.. numb

[cillian mcallister]

Cillian felt tranquility as a rainfall of water spilled onto his face, wakening his tight and drowsy mind, injecting a liveliness in him. For a moment there was silence, liquid meeting solid made no sound in that quarter of a minute, his skin numb and typhlotic. Suddenly, his spine tightened, and goosebumps crawled along the region of his body, he was registering the frozen water and not quite agreeing with it. Snapping back into existence, the twenty-three year old grabbed the silver shower faucet and pulled it toward the red zone. The cold transitioned into warm, an even pressure falling upon him, normalizing. Cillian squirted whatever shampoo shit (Reneken, whale lard, seriously, what the fuck?) Atlas brought onto his hand, and worked it into his dark nappy hair, spuds taking over hair like a judge wig. Quickly rinsing off his short stand, and lathering a bar of soap over the base of his body, he made a swift exit from his 'oasis'. With a cold shower and the oncoming arrival of breakfast via room service, he almost forgot his hangover. But then there it was, kneading at his brain, causing his body to feel a million pounds heavier. Evidence of a good night was strewn all over room 201, and as he pulled on his boxers he surveyed the damage. Clothes tossed every direction, a pair of his company's lacy panties comically discarded on a lampshade. One, two, three, seven, thirteen... he lost count of the beer bottles. Wrappers lay abroad, a half eaten Mars bar atop the oak bedside table. Clearly one of them had late night munchies, though he was probably more the culprit of raiding the five dollar chocolate bars than she was. Wine was spilled, the white carpet stained.. who the fuck drank wine? He'd end up paying for that, he was positive. And then the biggest mess in the room, Atlas, buried under a mountain of blankets, her nest of blonde hair barely visible under the white. A big toothy grin spread clear across his face, feet dodging the articles and finding her iphone on the floor nearby. A girl so notorious for documenting every event, one to more appreciate a photo than the actual moment, he figured she show him unfathomable love for documenting what was clearly her best moment. His fingers tapping the screen to focus, scrolling to an appropriate filter, and click, there it was, Atlas on instagram in all her glory. Pitching her phone in her messy bag of luggage, he quickly fluffed his hair with a hotel towel and reclaimed his spot in bed. Hands slowly explored her soft curves, pulling her gently against his shape, lips pressing against the nape of her neck. “Morning Princess,” Cillian gently stroked her hipbone, teeth tenderly gliding from her honey toned neck to her shoulder. “Time to wake the fuck up,”he spoke suddenly with enthusiasm, fingers pinching was little of a stomach she had, his gentle violence an attempt at encouragement. Notes: dis sux Wearing: boxers. Listening: the killing Tagged atlas leblanc

[atlas leblanc]

How could it already be morning? Atlas wondered in a sleepy haze. In and out of sleep cycles, each one interrupted by Cillian seemingly up and about. Ruffling through suitcases, slamming doors, the shower, not bothering to tiptoe and let her gather more than a few minutes of peaceful sleep. Next question, why couldn’t he just sleep? Over the past few weeks she’d almost grown used to it. Cillian preferred his mornings to be at least somewhat productive, and she was okay with letting her day begin anywhere after the hour of noon. Usually she’d compromise, but not this morning. He proved nearly intolerable. She was jetlagged, sunburnt, exhausted, even. And every other dramatic excuse there could possibly be, Atlas was obviously that too. She twisted and turned; burying herself beneath the fine sheets, head nestling between the mattress and ridiculously firm pillow. Ten minutes later, and still she lay there half awake in her self-made nook. The Spanish sun shined dimly through the curtains, meeting her drowsy blue eyes, she’d never fall back asleep.

That was her last waking thought, anyway.

It wasn’t long before she was abruptly awoken from her state of slumber yet again. For a moment there, everything felt unfamiliar, sans the boy by her side, forgetting where she was or what she had done the night before. The lack of recollections was the least of her concerns, though. His touch got the best of her, conjuring a set of shivers up and down her spine, and she inched over to fill the gap between them. “Noooo it’s not,” she groaned between the kisses at her neck, which she relished. Slightly skeletal fingertips nestled through his hair, and she pulled a bare leg over his. “Five more minutes…” pleas rattled off from her plump lips, faux pouting and puppy dog eyes alike, laying it all on him. But he remained firm, no after no, shaking his head at her begging, unwilling to give in. Not that she could blame him. If she were being honest, they hadn’t come to Spain to lie in bed all day and night… but she wasn’t about to be honest. Not a chance. Especially as the more awake and aware she became, the more she realized the pounding at her temples and the dryness of her mouth. A quick glance around the room was enough to validate her symptoms.

