#His aunt is like hm...I approve of the pale one

[softquietsteadylove]

Hiiii 🦜

So I had this idea for the ice queen/tyrant king au! How about he got everything ready for the proposal (location, the words all that) he is in the middle of his speech when he gets interrupted just seconds before he popped the question, so he tries again but the same thing happens and he thinks that the mood is ruined and doesn't propose.

Gil felt a chill in the air as soon as he walked into Thena's office. He gulped, staring down two of the women he was most afraid of angering in the world. He buttoned his suit jacket, "Imo."

The short, grey haired woman glowered at him. She barked, "hello, Disappointment."

"Okay," Gil sighed heavily, dropping the veil of respecting his elders pretty quickly. She looked appalled, but he walked past her towards Thena at her desk. "You okay?"

"Of course," Thena smiled, although he could see on her face that she hadn't exactly been having a friendly chat with his aunt. "We have been discussing...business."

"Like what?" Gil grumbled. Why today? Why today of all days?

The ring box in his pocket felt like it weighed a ton.

His aunt seated herself on Thena's meeting couch, situating her jeogori just so around her. She glared at the two of them, "sit."

Gil frowned, but Thena rose from her office chair to indulge the woman. He looked at her, reaching towards her but not making contact, "you sure, Ice?"

She gave him a smile, which he took as a yes, following her to sit across from the esteemed head of his family. He sat beside Thena stiffly, both of them reserved in posture and seated an appropriate distance apart.

"I came to see what you've been doing," his aunt began again in English, although she had a way of making it sound like the entire language was beneath her. "Fooling around here."

Gil frowned, "and what does that mean?"

"After burning our alliance with the little heiress' family," his aunt huffed. Although, it was a little funny to think that even those considered her allies had taken up the mocking nickname for her. "We expected you to return home to make amends and repair some of your family's reputation."

Thena snuck just her eyes over to look at him.

But Gil just shrugged, no remorse - and barely any respect - to it. "And I told you that expecting me to marry the little heiress was always out of line. I have my own business here, and I am too old for you to be ordering around like a child."

"You are a child" the woman snapped at him again, only her age and experience allowing her to snarl at a grown and middle aged man--a gang leader, at that. "You are my sister's child."

Thena looked at Gil more openly this time, watching to see him react. He was only becoming more frustrated, and she could understand why. But he was probably about two carefully chosen words away from getting completely excommunicated from his family ties.

"Ungrateful," his aunt slapped another singular word onto him to label everything that had happened in the past year-and-some of their lives.

"I don't-" Gil paused as Thena put a hand on his arm, which he just now noticed he had crossed stubbornly.

"I understand," she said to the woman gently, although his aunt looked disgusted to be addressed directly by Thena at all. "But Gil is right. He does not need your assistance in his life or his business here."

His aunt took a long look at them both, her hardened stare enough to cut down anyone less resilient than hardened criminals. "Gil?"

Gil snorted, uncrossing his arms and taking Thena's hand in his, holding them both on her thigh. His aunt had a good pokerface, but he knew that as far as she was concerned, this was as bad as watching him feel Thena up in front of her. "What did you really come here for, Imo?"

She eyed their connected hands like some kind of varmint. "I came to see what was keeping you here--wasting your life and our business!"

"I'm here for the woman I love!"

Both women looked at him as he raised his voice. He would apologise later, but this was important. Thena gave his hand a squeeze, "Gil."

"I am here because my home is here," Gil stated proudly, staring down his terrifying aunt. "Thena is here. I said it to the little heiress and I'll say it again."

"Gilgamesh," his aunt drawled as a warning for him to very quickly rethink raising his voice and arguing with her.

"No," he continued, turning his hand in Thena's and linking their fingers together. "This is the woman I choose!--the soul that matches mine! I will not consider anyone else and I will never be happy unless it's with her beside me!"

"Thena is the sun of my world," Gil clutched at his chest, rumpling his shirt as if trying to keep his heart from ripping through his rib cage. "Everyday starts and ends with her, or it's a waste. Every minute I spend without her is a waste."

His aunt was thoroughly unmoved by his romanticism.

"I never cared if I was happy before," Gilgamesh professed, and not to gain any sympathy or pity tears. But just out of honesty, "I didn't think it mattered. I was raised not to think it mattered. Business is business, and family is family, and anything else isn't important. That's our way, right?"

It was a way that Thena was also familiar with; and why she had erased herself and all ties with her family from record.

"But I didn't even know what happiness was!" Gil laughed, unable to resist looking at Thena any longer. He smiled. "I had no idea just how happy I could be, if only for her."

His aunt cleared her throat. "That is-"

"Will you let me finish?!"

"Gil," Thena soothed in an instant, her velvety tone washing over him and relaxing his wound up muscles. She looked at his aunt for him. "We are together. That is all you have to report back to your family."

"Is that so?"

"It is," Thena pressed, her eyes sharpening again. "I do believe I told the little heiress to convey that message for me when I sent her back to you--incomplete as she was."

The matriarch lifted her chin to look at Thena dead in the eye. Perhaps she hadn't believed that it was someone calling themselves the Ice Queen who had actually cut off the girl's finger. But it seemed that the woman of Gil's choosing was even stronger than he was.

"Gilgamesh is mine," Thena stated with no room for argument. She brought her left hand up to sit atop their joined ones, "and I am his. That is all I have to say."

Gil sat up straighter as his aunt's eyes bounced over them both. With nothing left to lose, he scooted a little closer to Thena. If his aunt was about to kill him then at least he could die with Thena holding his hand.

"I see."

That was it? Gil watched as his aunt brushed off her jeogori needlessly, the lines of her face relaxing as she let go of whatever malice she had come bearing. He frowned, "that's it?"

His aunt shrugged, giving what might have passed as an indifferent frown. "It seems the Ice Queen drives a hard bargain."

Thena smiled at the woman, and he could almost imagine his aunt smiling back (if she ever smiled, which she didn't). "I do."

"Fine," his aunt sighed. She looked at them again, "if pale is what you want. A little bony, though."

Gil scowled, pulling Thena closer to him (in a way he was sure would make his aunt positively mortified). "I don't know what you're talking about. She's perfect."

"Gil," Thena attempted to admonish him subtly.

He just smiled down at her, tucking herself closer to him as his aunt stared them down. She was going to give him hell for embarrassing her later, but for now, she just looked cute.

His aunt stood and didn't bother excusing herself, having seen enough. She walked to the door, where Kingo was very obviously listening and waiting to open it from the other side for their guest.

Kingo bowed to the woman as she walked past, still not looking back until she reached the elevator. She looked at him, "you."

"Yes, ma'am," he responded crisply and respectfully. Some clients and allies he could have a little fun with; this woman was obviously not one of them.

"The wedding gift. I'll have it sent here."

Sharp. To the point. Kingo bowed again, "yes, ma'am. The Ice Queen thanks you for your...patronage."

