wedding'. The other laughed with a shake of her head and a kiss to her cheek. He watched one man wrap his arms around another from behind and call him 'honey' while the other studied a fine china set.

He looked around. No one reacted to this, to them. Was this what he was robbed of? Normalcy? Peace?

His heart aches at the sight of them and the memory it resurfaces.

He doesn't have time to focus on them for long, not when there was already a man buying his watch along with a boxful of other unknown trinkets. Was that how easy it was to bury history? Something that once meant the world to him was now buried at the bottom of an old box, costing less than what it would have sold for in his time. Unable to do anything more than watch and feel his stomach drop, he follows close behind the man until he reaches their destination. Another shop, seemingly under renovations.

Taking in his surroundings, hands awkwardly trying to find a comfortable spot for themselves, he takes in a deep (unnecessary) breath to calm himself. He’s no longer at his house. He’s out in the new world now. He’s here with… a man he has no information on. A man who has his watch. Instead of focusing on the inevitability of his own panic eventually taking over his senses, he keeps his eyes on his watch.

It doesn’t look new, at least not as new as when he’d gotten it. He stands some feet away from the stranger holding it, hands wringing together nervously as he watches it be maneuvered.

“…Careful.” Oliver mutters to himself as the watch is flipped over, already remembering the traitorous words engraved into the metal.

You’re everything.

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Having his bare fingers touching jewelry is an uncanny sensation, the cool metal and worn leather unfamiliar around his fingers. Sidney remembers the cheap fabric of the gardening gloves sitting through the shattered display cases, the soft inner lining of his pockets as he’d run towards his uncle van and speed off far past the horizon. But he never really touched it with his own hands, just dropped them into a velvet lined box that would later turn into a couple hundred dollars each. All the rest went god knows where, probably any place but Sidney’s pockets. Or near his bail. Or legal fees for that matter. Inheriting the store and the attached apartment was all he had to his name.

Carefully inspecting the watch, slowly turning it in front of his eyes to get a better view of what it might be worth, an engraving catches his eye. You’re everything. It’s rather sweet, an endearing message for someone important. There were a few of those in the prisons library, a half a dozen scuffed romance books filled with corny ideas of adoration. It’s all he saw, so it must’ve been fact.

Someone’s in the apartment with him. Whispering out a thinly veiled threat in two syllables, spooking him enough to drop the watch from one hand to the other. Rescuing it at the last second, nearly slipping over as he tries to make a little more distance between them. “Get out of here! What the fuck man, Jesus Christ! Just ring the bell downstairs if you want service, don’t break into my place!”

[lost-soul-in-time]

Oliver's eyes are glued to the watch as the stranger moves it this way and that during his inspection of quality, itching to take it back, hide it away and keep it from anyone else's prying eyes. That was his watch, made for him, no one else was ever supposed to see it. It's personal, it's–

It's his. It's all he has left of him.

The words have barely left his mouth before the man is whipping himself around in his general direction, face morphed into panic and anger, and Oliver wonders what's gotten him so terrified. He doesn't get the chance to wonder long however, because he's suddenly screaming, which makes Oliver scream, which causes a lamp's lightbulb to burst, which makes Oliver jump back away from it and hit the nearest wall while stepping away, and already he's joining in on the panic.

"I– what is–" Get out? Breaking in? Oliver looks around the room and sees no one else, only Sidney's eyes following his every move. But that... that would be too far of a possibility, wouldn't it? After all these years, all the lives he's seen come and go, it couldn't... could it? "...You– you see me." The words are unsure, as if he's doubting the meaning they hold the entire time. There's so much going on, too much.

[once-minted-made-vinted]

All he’s had for years was the comfort of crowds, a constant buzzing around his head that would lull him to sleep every night. A thousand voices swirling around Sidney, tucking him in and soothing him to sleep. Silence shot right through him, shaking him awake in the middle of the night. Remember what you’ve lost, who will forget you. No one was outside the prison to pick him up, just a taxi dropping him at a halfway house until the lawyers came.

Positioning himself to have the couch and table between them, he slaps around his pockets to find the dinky little phone with a keyboard to try and call for someone. With only two numbers saved in there. “Course I can see you, you absolute maniac! If you wanted to buy something, wait downstairs and ring the bell!” Sidney flinches as glass showers the floor before he starts frantically looking around for Pickles. She’s too tiny, all the glass could kill her. It hasn’t crossed his mind how on earth Oliver’s screaming made it explode.

From behind the spirit, an impossibly small kitten starts circling his feet. She was barely a few months old, part of a rehabilitation program to encourage Sidney’s reintegration into the world. But he left his house even less in fear of losing her. “Look, what did you want?” Swallowing thickly, he carefully tucks the watch into his pocket. Most of this side of the family was a little bit seedy, a little more than upset that he got the place.

[lost-soul-in-time]

This isn't– he's not supposed to– why can he see him?

This isn't supposed to be possible, this stranger should not be able to... Oliver shifts where he stands, glass crunching beneath his feet which makes him stand still and wince at the further damage he's created. What is he supposed to do? How does he even begin to describe the situation he's in without sounding as if he's completely lost his mind?

Okay. He understood that reaction. Still not quite sure how to react, he nearly jumps when he finds a tiny cat at his feet, quietly fussing over it and muttering something about the glass before carefully lifting it to safety. It's poor paws, they could get cut from the glass, or worse! What was he thinking, how could he allow his emotions to get the better of him like this? What kind of impression was he making alright? He probably looked like nothing less than insane–

Right. What does he want. He looks towards him with the cat carefully in his hands, waiting to see if he'll come for her or if he should simply put her down, but even the few seconds of feeling the soft fur is... comforting. Deep breath. "I– I just... that watch. It used to be mine." He has to clear his voice towards the end of his sentence, trying to soothe a parched throat after years of silence.

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Mainly unbothered, Pickles saunters through the glass to stare up at the new man. No one really stayed up here, the occasional builder or Birta from next door. Initially planning on curling up on his shoe, she’s suddenly scooped up and curling up in his hands. She fits nearly perfectly in just one, just her tail hanging over. It must be nap time, she’ll be carried to her bed eventually.

Wringing his hands out, Sidney paces side to side, hands tugging at the roots of his hair. Surely, he can feel his hair greying rapidly beneath his fingers. There hasn’t been a break in yet, but in no uncertain terms has it been implied. Letters under the door, reminding him who got him inside in the first place. Bricks left on his doorstep, warning him the next one will be thrown. Another strange man appearing in the apartment seemed to be the logical conclusion.

“What? Come on, you’ve got to have a better story than that. Guy I bought it from trawls thrift stores and gets whatever don’t sell from the antique stores. You followed him, then followed me?” Nervously eyeing Pickles in the man’s hand, he covers one of his pockets. It was too old, well over a hundred years. It’s not the kind of watch you lose to a thrift store. “Beat it or buy it.”

[lost-soul-in-time]

"He stole it from me."

Oliver's voice comes out colder than he had intended, interrupting Sidney towards the end of his sentence. His hands threaten to shake with the well of emotion and the effort it takes to not hold the tiny creature in his palm too tightly, not made any better when the watch is slipped into the man's pocket out of his sight. This isn't fair, none of this is fair. For the first time in years, he's out of that godforsaken house, he's free (for now), and this is his first human interaction.

He tries his best to compose himself, focusing on his breaths and attempting to not look any worse in front of him. "Please, I–... it's all I have left from..." That memory still lives vividly in his mind, rewinding in his thoughts like a broken vinyl as he sets the cat down onto the nearest furniture piece. Marc's proud smile, the softness of his hand when he held it, his playful tone, he– he was so proud of himself, and it's all he has left.

When something in his gaze starts to burn, he turns his back on the stranger, rubbing his face with his hands and letting out a shaky breath. "This isn't happening, this is not happening, not when I'm finally out." Oliver mutters mostly to himself, one hand moving to lean him against the wall instead, his head following afterwards as his forehead rests on the surface. "And for what, a watch. A watch."

[once-minted-made-vinted]

With the back and forth remaining relatively tempered, Pickles doesn’t even open her eyes. It’s gently quiet to her, filling the silence that usually dominated the apartment. Batting her paws against the back of his hand while Sidney wrings his own out. Glass over the floor and the stranger who might just drop his best friend onto it, he can feel the palpitations starting again. Sweat soaking into the roots of his hair, face reddening as he watches Oliver finally set his baby down into the couch.

