#ugh u

[compariisonkills]

Last night went from being so amazing to so absolutely twisted, back to extremely amazing in the matter of seconds. My mouth still hurts from smiling.

[seatsbythepit]

Per ;)

i think we all know the answer lbr but

look

at

this

tall ass motherfucker 

he fucking knows he's hot shit. don't let the goofy smile and the cuteness fool you.

tl;dr: sex

[boyishvodka]

I really wanna do her right and it doesn’t matter We’ve got all the shine we need to find

[gwynethkpaltrows]

Harper's Bazaar UK February 2015

"I think we are a generation of women who are different in a lot of respects, and some of us want to be ambitious, and for it not to be a dirty word. We want to be feminine and soft, we want to be maternal, we want to be sexual, we want to be explorers - and we can be a combination of these archetypes. You can be powerful, but you can also be vulnerable."

[agrondi]

[gargleteeth]

       -- Don't touch the bike. 

[croyezmxi]

{ ALL THE TEXT MEMES. ALL OF THEM. Or I replace all your food with sandwiches. }

{you’re a lil shit, you know that?}

Send ✆ for a morning text

[txt; Best Bitch]: Good morning, sunshine!  I know it’s only 6 a.m. but…be ready in half an hour.  I have a craving for waffles and you’re coming to get some with me.

Send ✉ for a text that wasn’t sent

[txt; Best Bitch]: You know, when you do shit like almost die and not tell me about it, I kind of want to punch you in the face.  Or aggressively make out with you.

[ woah, where did that come from?  cue frantic backspacing. ]

Send ☎ for a rushed text

[txt; Best Bitch]: something happening in the city.  involves umbrella.  people attackign each other. r u safe???

Send ☏ for a loving text

[txt; Best Bitch]: I heard what happened today.  Oh god, I’m so glad you’re okay.  I know I give you shit all the time but you’re my best friend.  I can’t lose you, Alice.

Send ⁇ for a drunk text

[txt; Best Bitch]: yayyyyyy tequila is fun.  stripping is funn 2.  let’s get a stripper pole!!!

Send ø for a late night text

[txt; Best Bitch]: Are you awake?  I’m about to sound really stupid, but I had an awful nightmare.  Um, can I call you?

Send ✘ for a hateful text

[txt; Best Bitch]: I can’t believe you ate all of the pizza without me.  You’re a fucking bitch, Abernathy.

[vinnie2757]

hetamentary, continuation where Alfred rescues the boy

Alfred has a black eye when they arrive in London, they being Alfred and Arthur, who refuses to let the pale man escape this time. He makes a few phone calls the moment they land at Heathrow, and there is a car waiting for them outside with a briefcase in the backseat containing a Browning and a fresh clip of ammo.

Though Alfred asks just who Arthur had talked to, he doesn't get a response, the doctor getting into the drivers seat and informing Alfred that if he didn't get in the car he would not be waiting for him.

'You aren't supposed to drive on Fleet Street,' Alfred tells his friend, but Arthur tells him to shut the fuck up and skids the car around a corner, frightening the pedestrians. The gun is shoved down the back of his trousers, and his jacket barely hides it when he gets out of the car and storms to the stairs leading to the back of 173.

Alfred follows, because Arthur is a doctor, not a murderer, and Marie had asked him to save her son and keep her husband out of jail. They are both exhausted, having been awake the entire flight, but Arthur has slipped out of this cushy, civilian mindset and into the army doctor once more, adrenaline like fire in his veins.

The warehouse looks like an even bigger mess than it had the last time they'd seen it. More pipes are exposed, more stains where bodies had once been, girls and boys and animals, and Arthur gives no indication of being able to smell the stench in the air, even as Alfred covers his nose and mouth with a sleeve. They pace about the room for a few minutes, examining things, looking at the changes. Alfred is investigating, Arthur is biding his time.

Peter is not in the room, and Alfred deduces that he has never been in the room, though Arthur doesn't believe him; where else is there for him to be?

'Why would we have been called here if he wasn't here?' Arthur snarls, and then adds, 'it's a fucking game. He's not in England at all. He can't be.'

Applause from the doorway, and the Browning is in Arthur's hand, cocked and aimed, and there is a gun pointing back at him.

'The pale man,' he snarls, and Alfred grabs the back of his jacket.

'Is that what she calls me?' the pale man laughs, and straightens his suit. 'Well, I must say, that is a compliment. I do try to be as pale as possible. It was so difficult to stay pasty in the Afghan, eh, Doctor?'

Alfred watches them, watches the total stillness of Arthur's hand as he holds the sight between the pale man's eyes.

'Where is my son.'

Still aiming his Makarov, the pale man waggles a finger with his free hand, a tut-tut-tut gesture that makes Arthur's lip curl.

'Where's my please, Doc? You should have better manners, you were always so proud of being English.'

The Doctor's fist clenches, his neck cracks, but he doesn't move, doesn't even breathe.

'My son,' he repeats. 'Tell me where he is, or I will shoot you, deserter.'

'Such a marksman!' the pale man crows, and does a little jig, as though Arthur's threat means nothing to him. It mustn't, Alfred thinks, it wouldn't. The man was clearly insane. 'You were always so proud of your aim, weren't you? If you weren't shooting a gun, you had a needle in a vein without even a tourniquet. One of the best marksmen in the British army, you were, but you were a better doctor. I wonder, could you still be that doctor? Could you save your son the way you saved us?'

Alfred glances at Arthur, at the shrapnel scars just barely poking over his collar, the ones he had never discussed.

'Tell me where my son is.'

The pale man sighs and runs a hand through his hair. 'Arthur,' he whines, dropping his Makarov to dangle as his side, 'you've grown so boring.'

Arthur shoots him in the arm, a grazing blow, enough to get blood but not damage. The pale man seems shocked, but Arthur is moving, pistol forgotten in favour of fists, slamming him into the wall and bashing his head off the pipes.

'My son,' he snarls, nose-to-nose, but gets shoved back.

Alfred decides it best to let Arthur handle this, and disappears through the doorway to further investigate.

He finds Pete in a dog cage hidden under a blue tarpaulin, some lightweight thing stolen from an industrial estate.

'Pete,' he sighs when he throws it back and sees the boy there.

The cage is locked, but Alfred pries it open with a pipe, and gathers the equally-eager Pete into his arms, feeling him for injury. Other than a little hungry and over-tired, the boy seems to be fine. Just needs his mama and dad, that's all. Alfred sits there for a while with Pete in his lap, pressing the boy's face into his neck.

'Where's dad?' Pete murmurs once, 'I heard him.'

'He's punching the pale man,' Alfred tells him, 'he hurt you, so your dad is hurting him. I thought I'd better let him.'

Pete seems fine with that, and settles down in Alfred's lap until Arthur appears bloodied and bruised in the doorway, one of the sleeves of his jacket torn.

'My boy, he breathes, and Pete rushes to his dad, almost knocks him off his feet. Arthur sobs into his hair, knelt in front of his son and holding him so tight.

By the time they leave the side-room, the pale man is gone, but as Arthur collects his gun and stashes it away, he decides that he doesn't care.

He's got his son back, that's what mattters.