"Hm." And with that, the woman stepped onto the elevator, ready to make the long journey back to the ground floor and the infinitely longer journey back home.

His father would not be happy to hear that she had not dragged his son back to him as she had promised to. But she had made her sister a promise about prioritising not just Gilgamesh as a family member, but as her son. And she had not seen her sister's son smile like that in all his years working in Korea. Perhaps she had never seen him smile like that at all.

[practically-an-x-man]

2, 3, 9, 10, 15, 16, 23 for Ophelia, Rae, and Jasper?

Ooooh thank you so much!!

OC Ask Game Time

2) Will they have any children? What are their names?

Ophelia: Probably not. She's never really been interested in becoming a parent.

Rae: Yes! She'll have a daughter named April and a son named August

Jasper: I'm not sure. It's not really on their plan at the moment, but I could see them and Kyle potentially adopting children further down the line.

3) When is your OC’s birthday or what is their zodiac sign if you haven’t picked a date yet? Answer both if you wish.

Ophelia: November 13th

Rae: December 6th

Jasper: October 30th

I don't really do zodiac signs so I wouldn't go looking for any significance there, I really just picked the dates at random save for intentionally making Jasper's the day before Halloween

9) What is your OC’s greatest wish/dream/goals?

Ophelia: She wants to feel like she's accomplished something meaningful in her life, and made her family proud

Rae: She wants to find happiness and safety without having to compromise the things or people she loves

Jasper: They want to help people, above all else.

10) Does your OC have a family tree? Who are their immediate and extended family if you created ones?

Ophelia: She doesn't have an extensive family tree - she's an only child, and isn't in contact with much of her extended family save for her father's mom (her Nonna). Neither side of her family particularly likes the other (her mom's parents always thought she could do better than a struggling scientist and didn't approve of his background, and her dad's parents were neglectful and abusive and he effectively jumped ship from that as soon as he could), so her immediate family really became its own little bubble. She definitely found a family in her father's friends and colleagues, though!

Rae: I haven't drawn it out into a tree, but she does have a very big family. She has two sisters, Jess and Ginny. Jess is married to a man named Harrison and has a son named Andrew, Ginny is currently single and working her way through uni. She's also got a lot of cousins and extended family members back in her hometown of Lochcarron, and sees them every year at a big New Year's Day reunion. Her dad's line of the family goes back in Lochcarron a long way - stemming from twin feral mutants who helped build most of the town with their bare hands when it was first created as a mutant settlement. Her mom's side of the family is originally from Edinburgh, though her grandmother divorced her first husband and fled to Lochcarron where she met Rae's grandfather. Her parents both grew up in town, only a few streets down from each other.

Jasper: I don't have a huge family tree for Jasper either, just a few threads. Their father's name is John Abraham Wilson, and he's one of five children. Jasper's mother Carmine doesn't talk about her family much - Jasper has heard vaguely of an aunt on that side, but they've been estranged since Carmine was in college so Jasper doesn't know much of anything about her. They grew up in close contact with their dad's siblings and all their cousins on that side of the family, but their mom's side of the family is still a big blank patch.

15) Has your OC ever fallen in love before who their intended love interest is, or is the intended love interest their first love?

Ophelia: Oh, she's a hopeless romantic. She's had a lot of past relationships and loved just about all of them, and it's usually ended in some form of tragedy for her. It's led her to worry her relationship with Peter will somehow fall apart like the rest, though she knows that's largely irrational.

Rae: Hm... bit of both? She's dated before, and some of those relationships got pretty serious, but what she has with Warren is on a whole different level. At the risk of sounding cheesy, I think she thought she'd fallen in love before, but it pales in comparison to what she feels for Warren and she didn't realize that until she met him.

Jasper: Kyle is their first love! They'd gone on a few dates here and there before him, but he's their first serious relationship and they fell hard.

16) Does your OC enjoy school or no? Did they get any education?

Ophelia: I'd say she enjoyed learning but didn't enjoy school. For one thing, she was an awkward, tall and curvy Jewish girl, and that definitely led to her being picked on a bit in grade school. And for another, it was hard to find a class that really challenged her, so school as a whole was just boring. As far as education, she has a Bachelor's in Medicine, and both a Master's and PhD in Biomedical Engineering.

Rae: She actually struggled a bit in school. She loved her foreign language classes and could have easily spent all her schooling just doing that, but when it came to other subjects, she just couldn't focus. Sometimes she'd even fall asleep in class, though that was mainly because her insomnia kept her up too late the night before. It was a very mixed bag for her. As far as education, she has a Master's in Foreign Language and has studied a whole host of various world languages.

Jasper: As a whole, they really did enjoy school. They struggled sometimes with particular teachers, classes, or issues with other classmates, but school as a whole was never an issue for them. As far as education, they got a degree in nursing and ended becoming an ER trauma nurse.

23) Is your OC religious and what religion? If it’s a fictional religion for your story please give a summary of the core teachings of their faith?

Ophelia: Yep! She was raised Jewish, and tries to subscribe to as many of those tenets as she can. She struggles with observing the Shabbat (since her life is so bound up with technology and she struggles to step away from her work), and doesn't feel like her tattoo should be considered "self-mutilation", but aside from that she sticks with as many of the traditions and practices as she can. Her faith was actually one of the things that helped her through the rough patches in her life.

Rae: She was raised vaguely Protestant and probably does believe in a generally Christian God, but she's not strongly religious and neither is the rest of her family.

Jasper: Not really religious or spiritual at all, save for keeping up few old Cajun superstitions they were raised into.

[send-me-your-hcs]

okay. for some reason mob boss tony kidnaps peter and it turns out peter is a little. (he gets so scared and couldn't help but get into the littlespace as a defence mechanism???) and tony freaks out because he doesn't know how to take care of a little.

This is literally so funny to me. Like just the thought of Tony going from “You belong to me now, baby boy” to “oh God why is it making that noise, Happy make it stop” is so fucking hilarious?? But damn if I’m not intrigued.

…

......am I doing it?

…….fuck me I’m doing it. Damn you, anon.

Warnings: mentions of human trafficking and abuse, ageplay, underage (but Peter’s age is unspecified and can be envisioned however you’d like).

The compound crumbles in less than an hour.

For all his bravado, Justin Hammer goes down almost too easily. Tony feels tempted to whistle as he walks through the compound’s warehouse, stepping over the slain bodies of Hammer’s underpaid cronies.

His team is just finishing up the last of the clean-up. The occasional gunshot echoes off the walls as Tony takes stock of all the merchandise he just inherited, debating what to do with Hammer once they get home. It almost feels like a waste of effort and time to torture the man before killing him, even with all the trouble he stirred up with the police. Tony’s tempted to just put a bullet in his brain and be done with it.