Heavy in his pocket, the watch keeps ticking away. It had been remarkable, most of the watches and miniature carriage clocks all had missing mechanisms or cracked glass. Sidney might have been able to get something decent for it, something to set aside if he ever got thrown out. People normally have savings, it’s a thing he’s supposed to do.

“Look man, I get you’re upset and all. I just can’t give it back to you if I don’t know it’s yours. Barging up into my house doesn’t help you at all,” he sighs, fanning his shirt to try and cool down a single degree. It wasn’t enough to have a second cousin breathing down his neck about ownership, now he was plagued with the paranoia of having to get an alarm system.

“Out? Oh, oh! I’m so sorry, are you one of my pen pals or something? They don’t send out photos when they match us. Look man, it’s not like prison where you could walk through every unlocked door, you’re gonna get arrested.” Sidney had given most of his pen pals from other prisons his new address, just on the off chance they wanted to visit if they ever got out. “Are you Yancy? I know he’s gotten out but I swear someone else’s been getting the letters. Leaving fancy tobacco stains on the envelopes back.”

[lost-soul-in-time]

Prison? Was that what all the boxes were for, he was moving in? If his thoughts weren't currently so muddled, he might have the space to shove in more guilt for making this man's day worse. But there comes a time where Oliver could admit to himself: he was having a shittier one. A much worse turmoil of emotions and revelations and being seen, he's being seen; part of him wishes he could go back to the house and forget this ever happened so the currents in his body would slow down.

"I know, I... I know." Taking in a deep, unnecessary breath, he runs a hand through his hair to push it away from his face. All in an effort to collect himself somewhat. He turns back to face him again, anxiously clenching hands slipping into his pockets as he keeps their distance. "No, I'm not a 'pen pal'." Oliver thinks he remembers a fleeting mention of this during his time before... everything, how they rose in popularity. Perhaps Clara had one?

Clara. Oh, my sweet girl.

"Look, I can prove it's mine. I know the engraving on it." However, once he gets his hands on the watch again, what does he do? Where does he go? He's free. He can go anywhere he'd like... but he doesn't want to. Not yet. The world, it's– everything is so new and so terrifying.

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Probably not one of the Happy Trails guys, he can’t see the tap shoes they’re apparently sent out of prison with. There’s a handful of other pen pals dotted around the country but he can’t exactly remember if any of them had an accent. Sidney must’ve just forgotten who it was exactly after all this time. God he hopes he’s an ex-con and not one of his uncles friends. The ones who slapped his shoulder and pushed him forward to volunteer for whatever gig they wanted him to drive for.

Stretching out his shoulder, he tries to look at Oliver a little closer. Everything is rough around the edges, melting into the space around them. Rubbing his eyes doesn’t help focus his vision, the man is still as shaky as ever in appearance. It must be nerves, probably needs glasses too. “…Sure, yeah that’ll be great. Actually yeah. Sit down though, you look so pale, like a ghost,” he laughs, tentatively stepping around the shards of glass and digging through the box piles for a broom.

“So how’d you find me? I thought I would’ve been a bit sharper to someone sneaking up on me like that, I didn’t even see you in the shop when I locked up. What were you in for then? Robbery or something?” Fishing the watch out from his pocket, he squints at the engraving before quickly covering it. “So, what’s on the back?”

[moriaenships]

selfshipping moodboard ask meme!

send me a character + emoji and i'll reply with a moodboard! (feel free to reblog, and don't forget to practice rb karma!)

⌨️ : personality moodboard

🧥 : wardrobe moodboard

🔮 : general aesthetic moodboard

💕 : romantic moodboard

🟣 : favorite color moodboard

💼 : occupation moodboard

🗡️ : weapon moodboard

😶 : faceless moodboard

🎲 : your favorite au moodboard

🃏 : whatever you feel like making moodboard

[lost-soul-in-time]

Aside from the masses of boxes that piled his uncles slightly dilapidated antique shop, there wasn’t much to sell besides whatever filled up the tiny back room and the crammed shelves within the entrance. Sidney was running out of things to sell, surprisingly. And more than a few have been shattered in some way as he tries to navigate the fairly narrow pathways of the shop. After living in a ‘complex’ that had hallways wide enough to accommodate a barbershop quartet and a small group of tap dancers, squeezing past delicate shelves was an adjustment. It’s only been a few months since he got out, but ultimately stayed pretty close to himself. There was Birta, a very enchanting lady at the tea shop next door he’d have a chat with every now and them, and his pen pal Yancy, who’d only just gotten out on parole himself. Pickles was always there, inexplicably tiny and wide eyed all the time.

Hauling out a crate from the back of his truck, he trepidatiously moves over the small step into the shop, careful to keep his elbows tucked in to stop himself from smashing them in the frame (he needs to get Frank to do some work on this place, it’s a death trap some days). Hugging the box to his chest as he walks up the stairs to the apartment, Pickles scurries across the floor and bangs her head against the sofa. Eventually, Sidney manages to get into the living room, still in a state of half packed, balancing the crate on the creaky coffee table. It was a steal, twenty bucks for this box. Little bits of jewelry, novelty souvenirs, and a watch. Ignoring the quiet voice in the back of his head telling him it’s likely stolen, he pulls the watch out from the pile to start examining it.

@once-minted-made-vinted

It's his first time outside of the house when he goes after them and ends up at an unfamiliar thrift shop. It's terrifying.

There's– everything is– the world around him is different. Barely anything he sees is recognizable. The music, the cars, the clothing, the language, the buildings, the technology... he could go on. He saw glimpses of this future he ended up in when residents would move in, but seeing it for himself is just– something else entirely. The thrift shop is the only thing with one or two familiar trinkets and clothing. A wedding dress from the 40s, a ring from the 30s. A theme was evident here. Only his watch broke it.

He watched two women look at the wedding dress and one of them commented how she was going to "wear something like this to our wedding'. The other laughed with a shake of her head and a kiss to her cheek. He watched one man wrap his arms around another from behind and call him 'honey' while the other studied a fine china set.

He looked around. No one reacted to this, to them. Was this what he was robbed of? Normalcy? Peace?

His heart aches at the sight of them and the memory it resurfaces.

He doesn't have time to focus on them for long, not when there was already a man buying his watch along with a boxful of other unknown trinkets. Was that how easy it was to bury history? Something that once meant the world to him was now buried at the bottom of an old box, costing less than what it would have sold for in his time. Unable to do anything more than watch and feel his stomach drop, he follows close behind the man until he reaches their destination. Another shop, seemingly under renovations.

Taking in his surroundings, hands awkwardly trying to find a comfortable spot for themselves, he takes in a deep (unnecessary) breath to calm himself. He’s no longer at his house. He’s out in the new world now. He’s here with… a man he has no information on. A man who has his watch. Instead of focusing on the inevitability of his own panic eventually taking over his senses, he keeps his eyes on his watch.

It doesn’t look new, at least not as new as when he’d gotten it. He stands some feet away from the stranger holding it, hands wringing together nervously as he watches it be maneuvered.

“…Careful.” Oliver mutters to himself as the watch is flipped over, already remembering the traitorous words engraved into the metal.

You’re everything.

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Having his bare fingers touching jewelry is an uncanny sensation, the cool metal and worn leather unfamiliar around his fingers. Sidney remembers the cheap fabric of the gardening gloves sitting through the shattered display cases, the soft inner lining of his pockets as he’d run towards his uncle van and speed off far past the horizon. But he never really touched it with his own hands, just dropped them into a velvet lined box that would later turn into a couple hundred dollars each. All the rest went god knows where, probably any place but Sidney’s pockets. Or near his bail. Or legal fees for that matter. Inheriting the store and the attached apartment was all he had to his name.

Carefully inspecting the watch, slowly turning it in front of his eyes to get a better view of what it might be worth, an engraving catches his eye. You’re everything. It’s rather sweet, an endearing message for someone important. There were a few of those in the prisons library, a half a dozen scuffed romance books filled with corny ideas of adoration. It’s all he saw, so it must’ve been fact.