“Fine, ” she sighed, dramatically pulling from his touch, pulling the Egyptian cotton sheets off with her, wrapping them around her body. Heavy feet trudged to the bathroom, where she ignored her reflection in the mirror, instead opting to splash cold water at her face. It wasn’t instantly refreshing, but it helped. “Remind me not to travel with you.. ” she began to say from the bathroom, searching for her toothbrush beneath the array of shit all over the place. Finally locating it, and working away to rid the stale leftover alcohol she swore she could still taste. “.. ever again! ” She finished, poking her head from the bathroom, tooth brush still in her mouth, glaring at him from afar, only to be interrupted by a pound at the door, ‘room service’, and him nodding at it as if she were going to get it. “I have no clothes on, no. Go! ”

OUTFIT just a sheet, obvi~
MUSIC bear’s den playlist, be proudd
NOTES compass rose is stupid. but<3333

[cillian mcallister]

The brunet buried his face in her hair, the sweet smell of coconut shampoo and hair spray now familiar in the base of his nostrils. Atlas' body tensed against his, her skin prickling with goosebumps and limbs fidgeting as she awoke. Cillian's muscular arms wrapped around her thin frame holding her briefly, but tightly. Still she struggled, flailing like a bird in water, her head burying deep within the down-filled pillow. Slightly irritated, his head repeatedly thundering, he pushed himself upward to hover above her. Smirking like an asshole, stroking a stand of that golden hair from her face, the boy stole a quick kiss from her lush lips. “Nah, get the fuck up,” Dramatic, as always. Pale covers swiped from his body, leaving his stark with only a black pair of boxer shorts, Cillian couldn't help but let out a laugh at her show. Sashaying out of the bed like some sort of prize poodle, glaring at him as though he was the spawn of satan. “It's eleven-o-fucking-clock,” he began, voice becoming all the more annoyed as he went on, lifting himself from the mattress, “and that's New York time.” Sighing heavily and surveying the mess around him, his mind trying to estimate the time the two of them left the bar to start the party in their hotel room. His shadow moved around the room, fingers grabbing at beer bottles, some empty some only half empty, he tossed them into the recycling bin. “Look though,” speaking as he pulls a beer from the mini fridge, and cracks it open, a satisfying hiss escaping from it's lid. “If you want to waste your vacation, by all means, crawl back into bed,” Cillian took a sip, gesturing to the unmade bed. A knock on the door broke tore his gaze away, but only for a moment, cocking his head to look at the girl challengingly, near glaring at her when she told him to answer the door. In the hallway, stood a tanned woman, and a lorry full of food. “Hola,” he winked at her, his thick accent sounding ridiculous as it tumbled from his lips. Reaching into his pockets... oh wait, fuck, still half dressed. His eyes darted around for last night's jeans, hands digging for his wallet upon finding them. “Sorry.. merci though, thanks,” swiping a hand through his short hair, he handed her a couple bills as a tip. “Seriously,” he snatched a bagel from a basket, taking a bite from it, giving the woman another wink and closing the door behind her. Lifting his beer, taking a swig of it and settling back down on the seat of the bed, he turned to Atlas, still staring at her reflection, likely taking in the 'horrors' of the previous night. “What do you think about Comedy Central?” he gestured with his bagel thoughtfully, quickly distracted by poking and prodding at herself. “You look fucking fine, great.. more than fine,” this.. was flattery, “Atty babe, get here.” Cillian nodded her over, bagel waving toward the array of food. Notes: worst thing i've ever written. Wearing: boxers. Listening: still.. the killing

[atlas leblanc]

It was a lie, a complete and utter lie, the whole refusing to travel with Cillian bit. Twenty days of dating purposes or not, she was more than glad it was him who was with her, despite him never failing to wake her up against her will in the mornings. She rolled her eyes at his own personal dramatics, eleven o’clock New York time – as if – and placed the toothbrush in its rightful travel case. Any efforts to clear this mess. “It’s eleven-o-fucking-clock,” she imitated under her breath, her best go at a British accent, still extremely pitiful. “We musn’t miss out on this bloody beautiful day!” Mockery still in full force, and she rooted through the remaining mess, locating her cleanser and squirting some in her hands, holding the sheet up to the best of her ability. Lathering and rinsing, patting her face dry and lotioning up as he offered her the option of getting back into bed.