But, well. He isn’t called The Merchant of Death for nothing, and he does have a certain image to maintain. Plus, with Hammer keeping him company tonight, he’ll at least be partially spared from the usual tedium that comes with being the biggest mafia don on the east coast.

It’s as he’s wondering just what exactly he should do to Hammer first that Happy finally arrives, looking a little disheveled, but no worse for wear. “Boss,” he says, stumbling over the array of corpses with a muted curse, “compound’s clear. We’re ready to pack this all up and move out.”

Tony wipes the toe of his shoe off on some unnamed man’s bullethole-patterned sleeve. “Good. And Hammer?”

“On his way back to base as we speak, sir. I’ll have him ready for you when you arrive.”

Tony nods in approval, then notices the pronounced, telltale crease in Happy’s brow. Always a good sign.

“Something else you wanna tell me, Hap?”

Happy grimaces, deepening his forehead wrinkle. “There was an unexpected...uh...hiccup, sir.”

Tony lifts an eyebrow at the other man, equal parts curious and incredulous. “A hiccup,” he repeats, slowly, watching Happy’s face grow increasingly sour. “What sort of hiccup?”

“The, um...the teenaged boy kind?”

---

There are only two bodies littering the floor outside Hammer’s office: his enforcer, and his bodyguard. Happy scowls at the sight and starts clumsily rolling them out of the way, glaring at Bucky while he does.

Bucky smirks at Happy, pointedly not moving to help clear away the bodies lying between them. “Kid hasn’t stopped crying since you took Hammer,” he says to him, standing in the doorway like a sentry.

“Probably in relief,” Tony says, straightening his tie as Happy finishes kicking over the second body. “Who is he? Do we know?”

“My guess is a trafficking vic,” Bucky says with a shrug. “He’s got bruises. Seems kinda...out of it.”

Tony hums. “Well, I suppose we’re about to find out.”

Bucky steps aside and Tony strolls into the room, sparing a disinterested glance at Hammer’s shameful choice of interior decorating. The throw pillows are haphazardly strewn across the floor from the sofa; one of the grommet drapes is missing from the window. It’s a mess, but that’s not entirely unexpected.

Happy follows close behind him as he makes his way to the corner of the room, where the soft sound of pitiful sobs is coming from underneath the large desk. Tony peeks his head beneath the desktop just enough to confirm the kid doesn’t have a loaded weapon before he crouches down.

The little thing is balled up tight, wrapped in the missing window drapery and clutching one of the stolen throw pillows like his life depends on it. He seems naked underneath it, which confirms Bucky’s human trafficking theory and gives Tony almost an instant headache. There are bruises spanning the boy’s wrists and ankles that look new and swollen, standing out brightly against the boy’s very pale skin.

Tony clears his throat. “As comfortable as that looks, perhaps I could convince you to stand up so we can chat face to face, hm?”

The kid flinches, whimpering into the pillow he has pressed over his face. Tony sighs like an overburdened parent and says, “I don’t have all day. You have till the count of three to come out on your own before I come in there and make you. You hear me? One. Two…”

The boy’s soft-looking head of curls slowly lifts, and the next thing Tony knows, he’s staring into the biggest pair of honey-brown eyes he’s ever seen. They’re red-rimmed and brimming with tears, swollen from how long the kid’s been crying, but they stay obediently and nervously fixed on Tony as the boy slowly uncurls his limbs and crawls out from under the desk.

Tony’s somewhat surprised that the boy clings to his pillow religiously enough to let the curtain slip down to his waist, held up by only a single tiny, shaking fist. The boy won’t spare either hand to hold the drape up properly so it pools around his hips, revealing his slim, narrow torso, his perfectly unblemished skin.

There aren’t any other bruises, though more could be hiding under the curtain. Tony appraises the kid for a long, tense moment before he asks, “What’s your name?”

Thin arms squeeze the throw pillow tight enough to strangle it. The boy is still looking up at him with that damned pair of Disney eyes. He hasn’t stopped crying.

“‘m Peter,” he mumbles, sniffling.

His voice is cute. A little high for a kid his age, but in an endearing way. “Peter.” Tony nods, pleased. “I’m Tony. Tell me, Pete, how long have you been here?”

Peter glances at Happy, then at Bucky in the doorway, before shyly lowering his gaze to the pillow in his arms. He hugs it tighter and says, “Um...don’t...don’t know what day it is.”

“It’s Tuesday,” Happy says, sounding put out in that wonderful way he always does. “June 16th.”

The boy blinks, looking nervous and unsure as he says, “Since...two days.”

“Okay,” Tony says, “And where were you before that?”

Peter’s shoulders droop. He looks down at the floor with wet eyes, mumbling, “With bad guys.”

It takes everything Tony has not to smirk. “Bad guys? Worse than these ones?”

Peter nods. “They took me,” he says, his little voice completely heartbroken, “from Miss Jones’s place. They waited till she was asleep and they took me. S’been…” Confusion washes over his face, like he’s trying to access some memory that isn’t there. “It was winter. There was still snow outside.”

Before Tony can decide how to respond to that, Happy tactfully pipes up with, “Who the hell is Miss Jones?”

“Michelle Jones Adoption Center,” Bucky says, reading aloud as he stares down at his phone. “Looks like a non-profit adoption agency. Website says the founder also runs a foster home. Is that the one?”

All three men turn to look at Peter, who nods, staring at Bucky hopefully. “Uh-huh. They sent me there when my aunt and uncle died.”

Part of Tony is scared to ask. “What happened to your parents?”

“They died when I was little.”

“Yikes,” Happy says quietly under his breath, though not quietly enough. Tony gives him a reproachful look, then turns back to the boy, whose face is once again soaked in tears, clinging to his throw pillow like it’s a teddy bear.

Tony bites the bullet and says, “I hate to be the one to tell you this, kid, but now that you’ve seen our faces, I can’t let you go back to Miss Jones’ place.”

If the kid’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps staring down at his pillow, letting his tears drip down off his cheeks and soak into the fabric. “I just...I want…” His lower lip wobbles, and then the sobs come. “I don’t know. I don’t know. ‘m so - so c-confused. I just want my D-Daddy.”

For the first time in longer than Tony can remember, he’s at a loss for words.

“Want Daddy,” Peter says again, babbling, like a child. The crying is really doing nothing for Tony’s budding headache. “‘m scared.”

“I’m praying this isn’t what it sounds like, but, please tell me Justin Hammer wasn’t your Daddy. Ugh, Jesus, I’m never going to get the taste of those words out of my mouth. Blech.”

Thankfully, Peter shakes his head no, looking just as disgusted as Tony feels. Thank God. “I don’t...I don’t think so. I-I don’t know. They said I had to be good for Daddy. They said I couldn’t go home unless it was with h-him.”