Someone’s in the apartment with him. Whispering out a thinly veiled threat in two syllables, spooking him enough to drop the watch from one hand to the other. Rescuing it at the last second, nearly slipping over as he tries to make a little more distance between them. “Get out of here! What the fuck man, Jesus Christ! Just ring the bell downstairs if you want service, don’t break into my place!”

[lost-soul-in-time]

Oliver's eyes are glued to the watch as the stranger moves it this way and that during his inspection of quality, itching to take it back, hide it away and keep it from anyone else's prying eyes. That was his watch, made for him, no one else was ever supposed to see it. It's personal, it's–

It's his. It's all he has left of him.

The words have barely left his mouth before the man is whipping himself around in his general direction, face morphed into panic and anger, and Oliver wonders what's gotten him so terrified. He doesn't get the chance to wonder long however, because he's suddenly screaming, which makes Oliver scream, which causes a lamp's lightbulb to burst, which makes Oliver jump back away from it and hit the nearest wall while stepping away, and already he's joining in on the panic.

"I– what is–" Get out? Breaking in? Oliver looks around the room and sees no one else, only Sidney's eyes following his every move. But that... that would be too far of a possibility, wouldn't it? After all these years, all the lives he's seen come and go, it couldn't... could it? "...You– you see me." The words are unsure, as if he's doubting the meaning they hold the entire time. There's so much going on, too much.

[once-minted-made-vinted]

All he’s had for years was the comfort of crowds, a constant buzzing around his head that would lull him to sleep every night. A thousand voices swirling around Sidney, tucking him in and soothing him to sleep. Silence shot right through him, shaking him awake in the middle of the night. Remember what you’ve lost, who will forget you. No one was outside the prison to pick him up, just a taxi dropping him at a halfway house until the lawyers came.

Positioning himself to have the couch and table between them, he slaps around his pockets to find the dinky little phone with a keyboard to try and call for someone. With only two numbers saved in there. “Course I can see you, you absolute maniac! If you wanted to buy something, wait downstairs and ring the bell!” Sidney flinches as glass showers the floor before he starts frantically looking around for Pickles. She’s too tiny, all the glass could kill her. It hasn’t crossed his mind how on earth Oliver’s screaming made it explode.

From behind the spirit, an impossibly small kitten starts circling his feet. She was barely a few months old, part of a rehabilitation program to encourage Sidney’s reintegration into the world. But he left his house even less in fear of losing her. “Look, what did you want?” Swallowing thickly, he carefully tucks the watch into his pocket. Most of this side of the family was a little bit seedy, a little more than upset that he got the place.

[lost-soul-in-time]

This isn't– he's not supposed to– why can he see him?

This isn't supposed to be possible, this stranger should not be able to... Oliver shifts where he stands, glass crunching beneath his feet which makes him stand still and wince at the further damage he's created. What is he supposed to do? How does he even begin to describe the situation he's in without sounding as if he's completely lost his mind?

Okay. He understood that reaction. Still not quite sure how to react, he nearly jumps when he finds a tiny cat at his feet, quietly fussing over it and muttering something about the glass before carefully lifting it to safety. It's poor paws, they could get cut from the glass, or worse! What was he thinking, how could he allow his emotions to get the better of him like this? What kind of impression was he making alright? He probably looked like nothing less than insane–

Right. What does he want. He looks towards him with the cat carefully in his hands, waiting to see if he'll come for her or if he should simply put her down, but even the few seconds of feeling the soft fur is... comforting. Deep breath. "I– I just... that watch. It used to be mine." He has to clear his voice towards the end of his sentence, trying to soothe a parched throat after years of silence.

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Mainly unbothered, Pickles saunters through the glass to stare up at the new man. No one really stayed up here, the occasional builder or Birta from next door. Initially planning on curling up on his shoe, she’s suddenly scooped up and curling up in his hands. She fits nearly perfectly in just one, just her tail hanging over. It must be nap time, she’ll be carried to her bed eventually.

Wringing his hands out, Sidney paces side to side, hands tugging at the roots of his hair. Surely, he can feel his hair greying rapidly beneath his fingers. There hasn’t been a break in yet, but in no uncertain terms has it been implied. Letters under the door, reminding him who got him inside in the first place. Bricks left on his doorstep, warning him the next one will be thrown. Another strange man appearing in the apartment seemed to be the logical conclusion.

“What? Come on, you’ve got to have a better story than that. Guy I bought it from trawls thrift stores and gets whatever don’t sell from the antique stores. You followed him, then followed me?” Nervously eyeing Pickles in the man’s hand, he covers one of his pockets. It was too old, well over a hundred years. It’s not the kind of watch you lose to a thrift store. “Beat it or buy it.”

[lost-soul-in-time]

"He stole it from me."

Oliver's voice comes out colder than he had intended, interrupting Sidney towards the end of his sentence. His hands threaten to shake with the well of emotion and the effort it takes to not hold the tiny creature in his palm too tightly, not made any better when the watch is slipped into the man's pocket out of his sight. This isn't fair, none of this is fair. For the first time in years, he's out of that godforsaken house, he's free (for now), and this is his first human interaction.

He tries his best to compose himself, focusing on his breaths and attempting to not look any worse in front of him. "Please, I–... it's all I have left from..." That memory still lives vividly in his mind, rewinding in his thoughts like a broken vinyl as he sets the cat down onto the nearest furniture piece. Marc's proud smile, the softness of his hand when he held it, his playful tone, he– he was so proud of himself, and it's all he has left.

When something in his gaze starts to burn, he turns his back on the stranger, rubbing his face with his hands and letting out a shaky breath. "This isn't happening, this is not happening, not when I'm finally out." Oliver mutters mostly to himself, one hand moving to lean him against the wall instead, his head following afterwards as his forehead rests on the surface. "And for what, a watch. A watch."

[once-minted-made-vinted]

With the back and forth remaining relatively tempered, Pickles doesn’t even open her eyes. It’s gently quiet to her, filling the silence that usually dominated the apartment. Batting her paws against the back of his hand while Sidney wrings his own out. Glass over the floor and the stranger who might just drop his best friend onto it, he can feel the palpitations starting again. Sweat soaking into the roots of his hair, face reddening as he watches Oliver finally set his baby down into the couch.

Heavy in his pocket, the watch keeps ticking away. It had been remarkable, most of the watches and miniature carriage clocks all had missing mechanisms or cracked glass. Sidney might have been able to get something decent for it, something to set aside if he ever got thrown out. People normally have savings, it’s a thing he’s supposed to do.

“Look man, I get you’re upset and all. I just can’t give it back to you if I don’t know it’s yours. Barging up into my house doesn’t help you at all,” he sighs, fanning his shirt to try and cool down a single degree. It wasn’t enough to have a second cousin breathing down his neck about ownership, now he was plagued with the paranoia of having to get an alarm system.

“Out? Oh, oh! I’m so sorry, are you one of my pen pals or something? They don’t send out photos when they match us. Look man, it’s not like prison where you could walk through every unlocked door, you’re gonna get arrested.” Sidney had given most of his pen pals from other prisons his new address, just on the off chance they wanted to visit if they ever got out. “Are you Yancy? I know he’s gotten out but I swear someone else’s been getting the letters. Leaving fancy tobacco stains on the envelopes back.”

[lost-soul-in-time]

Aside from the masses of boxes that piled his uncles slightly dilapidated antique shop, there wasn’t much to sell besides whatever filled up the tiny back room and the crammed shelves within the entrance. Sidney was running out of things to sell, surprisingly. And more than a few have been shattered in some way as he tries to navigate the fairly narrow pathways of the shop. After living in a ‘complex’ that had hallways wide enough to accommodate a barbershop quartet and a small group of tap dancers, squeezing past delicate shelves was an adjustment. It’s only been a few months since he got out, but ultimately stayed pretty close to himself. There was Birta, a very enchanting lady at the tea shop next door he’d have a chat with every now and them, and his pen pal Yancy, who’d only just gotten out on parole himself. Pickles was always there, inexplicably tiny and wide eyed all the time.