If only she weren’t already feeling awake and excited for the day ahead. “Nope, I’m over it, today we’re going to…” she pondered, attempting to organize the countertop. “Go get couples massages on the beach!” A bit of an ah-hah moment. “And I’ll find my spainard to document it; the readers would be totally into that kind of shit. Then the rest of the day is on you,” she smirked at her company, who was handling the room service. Her petite frame rested against the doorway as she watched him, minding less that she looked like a potential prostitute in the presence of the female help. A laugh escaping her lips at him in his hung over state, and the three different languages he spoke to the poor girl in, a quick shake of her bedhead and back in the mirror she found herself.

Staring at her reflection, in the least vain way possible, at least until she noted that any bit of bronze made all the difference sometimes. “Ugh,]” she spoke to herself, fingertips twisting the ends of her hair as she stepped away from the mirror. “If anything looks better right now, it’s this room.. and that is not saying much,” she said matter-of-factly as she made her way over the countless articles of scattered clothing and mess surrounding them. Her suitcases weren’t any better; though that was a given considering the unnecessary amount of clothing she felt the need to bring along. And despite that inane amount, there was nothing she felt like putting on, discarding option after option. “What’d you ask though? Thoughts on Comedy Central?” She asked him empty mindedly, tossing the sheet to the bed and throwing a t-shirt she couldn’t care less about over her head. “Hm.. ” Actively giving thought to his question as she reached for a croissant from the tray before them, plopping back down on the bed. “I don’t know, I don’t really think about Comedy Central. At all.” She shrugged, pulling apart the croissant layer by layer. “But if I did, I’d think it was the same as that Anchorman movie, you know? Not really very funny!” A smug smile played across her features, her thumb whipping away at the crumbs at his upper lip. “Whyyyy? It’s like, what do you think of.. Lifetime?” She retaliated, unsure as to the point of his question.

OUTFIT clothes.
MUSIC a whole lottaaaa shit.
NOTES terrible. judge me.

[cillian mcallister]

He hadn't anticipated these events to pan out the way they had, in his head there had been no possibility of he and Atlas. Earlier in the year, when he held the hips of the sultry blonde and danced across the sticky dance floor of a downtown club, the present of today didn't exist in his drunken mind. Things had changed, and he was slowly beginning to allow them to. A month ago Cillian had been able to talk freely about how tight she was, or picking apart her figure with his friends like a dog chewing a bone. But now it felt vulgar, the words left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he was unable to share. It was too personal, too close to home. And that was the main change, how personal she had become to him, how seeing her daily was as second nature as waking up. It was comedic in a sense how she had crept up, stealing a vacancy that he hadn't known had existed. Humorous, and it scared the shit out of him. Typically, Cillian would react to the idea of some burly man oiling and rubbing his shoulders with the look of disgust, and a near painful groan. He left the latter out, his face shriveling up into a scowl, but becoming submissive. “Fine,” he reluctantly agreed. Truth be told, his sore body and pounding head were zealous, but he had too much of a 'straight-stereotype' to be completely compliant to the idea. He didn't give much thought on her prompt, blurting candidly the first thing that came to mind. “Scuba-diving,” he spat out too quickly, biting his tongue after he spoke, it felt like there was someone drilling his temple. A hand massaged the side of his cramped head, the beer in the other adding a second comfort. “Second thought, scuba-diving tomorrow, let's just take it easy on the beach.” Even if they had spent the majority of their trip basking in the Spanish sun, with a hangover like this crashing into waves with full gear on was the last thing he wanted to do. As he glanced up at her, there was a new adoration in his eyes, a thin smile on his tan face. His free hand reaching to grab at her back-end while she pulled a shirt over her head, her grinned as she swiped his hand away and told him off with a look. “Lifetime..” he trailed off, giving a puzzled look as he genuinely considered the channel, but having a difficult time pinpointing it, “no idea.” Teeth tore a bit of the bagel, bread dry and crumbling in his mouth, butter would have been an idea. He collected his thoughts, unsure of what her reaction would be, or even if she'd have a reaction. “Anyway, unimportant, but they offered me a job,” he considered going on, guzzling his beer, still sitting ridiculously on the bed in his boxers. “I once did acid with Matt Stone when I went to UCLA,” he casually name-dropped, as if it would spur recognition in her ears. “Fucking great guy.. anyway, he offered me a job with South Park,” his hand threaded through hers absentmindedly, his voice monotone in the statement that followed, “yea, think I'll take it!” Notes: beat my last post by one word. oh yeaaaaa. Wearing: boxers. Listening: ..... trailer park boys. gives me cillian muse, k.