Bucky jokingly says, “I’ll be his Daddy,” but he mutes himself when Tony lifts a hand to silence him, before turning to give Happy a helpless look. The man stares back, then silently gestures to his gun, the question clear as day on his face. Tony immediately shakes his head, waving the man’s hand away from his holster with a steely glare.

Okay, so. That’s interesting. Apparently mercy-killing the boy isn’t an option. Giving him back to gentle-hearted, law-abiding-citizen Miss Jones isn’t an option, either.

So where does that leave him?

Tony watches the boy cry a moment longer before resignedly asking, “Peter, how old are you?”

Peter wipes his wet face on the pillow, refusing to let neither it nor the curtain go long enough to use his hands. “Don’t...know,” he says, after a moment, his brows furrowed like he’s thinking it over hard. “They s-said that was up to my Daddy.”

Stellar. Great big help, that is.

Sighing, Tony rubs his temple to soothe his headache, taking a moment to really look at the boy in front of him. Peter is...well. It’s fair to say he isn’t unattractive. Hammer’s poor taste in interior design apparently doesn’t extend to sex slaves.

Tony’s done horrible, truly vile things in his career, but children are usually where he draws his thin, arguably nonexistent moral line. They’re rarely intelligent enough to interest him in any fashion, but Peter - for what it’s worth - has managed to pique his interest just enough that he finds himself actually opening his mouth and saying:

“Peter. Since I can’t let you go back to your foster home, tell me: would you rather come home with me instead?”

He lets the ‘instead of killing you’ go unsaid, since the boy is already having trouble wiping away his tears. Peter stares up at him with a frightened, mistrustful look that makes Tony’s hands twitch. There’s innocence in those eyes, sure. But there’s brightness too. For all the babbling and childish baby-speak Peter’s given him, Tony gets the very distinct impression that he’s far from stupid.

“With you?” the boy asks, hardly louder than a whisper. His tone is soft and wary, sounding every bit the child he believes he is. “You...you’ll be my Daddy?”

It’s a strange thing, to be fifty years old and still learning such intimate things about himself, like how fucked up he is for liking it when this sweet, baby-faced teenage boy calls him Daddy in his soft, childish little voice. Part of him can’t wait to turn around and see the looks on Happy and Bucky’s faces; the rest of him doesn’t want to take his eyes off Peter for even a moment.

He nods, giving Peter what he hopes is a reassuring smile as he steps forward, offering his hand for the boy to take. “That’s right, honey,” he says, his tone syrupy sweet. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Daddy’s here now.”

Peter looks between Tony’s outstretched hand and his smiling face, deliberating on what they both know is his only real option. Finally, he lets the curtain drop from around his hips to pool at his feet, revealing his slender legs and freshly-shaven pubic area. Tony’s brain momentarily goes white and fuzzy until Peter’s slim, soft hand hesitantly takes his own, still clutching that hideous throw pillow to his chest like a teddy bear.

Tony grants himself another long look over Peter’s gorgeous frame as he slips his suit jacket off and drapes it over the boy’s shoulders. Peter smiles gratefully and pushes his arms through the sleeves, his face darkening with a blush as Tony starts fastening the buttons. “Thank you, Daddy.”

Fuck. Forcing himself to swallow the growl building in his throat, Tony takes the boy’s hand again and leads him to the door. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you home.”

Peter clings to him as they step through the threshold. Well, Tony thinks to himself, his hand tightening around Peter’s own, at least things won’t be boring from now on.

[curlystom]

written — peter parker

a/n: phew! so this is a repost from my old blog which i regretfully deleted (a story that i will go into another time) but i’m back! since all of my college courses are online now, i have been writing like crazy! expect to see some familiar and new stories soon. i have a lot planned. it’s good to be back (:

You admired the faint stars scattered across the night, winter sky as the bus slowed to a stop. The fluffy snow covered everything in its track, making it impossible for you to appreciate the true New York beauty. Your grip on your shoulder strap loosened, grateful that you didn’t have to carry the thousand pound backpack any longer.  The tension in your shoulder throbbed as your carried textbooks begged to be put down, massaging the area once you plopped down in an empty row.

The cold air from outside contradicted with the warmth inside the vehicle, making the windows fog. You scooted yourself towards the edge of the bus and tugged on your hoodie sleeve so you could wiped the glass, leaving thin lines of water droplets behind. 

The blinking street lamps you passed by barely illuminated the area around it. The light reflected off the pure, white snow so effortlessly, making the dark night seem a bit brighter. It was a sight you would have loved to appreciate, but the radiance was blurred by the fog and your eyes squinted at the difference in brightness. 

You twiddled with your fingers, memories of the last few hours replaying like your favorite movie. A smile tugged your lips the more you thought about it. 

Open textbooks were sprawled out all across the library table, your laptop resting among them along with a few bags of chips and power drinks. Your cheek rested against your palm, strands of your y/h/c hair falling in front of your face. Attempting to blow them out of your face, you glared when the seemingly easy task was failing. 

Your arm fell against the table as you rested your head against your upper arm, wanting to let your eyes flutter close so badly. Studying for over 6 hours had taken its toll on you and it was very evident. The darkening under eyes and pale complexion gave you away.

A cup of coffee was exaggeratedly placed in front of you, forcing your eyes to open. Peter’s hands were on either side of him, resting against the table as he tilted his head to the side to look at you, a small smiling forming at the sight.

“You look like complete shit.” His lips were forced into a hard line, trying to muffle his laughter from other surrounding students.

You groaned, a fake cry leaving as you sank into the uncomfortable chair, the cushion no longer giving you the support you desperately needed. 

Your hands covered your tired face, “God, I know. You don’t need to remind me. I’ve been here for over 6 hours.”

“Which is why..,” he scooted the coffee closer to you, “I got you that.”

He pulled the remaining chair from under the table, forcing you to place your feet back on the ground and unmask your face from him. Hesitating for a bit, you couldn’t resist his offer and slowly started to grab the drink, keeping your eyes on him. His eyebrows raised at your reaction as he slowly took a seat, crossing his legs and intertwining his fingers.

Your eyes examined the outside, squinting to make sure there was nothing off about this specific drink. His eyes were locked on you, an eyebrow raised as to why you were acting so strange. Perhaps the coffee would wake you up a bit. Your lips met the plastic cover, a slight burning sensation coming over your tongue as you took a small sip. You were truly too tired to panic.

The bitter taste lingered in your mouth, slowly approving the drink by smacking your lips together and giving a slow nod. He sighed in relief as you went to take another sip, thankful that he had made the right call on what coffee to get you. He turned around the books to see what you had been buried in the past few hours, asking questions about what your upcoming exam was about.

You weren’t listening.

Your eyes examined every part of his face as your lips softly brushed against the coffee lid, taking in every detail one by one.

His freckles replicated the bright stars above you, scattered in the most beautiful way possible. The red tint in his cheeks slowly began to fade into his pale skin, growing more comfortable with the temperature change. A few loose curls fell in front of his face seamlessly, your urge to run your fingers through his locks becoming stronger. His brown orbs exhibited small gold flecks as they scanned the pages, your lips parting at just how mesmerizing they were to look at.