Hauling out a crate from the back of his truck, he trepidatiously moves over the small step into the shop, careful to keep his elbows tucked in to stop himself from smashing them in the frame (he needs to get Frank to do some work on this place, it’s a death trap some days). Hugging the box to his chest as he walks up the stairs to the apartment, Pickles scurries across the floor and bangs her head against the sofa. Eventually, Sidney manages to get into the living room, still in a state of half packed, balancing the crate on the creaky coffee table. It was a steal, twenty bucks for this box. Little bits of jewelry, novelty souvenirs, and a watch. Ignoring the quiet voice in the back of his head telling him it’s likely stolen, he pulls the watch out from the pile to start examining it.

@once-minted-made-vinted

It's his first time outside of the house when he goes after them and ends up at an unfamiliar thrift shop. It's terrifying.

There's– everything is– the world around him is different. Barely anything he sees is recognizable. The music, the cars, the clothing, the language, the buildings, the technology... he could go on. He saw glimpses of this future he ended up in when residents would move in, but seeing it for himself is just– something else entirely. The thrift shop is the only thing with one or two familiar trinkets and clothing. A wedding dress from the 40s, a ring from the 30s. A theme was evident here. Only his watch broke it.

He watched two women look at the wedding dress and one of them commented how she was going to "wear something like this to our wedding'. The other laughed with a shake of her head and a kiss to her cheek. He watched one man wrap his arms around another from behind and call him 'honey' while the other studied a fine china set.

He looked around. No one reacted to this, to them. Was this what he was robbed of? Normalcy? Peace?

His heart aches at the sight of them and the memory it resurfaces.

He doesn't have time to focus on them for long, not when there was already a man buying his watch along with a boxful of other unknown trinkets. Was that how easy it was to bury history? Something that once meant the world to him was now buried at the bottom of an old box, costing less than what it would have sold for in his time. Unable to do anything more than watch and feel his stomach drop, he follows close behind the man until he reaches their destination. Another shop, seemingly under renovations.

Taking in his surroundings, hands awkwardly trying to find a comfortable spot for themselves, he takes in a deep (unnecessary) breath to calm himself. He’s no longer at his house. He’s out in the new world now. He’s here with… a man he has no information on. A man who has his watch. Instead of focusing on the inevitability of his own panic eventually taking over his senses, he keeps his eyes on his watch.

It doesn’t look new, at least not as new as when he’d gotten it. He stands some feet away from the stranger holding it, hands wringing together nervously as he watches it be maneuvered.

“…Careful.” Oliver mutters to himself as the watch is flipped over, already remembering the traitorous words engraved into the metal.

You’re everything.

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Having his bare fingers touching jewelry is an uncanny sensation, the cool metal and worn leather unfamiliar around his fingers. Sidney remembers the cheap fabric of the gardening gloves sitting through the shattered display cases, the soft inner lining of his pockets as he’d run towards his uncle van and speed off far past the horizon. But he never really touched it with his own hands, just dropped them into a velvet lined box that would later turn into a couple hundred dollars each. All the rest went god knows where, probably any place but Sidney’s pockets. Or near his bail. Or legal fees for that matter. Inheriting the store and the attached apartment was all he had to his name.

Carefully inspecting the watch, slowly turning it in front of his eyes to get a better view of what it might be worth, an engraving catches his eye. You’re everything. It’s rather sweet, an endearing message for someone important. There were a few of those in the prisons library, a half a dozen scuffed romance books filled with corny ideas of adoration. It’s all he saw, so it must’ve been fact.

Someone’s in the apartment with him. Whispering out a thinly veiled threat in two syllables, spooking him enough to drop the watch from one hand to the other. Rescuing it at the last second, nearly slipping over as he tries to make a little more distance between them. “Get out of here! What the fuck man, Jesus Christ! Just ring the bell downstairs if you want service, don’t break into my place!”

[lost-soul-in-time]

Oliver's eyes are glued to the watch as the stranger moves it this way and that during his inspection of quality, itching to take it back, hide it away and keep it from anyone else's prying eyes. That was his watch, made for him, no one else was ever supposed to see it. It's personal, it's–

It's his. It's all he has left of him.

The words have barely left his mouth before the man is whipping himself around in his general direction, face morphed into panic and anger, and Oliver wonders what's gotten him so terrified. He doesn't get the chance to wonder long however, because he's suddenly screaming, which makes Oliver scream, which causes a lamp's lightbulb to burst, which makes Oliver jump back away from it and hit the nearest wall while stepping away, and already he's joining in on the panic.

"I– what is–" Get out? Breaking in? Oliver looks around the room and sees no one else, only Sidney's eyes following his every move. But that... that would be too far of a possibility, wouldn't it? After all these years, all the lives he's seen come and go, it couldn't... could it? "...You– you see me." The words are unsure, as if he's doubting the meaning they hold the entire time. There's so much going on, too much.

[once-minted-made-vinted]

All he’s had for years was the comfort of crowds, a constant buzzing around his head that would lull him to sleep every night. A thousand voices swirling around Sidney, tucking him in and soothing him to sleep. Silence shot right through him, shaking him awake in the middle of the night. Remember what you’ve lost, who will forget you. No one was outside the prison to pick him up, just a taxi dropping him at a halfway house until the lawyers came.

Positioning himself to have the couch and table between them, he slaps around his pockets to find the dinky little phone with a keyboard to try and call for someone. With only two numbers saved in there. “Course I can see you, you absolute maniac! If you wanted to buy something, wait downstairs and ring the bell!” Sidney flinches as glass showers the floor before he starts frantically looking around for Pickles. She’s too tiny, all the glass could kill her. It hasn’t crossed his mind how on earth Oliver’s screaming made it explode.

From behind the spirit, an impossibly small kitten starts circling his feet. She was barely a few months old, part of a rehabilitation program to encourage Sidney’s reintegration into the world. But he left his house even less in fear of losing her. “Look, what did you want?” Swallowing thickly, he carefully tucks the watch into his pocket. Most of this side of the family was a little bit seedy, a little more than upset that he got the place.

[lost-soul-in-time]

This isn't– he's not supposed to– why can he see him?

This isn't supposed to be possible, this stranger should not be able to... Oliver shifts where he stands, glass crunching beneath his feet which makes him stand still and wince at the further damage he's created. What is he supposed to do? How does he even begin to describe the situation he's in without sounding as if he's completely lost his mind?

Okay. He understood that reaction. Still not quite sure how to react, he nearly jumps when he finds a tiny cat at his feet, quietly fussing over it and muttering something about the glass before carefully lifting it to safety. It's poor paws, they could get cut from the glass, or worse! What was he thinking, how could he allow his emotions to get the better of him like this? What kind of impression was he making alright? He probably looked like nothing less than insane–

Right. What does he want. He looks towards him with the cat carefully in his hands, waiting to see if he'll come for her or if he should simply put her down, but even the few seconds of feeling the soft fur is... comforting. Deep breath. "I– I just... that watch. It used to be mine." He has to clear his voice towards the end of his sentence, trying to soothe a parched throat after years of silence.

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Mainly unbothered, Pickles saunters through the glass to stare up at the new man. No one really stayed up here, the occasional builder or Birta from next door. Initially planning on curling up on his shoe, she’s suddenly scooped up and curling up in his hands. She fits nearly perfectly in just one, just her tail hanging over. It must be nap time, she’ll be carried to her bed eventually.

Wringing his hands out, Sidney paces side to side, hands tugging at the roots of his hair. Surely, he can feel his hair greying rapidly beneath his fingers. There hasn’t been a break in yet, but in no uncertain terms has it been implied. Letters under the door, reminding him who got him inside in the first place. Bricks left on his doorstep, warning him the next one will be thrown. Another strange man appearing in the apartment seemed to be the logical conclusion.

“What? Come on, you’ve got to have a better story than that. Guy I bought it from trawls thrift stores and gets whatever don’t sell from the antique stores. You followed him, then followed me?” Nervously eyeing Pickles in the man’s hand, he covers one of his pockets. It was too old, well over a hundred years. It’s not the kind of watch you lose to a thrift store. “Beat it or buy it.”