He was breathtaking.

“Y/N?”

Your eyelids flickered as you shook your head, the coffee taking its time to fully sink in your system. Forcing your eyelids to stay open, you took a deep breath in as you fully gave your attention to the boy in front of you. “Hm?”

“Are you okay?” His eyebrows pinched together in concern, “You zoned out.”

“Jus’ exhausted.” You lied, taking another sip of your coffee. He gave you a small, sympathetic smile before forcing his lips into a tight line. 

His eyes scanned the many books in front of you, developing a headache just by looking at them. He gripped the wooden arm rests and pushed himself up, closing each book and began to pack them in your bag.

You stood up as well, placing your cup of coffee on the table with your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “W-what are you doing?” You grabbed the books from his grasp, immediately deeping a deep breath when you felt how warm his touch was. A flustered laugh begged to escape but you bit the inside of your mouth from letting that happen.

“I am helping you pack up.” He gently closed your laptop and slipped it in its case, placing it in your backpack and zipping it up nicely. “You need to get some sleep.”

You opened your mouth to protest his actions and to try and convince him that you were fine, but it was no use. Waving his index finger at you, he held the strap of your backpack and encouraged you to take it and go home. A groan left your lips as you rolled your eyes, exaggeratedly grabbing the strap from him and throwing it over your shoulder. Your hand gripped around the coffee while the other waved at Peter, his face displaying a look of “you know i’m right”. 

He was always right. It was a love/hate relationship with you. The boy never seemed to answer any question wrong, and his morals and values were ones you’d dream of in a partner. There was truly nothing wrong about the boy, and it was no shocker that you’d fallen head over heels for him.

You had been lucky enough to become his friend over the last 4 years. Having the same communications class definitely sparked a flame between the two of you, instantly becoming partners for every project and studying together. The chemistry you had with each other was undeniable, and it made it even harder not to fall in love with him.

He was everything you aspired to be. His aunt, who is the sweetest lady you’d ever met, received so much affection and love from her nephew, you couldn’t help but smile everytime you saw them together. He tutored other fellow students and volunteered with charities in his free time, truly surprised that he had any. 

Peter was a busy guy, and the fact he still made sure to check up on you was the cherry on top.

Heat rushed to the apples of your cheeks at the thought of him, your hands covering them as much as you could so no one could see how flustered you had gotten. You bit your lip to prevent an excited squeal from slipping through, your eyes shutting close before slowly opening, staring out the glass.

The previously wiped area on the window had developed a new layer of fog, covering the entire area again. Water droplets stood still despite the the movement of the bus, your eyes admiring each and every one of them. Downtown New York was barely visible through the fogged glass, but the sight, nevertheless, was still breathtaking.

Colorful lights illuminated the night sky, the light peeking through the fog and displaying on your lap. Your hand peeked through the sleeve of your hoodie as you held out your index finger, meeting it with the freezing glass and traced Peter’s name with a little heart next to it.

A few droplets formed on your side of the glass, sliding down the newly written name. The wet residue resided on your finger before you wiped it off on your jeans, smiling at the letters on the window. The bus had slowed to a stop, and the surroundings indicated that this was your stop. You took one last look  at the window before grabbing the strap of your backpack, thanking the bus driver, and stepping off the bus.

Peter sat a few rows behind you, his eyes following you as you departed. A small smile tugged at his lips at how carelessly beautiful you were. A few pieces from you bun were curled, framing your face perfectly. A rosy tint colored your cheeks, either from the frosty weather or being flustered. The way your corners of your eye crinkled when you smiled made his heart pound against his chest, butterflies fluttering in his stomach. You were unlike anyone he had ever seen.

His eyes trailed back to where you were previously sitting and landed on the fogged glass. The letters you had written were slowly disappearing but it was legible enough for him to read. He had watched you trace your finger along the frosted glass, seeing the slight flinch you made when you realized how cold it was, but you had placed it just right where anyone behind couldn’t see it. 

The butterflies in his stomach intensified by 100, and his heart seemed to have beat faster when he comprehended what you had wrote. You, a beautiful, intelligent, and compassionate girl, felt nearly the same way he did about you. Time played a big role in this particular moment. He had met you years ago, unsure of his feelings for you and never really tested the waters. He remained close friends with you, bringing you coffee during your late study sessions and advising you to do what was best. 

He was scared to break that wall, not wanting to change a relationship he was very appreciative of. The last thing he wanted to do was lose you, but now he was going to fight for you until his last dying breath. 

[alice-is-in-wonderland]

Glader Pack Thanksgiving Family AU Part Four

Hello! I don’t know when the next update will be, seeing as I leave on Friday, and won’t be able to use my phone for almost the entire day (it’s a long drive and I’ve only got myself and my playlists as my company!) plus Saturday is gonna be hectic as all hell for trying to move back into the dorms. But I will do my best! I’m glad you guys seem to like these so far! I think there’s gonna be about 10 parts in total, if I did my spacing right 🤞🏼Sorry this is so incredibly short!

Tagging these lovlies: @c-taylor-wanna-be-a-glader @rustic-space-fiddle @newtieparker @esthercantdraw for your love and support while I made this!

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

Part One - Thomas

Part Two - Peter

Part Three - Charlie

Part Four - Ellie

Four bags of food proved to not be as much of challenge as she thought. The crinkly brown papers bags slid dangerously in her arms. Luckily, Anne swooped in behind her to snatch one, hand descending and pulling out a handful of fries that she promptly stuck in her mouth. Newt strode beside the young medical student, peering down at the bag.

“Love, you gonna share?” The blonde asked.

“Maybe.” Anne munched thoughtfully, hiding her teasing smile. He gave her a peck on the cheek, and in turn, she relinquished some of her fries to him.

Ellie’s heart swelled at the couple. She’d waited so long to see them together, and after such hard times in high school, too. It brought her back to her current situation. She looked over at Thomas, sitting on the hood of the van, chatting quietly with Minho. Ellie loved the way the soft golden light of the afternoon settled around the top of his hair like a halo of sunshine. He was so pretty, and he was all hers.

Through the years they’d been dating, Ellie had come to learn just how much Thomas’ family meant to him. When he’d told her about his grandmother and why this thanksgiving mattered so much… well. Ellie had promised to make this the best thanksgiving not only for Thomas and his grandmother, but for everyone.

The rest of the group piled back into the van, Alice grumbling about “not making it on time” but Ellie just leaned up front, giving the brunette her bag, effectively quieting her. Food always made things better, Ellie had come to find.

“Hey, Ellie?” The brunette turned around, looking at Anne.

“Yeah?”

“You were telling me about a paper for the France trip?” Anne said, tired eyes blinking slowly. Reality came back to Ellie, and she grinned.

“Yeah, sorry. So my professor wanted...”

* * *

Hours and a good nap later, Thomas was shaking Ellie’s shoulder gently. She rubbed her face, desperately wanting to wash her face from the grease of McDonald’s. But soon, her heart was stopped by the sight before her.

Thomas’ grandmother’s house was away from the city, out in the rural areas of Oregon, with nothing but pine trees and breathtaking scenery for miles. The house was entitled to Thomas’ entire family, and from what Ellie had overheard, there was a huge dispute about who was going to get the deed once Thomas’ grandmother had passed.

The house lay at the end of a winding driveway, the road littered with different colored leaves, the full colors of autumn on full display for the entire group to see. Ellie pressed her face to the window, wanting to see more. The trees enclosed the curvy dirt road of the driveway like a warm hug, leaves dancing as they sporadically fell from overhead. Ellie felt like she was in a movie.

Already there were other assorted cars parked at the end of the driveway. It was only a few short steps up to the front door to the old house. The first story seemed to be something out of a lifestyle magazine for cottage living. The flowers in the front were well-cared for and had obviously been maticulously groomed. The stones encased in what seemed to be cement was made more lively by the pale green ropes of ivy that scaled up the sides of the house. But the second story seemed to be a bit more retro, with Victorian-style wood panels running criss-cross against the tan sides of the house. Like something out of a Shakespeare movie.

A woman in her mid-forties stood in the open garage amdist the cars, hands on her hips and a scowl on her lips. The van parked behind the others, and the woman approached the van, allowing Ellie and the others a good, long look at her. Her hair was tightly pulled back into a tight blonde bun that appeared downright painful. Her lips were pursed together, a tight line of dark red lipstick.

“Well, finally!” The woman griped. Thomas jumped out of the van, hugging her. Out of the corner of her eye, Ellie noticed Marcie emptying the rest of his flask. Worry tugged at her gut before her attention was brought back to the scene outside the van.

“Aunt Ava, I didn’t think you were coming this year.” Thomas said, pulling back and giving her a questioning look.

“Well, if it’s Mom’s last, then I’m not letting my little sister or any of her offspring mess it up!” Thomas sighed.

“Mom wouldn’t mess it up, and neither would I.” He stated, a bit frustratedly.

“Well, being late isn’t helping your case, here, Thomas.” Ava replied, eyeing the van suspiciously. “What’s with the riff-raff?” She asked, her chin tilted upwards in disapproval of the group unloading from the white van.

“These are my friends. They’re here to make things even better. The ‘more the merrirer’ and all that.” Thomas answered.

“Hm.” was Ava’s entire reply, until Ellie stepped out of the van. She strode up to Ava, mustering up all of her confidence. Taking Ava’s hand, she shook it firmly.

“I’m Ellie! Thomas’ girlfriend. I’m so happy to meet you!” The brunette smiled and gave what energy she had into producing a good first impression upon the woman. Ava recoiled, sliding her white-gloved hand away from Ellie’s grasp.

“We’ll see about that.” She sneered. Thomas gave his aunt a hard look.

“Aunt Ava, don’t start that.”

“Well, if she’s anything like the last one, I hope I won’t have to.” Something about that statement struck something inside of Ellie. A voice told her that she would prove this woman wrong. That Ellie would somehow be able to win the approval of Thomas’ aunt. And it burned within her, as if it was her one ticket to being able to stay with Thomas and get accepted into his family.

And nothing was going to stop Ellie from fitting in and impressing Thomas’ family.

“Stop being so snoody before you scare off our guests, Ava.” A warm voice called from the porch. Thomas and Ellie turned to see Thomas’ mother standing there, holding out her arms. Thomas walked up, giving her a tight hug. She smiled up at him, skin crinkling happily around her eyes.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hello, Thomas.” Thomas turned to the side, and motioned towards Ellie.

“Mom, this is Ellie. The one I told you about.” Ellie nervously inched forward, but was soon pulled into Thomas’ mother’s arms, the small woman embracing Ellie tightly.

“Hi, Ellie. I hope Thomas hasn’t been too much trouble. Thank you for coming.”

“I’m glad to finally meet you.” Ellie replied with a warm smile.

“You snagged a pretty one, Thomas.” The new voice caught Ellie off-guard. She couldn’t have been any taller than 4’9, but there was something... adorable about the elderly lady prodtruding from the front door. Lines covered her face, telling a story about a full life that Ellie wished she could understand. “Hello, dearie.” She grinned at Ellie, eagerly taking her hand and leading the brunette inside. “You get to help me.”

“Oh boy...” Thomas breathed, chuckling a bit.

[mangokitkats]

Big Quirky Family

Pairings (All Platonic): Dad Figure!Steve Rogers x Peter Parker, Dad Figure!Tony Stark x Peter Parker, Dad Figure!Bucky Barnes x Peter Parker, Uncle Figure!Bucky Barnes x Peter Parker, Big Sister!Natasha Romanoff x Peter Parker, Big Brother!Clint Barton x Peter Parker, Big Sister!Wanda Maximoff x Peter Parker, Big Brother!Sam Wilson x Peter Parker

Summary: After a long, stressful day at school all Peter wants is to go and decompress with his family. But when Natasha catches him angrily throwing apples into the woods, all the emotions steadily come crashing down and out. (There’s some angsty kinda stuff but it’s just very pure fluff for the most part)

Characters: Peter Parker, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Wanda Maximoff, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Flash Thompson (mentioned), Aunt May (mentioned)

Warnings: Bullying, public humiliation, yelling, swearing, detention (????), minor angst, lots of fluff

Word Count: 2,265

Peter POV (outside view)

 Peter trudged through New York, exhausted from his day at school. His algebra teacher had lost his test and insisted on him retaking it, and when Peter refused? Three minutes later and he was signing a detention form. Then of course, at lunch Flash just had to start a ‘Penis Parker’ chant. That was just his luck, detention and public humiliation. Then there was also the daily bullying he put up with from the other popular kids at school. He walked into his apartment, “May I’m home!” He called through the home. When he didn’t get a response back he shrugged and plopped his bag down onto the couch ‘guess she’s out running errands or something’, he’d worry about schoolwork later. Right now he wanted to just go decompress at the Compound with the rest of the Avengers, maybe spar with Natasha to let off some steam. He scribbled a note down on a random piece of paper and placed it on the table for May.

‘Long day, gone to The Compound to hang out with the team and relax’

Reading it over again for good measure he nodded to himself before making his way to the subway station. He’d ride it to the nearest station to The Compound then most likely walk the rest of the way, not having the energy to deal with his suit and web shooters right now.

He arrived at the station a couple blocks from The Compound about an hour and a half later. He had zoned everything else out on the ride there, getting lost in his thoughts, which was probably a mistake since he was now more worked up and upset than before.