[lost-soul-in-time]

Aside from the masses of boxes that piled his uncles slightly dilapidated antique shop, there wasn’t much to sell besides whatever filled up the tiny back room and the crammed shelves within the entrance. Sidney was running out of things to sell, surprisingly. And more than a few have been shattered in some way as he tries to navigate the fairly narrow pathways of the shop. After living in a ‘complex’ that had hallways wide enough to accommodate a barbershop quartet and a small group of tap dancers, squeezing past delicate shelves was an adjustment. It’s only been a few months since he got out, but ultimately stayed pretty close to himself. There was Birta, a very enchanting lady at the tea shop next door he’d have a chat with every now and them, and his pen pal Yancy, who’d only just gotten out on parole himself. Pickles was always there, inexplicably tiny and wide eyed all the time.

Hauling out a crate from the back of his truck, he trepidatiously moves over the small step into the shop, careful to keep his elbows tucked in to stop himself from smashing them in the frame (he needs to get Frank to do some work on this place, it’s a death trap some days). Hugging the box to his chest as he walks up the stairs to the apartment, Pickles scurries across the floor and bangs her head against the sofa. Eventually, Sidney manages to get into the living room, still in a state of half packed, balancing the crate on the creaky coffee table. It was a steal, twenty bucks for this box. Little bits of jewelry, novelty souvenirs, and a watch. Ignoring the quiet voice in the back of his head telling him it’s likely stolen, he pulls the watch out from the pile to start examining it.

@once-minted-made-vinted

It's his first time outside of the house when he goes after them and ends up at an unfamiliar thrift shop. It's terrifying.

There's– everything is– the world around him is different. Barely anything he sees is recognizable. The music, the cars, the clothing, the language, the buildings, the technology... he could go on. He saw glimpses of this future he ended up in when residents would move in, but seeing it for himself is just– something else entirely. The thrift shop is the only thing with one or two familiar trinkets and clothing. A wedding dress from the 40s, a ring from the 30s. A theme was evident here. Only his watch broke it.

He watched two women look at the wedding dress and one of them commented how she was going to "wear something like this to our wedding'. The other laughed with a shake of her head and a kiss to her cheek. He watched one man wrap his arms around another from behind and call him 'honey' while the other studied a fine china set.

He looked around. No one reacted to this, to them. Was this what he was robbed of? Normalcy? Peace?

His heart aches at the sight of them and the memory it resurfaces.

He doesn't have time to focus on them for long, not when there was already a man buying his watch along with a boxful of other unknown trinkets. Was that how easy it was to bury history? Something that once meant the world to him was now buried at the bottom of an old box, costing less than what it would have sold for in his time. Unable to do anything more than watch and feel his stomach drop, he follows close behind the man until he reaches their destination. Another shop, seemingly under renovations.

Taking in his surroundings, hands awkwardly trying to find a comfortable spot for themselves, he takes in a deep (unnecessary) breath to calm himself. He’s no longer at his house. He’s out in the new world now. He’s here with… a man he has no information on. A man who has his watch. Instead of focusing on the inevitability of his own panic eventually taking over his senses, he keeps his eyes on his watch.

It doesn’t look new, at least not as new as when he’d gotten it. He stands some feet away from the stranger holding it, hands wringing together nervously as he watches it be maneuvered.

“…Careful.” Oliver mutters to himself as the watch is flipped over, already remembering the traitorous words engraved into the metal.

You’re everything.

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Having his bare fingers touching jewelry is an uncanny sensation, the cool metal and worn leather unfamiliar around his fingers. Sidney remembers the cheap fabric of the gardening gloves sitting through the shattered display cases, the soft inner lining of his pockets as he’d run towards his uncle van and speed off far past the horizon. But he never really touched it with his own hands, just dropped them into a velvet lined box that would later turn into a couple hundred dollars each. All the rest went god knows where, probably any place but Sidney’s pockets. Or near his bail. Or legal fees for that matter. Inheriting the store and the attached apartment was all he had to his name.

Carefully inspecting the watch, slowly turning it in front of his eyes to get a better view of what it might be worth, an engraving catches his eye. You’re everything. It’s rather sweet, an endearing message for someone important. There were a few of those in the prisons library, a half a dozen scuffed romance books filled with corny ideas of adoration. It’s all he saw, so it must’ve been fact.

Someone’s in the apartment with him. Whispering out a thinly veiled threat in two syllables, spooking him enough to drop the watch from one hand to the other. Rescuing it at the last second, nearly slipping over as he tries to make a little more distance between them. “Get out of here! What the fuck man, Jesus Christ! Just ring the bell downstairs if you want service, don’t break into my place!”

[lost-soul-in-time]

Oliver's eyes are glued to the watch as the stranger moves it this way and that during his inspection of quality, itching to take it back, hide it away and keep it from anyone else's prying eyes. That was his watch, made for him, no one else was ever supposed to see it. It's personal, it's–

It's his. It's all he has left of him.

The words have barely left his mouth before the man is whipping himself around in his general direction, face morphed into panic and anger, and Oliver wonders what's gotten him so terrified. He doesn't get the chance to wonder long however, because he's suddenly screaming, which makes Oliver scream, which causes a lamp's lightbulb to burst, which makes Oliver jump back away from it and hit the nearest wall while stepping away, and already he's joining in on the panic.

"I– what is–" Get out? Breaking in? Oliver looks around the room and sees no one else, only Sidney's eyes following his every move. But that... that would be too far of a possibility, wouldn't it? After all these years, all the lives he's seen come and go, it couldn't... could it? "...You– you see me." The words are unsure, as if he's doubting the meaning they hold the entire time. There's so much going on, too much.

[once-minted-made-vinted]

All he’s had for years was the comfort of crowds, a constant buzzing around his head that would lull him to sleep every night. A thousand voices swirling around Sidney, tucking him in and soothing him to sleep. Silence shot right through him, shaking him awake in the middle of the night. Remember what you’ve lost, who will forget you. No one was outside the prison to pick him up, just a taxi dropping him at a halfway house until the lawyers came.

Positioning himself to have the couch and table between them, he slaps around his pockets to find the dinky little phone with a keyboard to try and call for someone. With only two numbers saved in there. “Course I can see you, you absolute maniac! If you wanted to buy something, wait downstairs and ring the bell!” Sidney flinches as glass showers the floor before he starts frantically looking around for Pickles. She’s too tiny, all the glass could kill her. It hasn’t crossed his mind how on earth Oliver’s screaming made it explode.

From behind the spirit, an impossibly small kitten starts circling his feet. She was barely a few months old, part of a rehabilitation program to encourage Sidney’s reintegration into the world. But he left his house even less in fear of losing her. “Look, what did you want?” Swallowing thickly, he carefully tucks the watch into his pocket. Most of this side of the family was a little bit seedy, a little more than upset that he got the place.

[lost-soul-in-time]

Aside from the masses of boxes that piled his uncles slightly dilapidated antique shop, there wasn’t much to sell besides whatever filled up the tiny back room and the crammed shelves within the entrance. Sidney was running out of things to sell, surprisingly. And more than a few have been shattered in some way as he tries to navigate the fairly narrow pathways of the shop. After living in a ‘complex’ that had hallways wide enough to accommodate a barbershop quartet and a small group of tap dancers, squeezing past delicate shelves was an adjustment. It’s only been a few months since he got out, but ultimately stayed pretty close to himself. There was Birta, a very enchanting lady at the tea shop next door he’d have a chat with every now and them, and his pen pal Yancy, who’d only just gotten out on parole himself. Pickles was always there, inexplicably tiny and wide eyed all the time.

Hauling out a crate from the back of his truck, he trepidatiously moves over the small step into the shop, careful to keep his elbows tucked in to stop himself from smashing them in the frame (he needs to get Frank to do some work on this place, it’s a death trap some days). Hugging the box to his chest as he walks up the stairs to the apartment, Pickles scurries across the floor and bangs her head against the sofa. Eventually, Sidney manages to get into the living room, still in a state of half packed, balancing the crate on the creaky coffee table. It was a steal, twenty bucks for this box. Little bits of jewelry, novelty souvenirs, and a watch. Ignoring the quiet voice in the back of his head telling him it’s likely stolen, he pulls the watch out from the pile to start examining it.

@once-minted-made-vinted

It's his first time outside of the house when he goes after them and ends up at an unfamiliar thrift shop. It's terrifying.

There's– everything is– the world around him is different. Barely anything he sees is recognizable. The music, the cars, the clothing, the language, the buildings, the technology... he could go on. He saw glimpses of this future he ended up in when residents would move in, but seeing it for himself is just– something else entirely. The thrift shop is the only thing with one or two familiar trinkets and clothing. A wedding dress from the 40s, a ring from the 30s. A theme was evident here. Only his watch broke it.

He watched two women look at the wedding dress and one of them commented how she was going to "wear something like this to our wedding'. The other laughed with a shake of her head and a kiss to her cheek. He watched one man wrap his arms around another from behind and call him 'honey' while the other studied a fine china set.

He looked around. No one reacted to this, to them. Was this what he was robbed of? Normalcy? Peace?

His heart aches at the sight of them and the memory it resurfaces.

He doesn't have time to focus on them for long, not when there was already a man buying his watch along with a boxful of other unknown trinkets. Was that how easy it was to bury history? Something that once meant the world to him was now buried at the bottom of an old box, costing less than what it would have sold for in his time. Unable to do anything more than watch and feel his stomach drop, he follows close behind the man until he reaches their destination. Another shop, seemingly under renovations.

Taking in his surroundings, hands awkwardly trying to find a comfortable spot for themselves, he takes in a deep (unnecessary) breath to calm himself. He’s no longer at his house. He’s out in the new world now. He’s here with… a man he has no information on. A man who has his watch. Instead of focusing on the inevitability of his own panic eventually taking over his senses, he keeps his eyes on his watch.

It doesn’t look new, at least not as new as when he’d gotten it. He stands some feet away from the stranger holding it, hands wringing together nervously as he watches it be maneuvered.

“…Careful.” Oliver mutters to himself as the watch is flipped over, already remembering the traitorous words engraved into the metal.

You’re everything.

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Having his bare fingers touching jewelry is an uncanny sensation, the cool metal and worn leather unfamiliar around his fingers. Sidney remembers the cheap fabric of the gardening gloves sitting through the shattered display cases, the soft inner lining of his pockets as he’d run towards his uncle van and speed off far past the horizon. But he never really touched it with his own hands, just dropped them into a velvet lined box that would later turn into a couple hundred dollars each. All the rest went god knows where, probably any place but Sidney’s pockets. Or near his bail. Or legal fees for that matter. Inheriting the store and the attached apartment was all he had to his name.

Carefully inspecting the watch, slowly turning it in front of his eyes to get a better view of what it might be worth, an engraving catches his eye. You’re everything. It’s rather sweet, an endearing message for someone important. There were a few of those in the prisons library, a half a dozen scuffed romance books filled with corny ideas of adoration. It’s all he saw, so it must’ve been fact.

Someone’s in the apartment with him. Whispering out a thinly veiled threat in two syllables, spooking him enough to drop the watch from one hand to the other. Rescuing it at the last second, nearly slipping over as he tries to make a little more distance between them. “Get out of here! What the fuck man, Jesus Christ! Just ring the bell downstairs if you want service, don’t break into my place!”

[lost-soul-in-time]

💋

@once-minted-made-vinted

The last few months for Oliver have been... a whirlwind of emotions.

It started with the break in at his summer home. A few kids had snuck into the house looking for anything they could sell, if the frantic, whispered urges to be quiet and their empty hoodie pockets gradually filling with his belongings was any indicator. Oliver hadn't bothered to look at them at first. It wouldn't be the first time someone robbed the house, and in his hunched over position in the corner of the living room floor, he felt too stiff to try and get up to stop them.

They could take anything they wanted. None of it mattered anyway–

Except for his watch. That watch. The one he– and they were taking it–

Suddenly the stiffness found deep in his muscles wasn't stopping him, scrambling to his feet and calling out to the group of kids as they slid out from the window. One of them held his watch in their hand, tapping it and listening to see if it still worked, pointing to the engraving found in the back, and Oliver could only watch. He reached the front door, fully prepared to go after the gradually distancing kids, but then he stopped in his tracks, having to hold the doorframe so he doesn't send himself tumbling from the force of his halt.

He knows what was past the barrier. He knows they could come for him, sooner or later, and that would truly be the end of his soul in the world, and not for the better. But he... he can't just let them go. And what about his house? This has been his home for nearly a century. What did a world outside these four walls have in store for him if he clung to that one artifact?

But it wasn't just anything. It was his watch.

And so he stepped through and followed them.

____________________________________________

The memory of what had occurred distantly plays itself in his mind as he shifts on the couch in Sidney's living room. How odd, how one decision brought him this. It took the poor man quite some time to realize Oliver was real and to stop attempting to convince himself their meeting was all a dream, and Oliver understood the frightened response. If the roles had been reversed, he'd likely react similarly.

But he didn't want to think about the past right now. He'd convinced Sidney to take a break and watch a film with him, though allowed him to choose and play it since Oliver was still relearning certain things over again. In a sweater Sidney had graciously gifted him and both of them sharing a large blanket found among the boxes, Oliver feels that light fluttering of his heart once again, something he'd been trying to ignore but to no avail.

Both of them were rusty on multiple aspects of being out in the world again. Oliver is still a bit awkward in conversations that shouldn't be from having gone years without interaction, Sidney is trying to get back on his feet after his time in prison and become a better person. Maybe that's why Oliver enjoyed his company. He was a good person. He was sweet, gentle, patient with him as he accustomed to his new surroundings and faces. His smile made his chest tighten, and he also wasn't... unpleasant to look at...

What an understatement.

As Oliver turns his head to begin asking a question about the film, he never gets the chance to say the words. Lips are already pressing swiftly against his own.

A hum of surprise leaves him, hands hovering in between them. It had to have been an impulsive decision, because when Sidney's already pulling away far too quickly, he can see the nervousness growing on his face, as if he believes he's done something wrong. "God, I'm– I shouldn't have done that. Can we just forget this happened–?"

While Sidney sputters and attempts to apologize. Something stirs in Oliver's heart, something he believed he would never feel again, not after... but he'd liked it, having him that close and even in his kiss he was gentle, like he was unsure. All these years he'd told himself he didn't deserve anything good, he only corrupted anything that got too close to him. He would only hurt Sidney in the long run... right?

There was really only one way to find out.

Oliver's leaning forward this time to close the distance again.

[noahsresources]

KINKY / ROUGH  SMUT  PROMPTS

CW: VERY NSFW! contains potentially uncomfortable kinks like bondage, cum play, knife play, sensation play, etc. feel free to combine prompts & change pronouns/descriptors as needed. put under a read more for viewing safety, & it’s also rather lengthy as well. written from the perspective of the sender — ‘my muse’ = sender, ‘your muse’ = receiver. !!! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !!!

Keep reading

[roleplayer-memes]

A Collection of My Favorite Nonverbal Prompts: ('my Muse' refers to the one who posted the meme, and 'your muse' refers to the sender)

Your muse raises  a  finger  in  a  gesture  to  silence  my  muse.

Your muse gestures  for  my  muse  to  sit  down.

Your muse taps  my  muse  on  the  shoulder  to  garner  their  attention.

Your muse works  a  brush  /  comb  through  my  muse’s  hair.

Your muse helps  my  muse  put  on  an  article  of  clothing.

Your muse and  my muse make  eye  contact  across  a  busy  room.

Your muse straightens  an  article  of  my muse's  clothes.

Your muse  rolls  their  eyes  at  my muse.

Your muse  hovers  over  my muse’s  shoulder  as  they  complete  a  task.

Your muse finds my muse somewhere  they  shouldn’t  be.

Your muse finds my muse drunk.

Your muse throws an item of  sentiment  bitterly  at  my muse.

Your muse gets caught  following  my muse.

Your muse pulls my muse out  of  harm’s  way.

Your muse buys my muse  a  drink  at  a  bar.

Your muse claps a  hand  over  my muse's mouth  to  silence  them.

Your muse gets caught  snooping  in  my muse's things.

Your muse throws something  aggressively  at  my muse.

Your muse yells  at  my muse to  put  their  hands  in  the  air.

Your muse watches mine while drinking their beverage.

Your muse “accidentally” briefly touches my muse. (example: brief hand touch, knee under the table)

Your muse beckons my muse to follow yours somewhere.

Your muse and mine get assigned as partners for a mission.

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Silly little ask game

Send a ✉️ to receive a pen pal letter from Sidney when he was in prison!