As he arrived at The Compound he noticed no one in sight and made his way to the kitchen to get some food, he hadn’t eaten before leaving home. Opening the fridge to scour what there was, he pulled out a pizza box. Turning around to set it on the counter he nearly ran straight into Steve. “Jesus! Cap you can’t do that” he sounded more annoyed than he realized, earning a concerned and confused look from Steve, he internally groaned, here comes Dad Mode Steve trying to find out what’s wrong.

“Peter are you ok? You seem tense, you’re not usually like this”

“Yup I’m all good”

He struggled to say it in a somewhat cheerful and calm tone yet failed miserably, he just sounded strained.

“Are you sure?”

“Cap, I said yes! I’m fine! Now please drop it!”

He paled immediately after, realizing he just yelled at Captain America, who stood looking shocked at the sudden outburst. “Sir, I-I’m so sorry I- I’ll just be going now” he trailed off and turned on his heel, leaving the pizza behind him. He didn’t realize where he was going but before he knew it he ran into Tony, who immediately could tell something was off by the lack of profuse apology.

“Hey Sport you ok? You seem kinda out of it”

“Huh? Uh y- yeah just fine Mr. Stark!” He forced out with a smile. He didn’t make eye contact and stumbled over his words more than usual which Tony also took note of, something was wrong.

“Hey kid follow me” Tony gestured to Peter as he started walking away, back towards the kitchen. Peter, hesitantly, followed his father figure back toward where he had just yelled at Steve. As they got to the kitchen, Tony walked over to the counter and grabbed the basket of easily 10 apples before handing it to Peter.

“Here, these apples are old and Barnes didn’t eat them, go chuck them off the patio into the woods. If we’re lucky maybe we’ll get an apple tree or two but it’ll at least help you get some pent up emotion out”

Peter just looked quizzically at Tony before shrugging and taking the basket from him, nodding a small thanks before walking away to the patio facing the woods.

Peter arrived at the patio a few minutes later, an apple already in hand as he set the basket of the rest down on one of the chairs. He stepped forward, shuffling a bit before sending the apple flinging into the woods.

“Goddamn Mr. Morrissey”

He picked up another as he heard the first one smack into a tree, he chucked it forward.

“Stupid Flash”

Smack it hit another tree. He grabbed the next apple, not noticing Natasha coming up behind him.

“Penis Parker ha ha I’m so funny ehhh”

He let that apple go flying, this time just landing with a thud on the forest floor. He was so encroached in letting out his emotions on the fruits that he hadn’t noticed the angry tears that had started to fall. Natasha had cautiously approached from behind, full of concern and curiosity, and handed him the next apple as he turned, much to his surprise.

Natasha POV (outside view) 

Natasha walked towards the couch in the common room, glancing through the large glass window leading to the patio. She hummed a sound of interest and confusion to herself, seeing the youngest member chucking fruit out to the trees. ‘Ok when did Peter get here and why is he throwing fruit into the woods, Stark what did you tell him?’

She noticed as she walked closer he was muttering to himself, well not so much muttering anymore.

“Penis Parker ha ha I’m so funny ehhh”

His voice cracked with that comment, nearly cracking Natasha’s heart ‘is some kid picking on Peter? Is it illegal for me to kick a 15 year old’s ass?’

She cautiously approached the basket of apples set on the patio chair and picked one up before handing it to Peter, slightly startling him. She looked up at his face and realized he’d been crying, it broke her heart. Peter was like a little brother to her.

“You ok Pete?”

He just grunted and grabbed the apple, “yes, Nat I’m just- fine!” He yelled as he threw the apple ‘No you aren’t Peter’ she thought to herself, if only Wanda was here right now.

Peter POV (outside view) 

Peter threw the apple Natasha handed him as he yelled again. Only this time it didn’t hit a tree. An arrow shot straight through it instead, he looked from where it thumped down and followed the line of projection from the arrow to a tree. Crouched in the tree and smirking like an idiot was none other than Clint. Peter finally let out a breath he had been metaphorically holding and chuckled to himself before grabbing another apple. He hurled this one with just as much force but less anger, expecting Clint to shoot it down again. This time however, the apple came hurtling back toward him in a flicker of red wisps, he instinctively dodged to the side even though it wasn’t close to hitting him and watched as the over ripe apple splatted right onto the support column of the patio. He let out a full laugh this time and looked out toward the yard, seeing Wanda standing against a small tree with a grin on her face. Peter was still visibly upset and the previously angry tears still occasionally fell, but they were lessening. He was overcome with more emotions now, however now they were a mix of happiness and comfort as he realized how much his little family really meant to him. He watched as Clint hopped down from the tree and he and Wanda started walking over to the patio to him and Natasha, tears threatening to fall again. They stepped up the couple stairs before Clint gathered up the emotional boy into a tight hug. Peter stood there in the hug for a second before just letting out the emotions that had been building up the whole day. A sob wracked through him as he cried into Clint, holding onto his big brother figure for dear life, worried that if he loosened his grip it’d all fade away. Wanda and Nat stood for a second before leaping into action and smothering the boy with soothing words, Natasha running her fingers through his hair and rubbing his shoulder and Wanda humming a Sokovian lullaby to him and also gently carding her fingers through his hair. He pulled himself away from Clint’s chest to look around at the others, letting out a small and slightly bitter chuckle

“Wow you guys must think I’m such a mess. I yell at Steve, I yell at Nat, and here I am crying over stupid school stuff.”

Natasha immediately formed her response, “shh, Pete it’s ok. We don’t think you’re a mess. If anyone’s a mess it’s the rest of us. It’s perfectly reasonable to be upset, even if I don’t know exactly what about. You’re our little brother and it’s our job to take care of and protect you. And it’s Steve and Tony’s jobs to give you Dad lectures. And Bucky’s job to be the uncle and dad who stops us from doing stupid shit” she let out a chuckle along with that last bit as she continued stroking her fingers through his hair. Peter smiled at her, and looked up and around at the other two, “Thank you, all of you. I needed that. I love you guys”. Wanda piped up this time, halting her soft humming as her lovely accent added to the conversation “Mhm, and we love you too. Now, how about we go into the common room and put on a movie and you can tell us about what’s been bugging you hm? Would that be ok?” Peter just nodded his approval and unlatched himself from Clint where he still held a death grip before walking inside, followed by the other three. They put on Peter’s constant favorite, The Jungle Book, and settled together on the couch. Peter laid down with his head resting comfortably on Wanda’s leg, still wanting to have the comfort of contact with at least one of them. She reached down as the movie started and began running her fingers through his hair again before gently speaking up, “Just let us know when you’re ready to start talking, take your time, you only just got settled” About 20 minutes into the movie Peter sat up and leaned against her instead of laying down, ready to talk about his problem. He took a deep breath, “I’m ready to talk about it now I think.” Clint just smiled gently at him, “take your time buddy, don’t try and rush through it or push yourself through details too hard. We understand.” Peter nodded before starting, “ok so it started with…” he began telling the whole situation to them. Everything from his algebra teacher to the jocks that haven’t let up their relentless bullying since 7th grade. Wanda, Clint, and Natasha were angry, concerned, and shocked how much Peter put up with. He’s always so happy go lucky and man, 7th grade? This kid was tough. Tougher than anyone gave him credit for. After confessing the whole problem, Peter fell asleep against Wanda while they were watching another movie (this time Nat’s pick of Tangled), who didn’t move for worry of waking him as Natasha started to fume more and more as she thought over the situation. He woke up to being picked up and noticed Steve carrying him to the guest room they had for him. He yawned and stayed silent before quietly speaking up, “I’m sorry for yelling at you earlier…”