[macabre-divinity]

Something creeps around the store. Crawling over the shelves, tiny paws padding over the jars of various teas. Pickles even stares at her own reflection in the kettle, bumping her head against it a few times before moving around it. Until she realizes she can’t get down from the shelf. After crawling out from a crack in the wall, now she’s stuck on a shelf beside the stairs. She starts to scream.

Sidney keeps checking out the window, which is still bolted shut and the grate pulled over. Her little crib is empty, and now he’s checking loose floorboards in case she’s fallen through.

@once-minted-made-vinted

Birta has noticed something crawling around recently. At first she thinks it's just her imagination, electing to ignore the almost unnoticeable bumping against the teacups — maybe someone's just making a bit of noise in the shop next door, Sidney's shop if she remembers correctly.

Then she hears the feeble screaming of something very small in the quiet of the almost empty shop and suddenly she's very sure it's not just her imagination as she rushes over to the shelf to see what's causing all the noise.

"Oh! Hello there, little one," she says softly to the little thing seemingly trapped on the shelf, carefully scooping her up. "Where'd you come from?"

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Pickles had almost made a comfortable bed in a displayed teacup, bobbing her head around to find a landing spot from the shelf. Screaming continuously until she’s finally rescued, quickly curling up into Birtas hand. A tiny collar clinks around her neck, a little engraved tag that just states “Pickles”. Blinking up at her, placing a paw on her thumb.

Suddenly, she’s not bothered over being in the tea shop and lost. It’s not the first time she’s slipped in here and sniffed around, but she didn’t expect a shelf to trap her.

[macabre-divinity]

Birta doesn't expect for the kitten to curl up in her hand so quickly, given that she's a stranger to her, but she certainly isn't complaining because she's adorable. Birta considers simply keeping the kitten until someone claims her, but then she sees the tag.

"Well hello, Pickles," she says to the kitten with a smile, walking back over to the counter and gently depositing her in a teacup there. "What are you doing so far from home?" Sure it's not that far but Pickles is tiny so it must've felt like quite the odyssey for her.

Just as she thinks about carrying Pickles back to her rightful owner, the bell on the door of the shop rings.

Ah. Well she supposes it'll have to wait until later.

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Completely contented to be carried around, Pickles keeps her paw on her carriers fingers until she’s lowered into her favourite sleeping spot. Cool enough to beat the heat that festered in the flats upstairs, with enough room to curl up in without anything else crawling in. One more scream as she’s lowered in, settling into the cup for a nice nap.

He can feel the grey hairs prickling through his scalp. Lifting up box after box, scattering treats over the floor, emptying laundry baskets over the bed to find her. Sidney keeps checking everywhere, running down into the shop and sifting through more boxes. Such a state he’s whipped into, he doesn’t realize he’s walking around in a terrible pair of shorts and a tshirt he hasn’t seen since high school. Over an hour since Pickles disappeared, he starts checking out the neighbouring shops.

Practically barreling through the door to Birtas shop, panting as he points to the street outside. “Pickle?”

[macabre-divinity]

Well nevermind then.

Birta is a little taken aback when Sidney enters the shop. He's in such a state that she genuinely worries for his wellbeing for a moment, almost forgetting that she has his cat. "Sidney–?"

It's only when he asks that she realises why he's in such a state in the first. "She's right here, don't worry." She points to the teacup on the counter before getting up to gingerly guide Sidney to sit down. "She's asleep, just take a moment to breathe, dear."

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Red faced and teary eyed, Sidney is on the cusp of another breakdown. Each breath ragged and wheezy, trying to explain what Pickles looks like with a game of charades led by a man being electrocuted with every movement. He lets himself be moved onto the chair, blubbering about Pickles and how he can’t find her.

“I don’t, god I don’t know where she went-“ he cries, doubling over on the chair and trying to stop himself from actually crying in front of her.

[macabre-divinity]

As carefully as possible, as not to wake her, Birta scoops Pickles out of the teacup she'd been sleeping in. Then she sits down across from Sidney.

"Sidney, dear, look," she says softly, gently holding one of his hands with her free hand. "She's here, okay? Perfectly alright."

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Sidney is almost in floods of tears, sniffling loudly as he forces himself to imagine where she might be. Lost out in the streets, shivering in the cold, slipping into a storm drain and gone forever. Squeezing her hand tightly as he sobs, gasping for air. Until she finally presents Pickles, fast asleep in the palm of her hand.

“My baby! God…where did you find her?” Clutching at her hand, quickly attempting to clean up his face with his shoulder.

[macabre-divinity]

"She was walking along one of the shelves over there — I've no idea how she got there," Birta explains, gently squeezing Sidney's hand. "I was about to bring her back to you when you walked in."

She's glad he begins to calm down — it'd been rather saddening to see him so beside himself. She's also glad that Pickles was safely in her shop instead of lost outside somewhere.

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Besides Birta, his little baby kitten was the only source of daily interaction that he had. Something he could protect, a purely good thing that he had in his life. Sniffling and covering his eyes, hoping that he can compose himself and recover his image with his only proper friend. “I’m so sorry, that’s just embarrassing…” he apologizes, looking down at Pickles curled up in her hand.

“Thank you, I’ve been worried sick over her for the last hour. She’s just…she’s a lot to me.”

[macabre-divinity]

Something creeps around the store. Crawling over the shelves, tiny paws padding over the jars of various teas. Pickles even stares at her own reflection in the kettle, bumping her head against it a few times before moving around it. Until she realizes she can’t get down from the shelf. After crawling out from a crack in the wall, now she’s stuck on a shelf beside the stairs. She starts to scream.

Sidney keeps checking out the window, which is still bolted shut and the grate pulled over. Her little crib is empty, and now he’s checking loose floorboards in case she’s fallen through.

@once-minted-made-vinted

Birta has noticed something crawling around recently. At first she thinks it's just her imagination, electing to ignore the almost unnoticeable bumping against the teacups — maybe someone's just making a bit of noise in the shop next door, Sidney's shop if she remembers correctly.

Then she hears the feeble screaming of something very small in the quiet of the almost empty shop and suddenly she's very sure it's not just her imagination as she rushes over to the shelf to see what's causing all the noise.

"Oh! Hello there, little one," she says softly to the little thing seemingly trapped on the shelf, carefully scooping her up. "Where'd you come from?"

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Pickles had almost made a comfortable bed in a displayed teacup, bobbing her head around to find a landing spot from the shelf. Screaming continuously until she’s finally rescued, quickly curling up into Birtas hand. A tiny collar clinks around her neck, a little engraved tag that just states “Pickles”. Blinking up at her, placing a paw on her thumb.

Suddenly, she’s not bothered over being in the tea shop and lost. It’s not the first time she’s slipped in here and sniffed around, but she didn’t expect a shelf to trap her.

[macabre-divinity]

Birta doesn't expect for the kitten to curl up in her hand so quickly, given that she's a stranger to her, but she certainly isn't complaining because she's adorable. Birta considers simply keeping the kitten until someone claims her, but then she sees the tag.

"Well hello, Pickles," she says to the kitten with a smile, walking back over to the counter and gently depositing her in a teacup there. "What are you doing so far from home?" Sure it's not that far but Pickles is tiny so it must've felt like quite the odyssey for her.

Just as she thinks about carrying Pickles back to her rightful owner, the bell on the door of the shop rings.

Ah. Well she supposes it'll have to wait until later.

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Completely contented to be carried around, Pickles keeps her paw on her carriers fingers until she’s lowered into her favourite sleeping spot. Cool enough to beat the heat that festered in the flats upstairs, with enough room to curl up in without anything else crawling in. One more scream as she’s lowered in, settling into the cup for a nice nap.

He can feel the grey hairs prickling through his scalp. Lifting up box after box, scattering treats over the floor, emptying laundry baskets over the bed to find her. Sidney keeps checking everywhere, running down into the shop and sifting through more boxes. Such a state he’s whipped into, he doesn’t realize he’s walking around in a terrible pair of shorts and a tshirt he hasn’t seen since high school. Over an hour since Pickles disappeared, he starts checking out the neighbouring shops.

Practically barreling through the door to Birtas shop, panting as he points to the street outside. “Pickle?”

[macabre-divinity]

Well nevermind then.

Birta is a little taken aback when Sidney enters the shop. He's in such a state that she genuinely worries for his wellbeing for a moment, almost forgetting that she has his cat. "Sidney–?"

It's only when he asks that she realises why he's in such a state in the first. "She's right here, don't worry." She points to the teacup on the counter before getting up to gingerly guide Sidney to sit down. "She's asleep, just take a moment to breathe, dear."

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Red faced and teary eyed, Sidney is on the cusp of another breakdown. Each breath ragged and wheezy, trying to explain what Pickles looks like with a game of charades led by a man being electrocuted with every movement. He lets himself be moved onto the chair, blubbering about Pickles and how he can’t find her.

“I don’t, god I don’t know where she went-“ he cries, doubling over on the chair and trying to stop himself from actually crying in front of her.

[macabre-divinity]

As carefully as possible, as not to wake her, Birta scoops Pickles out of the teacup she'd been sleeping in. Then she sits down across from Sidney.

"Sidney, dear, look," she says softly, gently holding one of his hands with her free hand. "She's here, okay? Perfectly alright."

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Sidney is almost in floods of tears, sniffling loudly as he forces himself to imagine where she might be. Lost out in the streets, shivering in the cold, slipping into a storm drain and gone forever. Squeezing her hand tightly as he sobs, gasping for air. Until she finally presents Pickles, fast asleep in the palm of her hand.

“My baby! God…where did you find her?” Clutching at her hand, quickly attempting to clean up his face with his shoulder.

[macabre-divinity]

Something creeps around the store. Crawling over the shelves, tiny paws padding over the jars of various teas. Pickles even stares at her own reflection in the kettle, bumping her head against it a few times before moving around it. Until she realizes she can’t get down from the shelf. After crawling out from a crack in the wall, now she’s stuck on a shelf beside the stairs. She starts to scream.

Sidney keeps checking out the window, which is still bolted shut and the grate pulled over. Her little crib is empty, and now he’s checking loose floorboards in case she’s fallen through.

@once-minted-made-vinted

Birta has noticed something crawling around recently. At first she thinks it's just her imagination, electing to ignore the almost unnoticeable bumping against the teacups — maybe someone's just making a bit of noise in the shop next door, Sidney's shop if she remembers correctly.

Then she hears the feeble screaming of something very small in the quiet of the almost empty shop and suddenly she's very sure it's not just her imagination as she rushes over to the shelf to see what's causing all the noise.

"Oh! Hello there, little one," she says softly to the little thing seemingly trapped on the shelf, carefully scooping her up. "Where'd you come from?"

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Pickles had almost made a comfortable bed in a displayed teacup, bobbing her head around to find a landing spot from the shelf. Screaming continuously until she’s finally rescued, quickly curling up into Birtas hand. A tiny collar clinks around her neck, a little engraved tag that just states “Pickles”. Blinking up at her, placing a paw on her thumb.

Suddenly, she’s not bothered over being in the tea shop and lost. It’s not the first time she’s slipped in here and sniffed around, but she didn’t expect a shelf to trap her.

[macabre-divinity]

Birta doesn't expect for the kitten to curl up in her hand so quickly, given that she's a stranger to her, but she certainly isn't complaining because she's adorable. Birta considers simply keeping the kitten until someone claims her, but then she sees the tag.

"Well hello, Pickles," she says to the kitten with a smile, walking back over to the counter and gently depositing her in a teacup there. "What are you doing so far from home?" Sure it's not that far but Pickles is tiny so it must've felt like quite the odyssey for her.

Just as she thinks about carrying Pickles back to her rightful owner, the bell on the door of the shop rings.

Ah. Well she supposes it'll have to wait until later.

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Completely contented to be carried around, Pickles keeps her paw on her carriers fingers until she’s lowered into her favourite sleeping spot. Cool enough to beat the heat that festered in the flats upstairs, with enough room to curl up in without anything else crawling in. One more scream as she’s lowered in, settling into the cup for a nice nap.

He can feel the grey hairs prickling through his scalp. Lifting up box after box, scattering treats over the floor, emptying laundry baskets over the bed to find her. Sidney keeps checking everywhere, running down into the shop and sifting through more boxes. Such a state he’s whipped into, he doesn’t realize he’s walking around in a terrible pair of shorts and a tshirt he hasn’t seen since high school. Over an hour since Pickles disappeared, he starts checking out the neighbouring shops.

Practically barreling through the door to Birtas shop, panting as he points to the street outside. “Pickle?”

[macabre-divinity]

Well nevermind then.

Birta is a little taken aback when Sidney enters the shop. He's in such a state that she genuinely worries for his wellbeing for a moment, almost forgetting that she has his cat. "Sidney–?"

It's only when he asks that she realises why he's in such a state in the first. "She's right here, don't worry." She points to the teacup on the counter before getting up to gingerly guide Sidney to sit down. "She's asleep, just take a moment to breathe, dear."

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Red faced and teary eyed, Sidney is on the cusp of another breakdown. Each breath ragged and wheezy, trying to explain what Pickles looks like with a game of charades led by a man being electrocuted with every movement. He lets himself be moved onto the chair, blubbering about Pickles and how he can’t find her.

“I don’t, god I don’t know where she went-“ he cries, doubling over on the chair and trying to stop himself from actually crying in front of her.

[macabre-divinity]

Something creeps around the store. Crawling over the shelves, tiny paws padding over the jars of various teas. Pickles even stares at her own reflection in the kettle, bumping her head against it a few times before moving around it. Until she realizes she can’t get down from the shelf. After crawling out from a crack in the wall, now she’s stuck on a shelf beside the stairs. She starts to scream.

Sidney keeps checking out the window, which is still bolted shut and the grate pulled over. Her little crib is empty, and now he’s checking loose floorboards in case she’s fallen through.

@once-minted-made-vinted

Birta has noticed something crawling around recently. At first she thinks it's just her imagination, electing to ignore the almost unnoticeable bumping against the teacups — maybe someone's just making a bit of noise in the shop next door, Sidney's shop if she remembers correctly.

Then she hears the feeble screaming of something very small in the quiet of the almost empty shop and suddenly she's very sure it's not just her imagination as she rushes over to the shelf to see what's causing all the noise.

"Oh! Hello there, little one," she says softly to the little thing seemingly trapped on the shelf, carefully scooping her up. "Where'd you come from?"

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Pickles had almost made a comfortable bed in a displayed teacup, bobbing her head around to find a landing spot from the shelf. Screaming continuously until she’s finally rescued, quickly curling up into Birtas hand. A tiny collar clinks around her neck, a little engraved tag that just states “Pickles”. Blinking up at her, placing a paw on her thumb.

Suddenly, she’s not bothered over being in the tea shop and lost. It’s not the first time she’s slipped in here and sniffed around, but she didn’t expect a shelf to trap her.

[macabre-divinity]

Birta doesn't expect for the kitten to curl up in her hand so quickly, given that she's a stranger to her, but she certainly isn't complaining because she's adorable. Birta considers simply keeping the kitten until someone claims her, but then she sees the tag.

"Well hello, Pickles," she says to the kitten with a smile, walking back over to the counter and gently depositing her in a teacup there. "What are you doing so far from home?" Sure it's not that far but Pickles is tiny so it must've felt like quite the odyssey for her.

Just as she thinks about carrying Pickles back to her rightful owner, the bell on the door of the shop rings.

Ah. Well she supposes it'll have to wait until later.

[once-minted-made-vinted]

Completely contented to be carried around, Pickles keeps her paw on her carriers fingers until she’s lowered into her favourite sleeping spot. Cool enough to beat the heat that festered in the flats upstairs, with enough room to curl up in without anything else crawling in. One more scream as she’s lowered in, settling into the cup for a nice nap.

He can feel the grey hairs prickling through his scalp. Lifting up box after box, scattering treats over the floor, emptying laundry baskets over the bed to find her. Sidney keeps checking everywhere, running down into the shop and sifting through more boxes. Such a state he’s whipped into, he doesn’t realize he’s walking around in a terrible pair of shorts and a tshirt he hasn’t seen since high school. Over an hour since Pickles disappeared, he starts checking out the neighbouring shops.

Practically barreling through the door to Birtas shop, panting as he points to the street outside. “Pickle?”