Steve didn’t appear angry at all, just smiled down at him and looked concerned and relieved. Peter figured Nat and Clint had told him, since Wanda had been his pillow and didn’t move. “It’s ok kid, it’s not your fault. Don’t worry about May, Tony already called and told her you’d wanted to stay the night”. Peter just nodded as they arrived at the guest bedroom and Steve gently set him down to open the door and make sure the bed was still all set up. Peter leaned against Steve in his still sleepy state before trudging over to the bed and pulling his shirt off. Steve threw him a pair of sweatpants to sleep in and he changed before flopping dramatically onto the bed. Steve chuckled at him before telling him to get under the blankets, which Peter happily did. Steve sighed before pushing off the wall where he was leaning and walked over to turn off the lamp “Good night Peter, sleep well. You deserve it”

“G’night Steve, see ya tomorrow”

That was the best Peter had slept in a long time.

*The Next Morning*

Peter awoke to the sound of yelling and laughter. Pulling on a random shirt he’d left the last time he’d stayed the night he quietly walked into the common room to see Bucky and Nat yelling at each other and Steve, Tony, Wanda, Sam, and Clint all laughing their asses off.

“Natasha for the last time you CANNOT kick a 15 year old’s ass! Do you know how much shit we’d get for that?”

“I don’t care Bucky, he hurt Peter and I’m gonna whoop some rich kid ass”

Peter just chuckled softly to himself and walked into the common room, drawing the attention of the others. “Hey Pete how you feeling?” Sam asked him concerned, big brother as always, “sorry I wasn’t here yesterday, I heard about the whole thing and now Buck’s trying to talk Nat out of beating up the whole football team and this Flash kid they talked about.”

Peter didn’t answer the question but just looked around the room with a smile. He loved his big, quirky family.

[etherealediting-blog]

Upcoming Release+Excerpt: Women Within by Anne Leigh Parrish Available Sep 4, 2017

 Available Sep 4, 2017

✦ Pre-order: Amazon | Black Rose Writing ✦

About Women Within

With themes of reproductive rights and feminism, this multi-generational novel presents three women whose paths cross at the Lindell Retirement Home. Constance Maynard, fierce, independent and proud, reflects on her long life promoting women’s rights through her career as a professor of history. Eunice Fitch, the perfect caregiver, is often unlucky in love, yet even in middle age refuses to give up searching for the perfect man. Sam Clark is a young aide with a passion for poetry and, small beautiful things, but at war with her own large, ungainly physique. All together they weave a tapestry as rich and complex as the female experience itself.

Excerpt

The Lindell Retirement Home was lovely. Wide lawns could be reached through automatic glass doors at the end of every hall. Secluded patios with benches and flowering plants made for pleasant sitting in the warm months. The common areas were full of natural light and good quality art, often by a resident’s own hand. Some wings had an aquarium or well-populated birdcage, and one, Skilled Nursing, offered a very large stuffed dog that on occasion brought a smile to the faces of the dementia patients. The overall impression was one of calm, poise, and comfort. Within the rooms themselves, there was less comfort. Aging wasn’t easy. Memory was unsure, especially with the help of certain frequently prescribed drugs. Physical discomfort was quite prevalent, for which, ironically, fewer drugs were prescribed.

Constance Maynard, age ninety-two, knew this well and would have shared her complaints, had she cared to. At the moment, she just wished Eunice and Sam would ease up a little. They were attempting to wash her feet by putting them in a plastic tub full of warm, soapy water. Constance thought the task should be simple enough. She didn’t see why it required four hands to manage it. They always teamed up when any sort of bathing or dressing was needed. Weren’t they the oddest pair? Fifty-something Eunice and twenty-something Sam. One, slight and wiry, the other, a linebacker. Big and Small. Short and Tall. Who’s the fairest of them all?

That was her sleep aid talking. The young doctor who came around told her rest was essential. Who was he kidding? Any moment now she would enter the realm of eternal rest. She should have the luxury of lying awake all night if she wanted to. Night was the traveling time. The time of seeing women within.

Eunice, the little one, knelt and lifted one gnarled foot out of the water, ran a scratchy washcloth between the toes, and lowered the foot back into the tub. The same was done to the other foot. Constance observed her feet with dismay. They certainly weren’t anything to brag about.. . .

. . .

They had been once, small and shapely, so pretty in heels, worn out by years of walking back and forth before a blackboard, teaching morons the lessons history had to offer. Years of dull faces; years of dull minds. Engineering students needing to fulfill their liberal arts credits; fools who had no idea what to study and who got assigned to her lecture by that toad, Harriet, in Registration. “Miss Maynard’s class is too hard for me,” whispered more than one curly-haired girl. Just there to get a husband and start cranking out imbecile children. The so-called research papers they wrote were scandalous. No matter how many times she went over proper footnoting procedure, their sources (if they were actual sources) went uncited. Her remarks were harsh and often caused tears. The Dean scolded her. She could be hard on the men, that was fine; they were serious, hoping for a bright future. The women, well, what could you expect? Constance fumed. And then, she was blessed when Angela Lowry signed up for her class. Angela had a first-rate mind and was eager to learn. She’d read everything on the War of the Roses. Her final paper was good enough to be published. When Constance checked one of her beautifully cited reference materials, she discovered that Angela had plagiarized a man writing two decades earlier, Dr. Harold Moss, at Harvard. She invited her to come to her office. “I think you know why you’re here,” Constance said. She had brewed a cup of tea, hoping it would soothe. “You caught me.” Just like that. Angela didn’t even blink. What color was her hair? Like the inside of a yam, a pale orange. Her blouse was white with small red buttons, and embroidered roses on the collar. She had big hands that looked raw, as if she washed them a lot in harsh soap. Angela had wanted to test her professor, to see how good she really was. Hence the intentional plagiarism. Constance knew that was nonsense. The girl got stuck for time and panicked. Then she tried to talk her way out of it. Constance admired her moxie.

Was that a word anyone used anymore, moxie?. . .

. . .

They were still fussing with her feet. Sam trimmed her nails. Eunice was talking. “He says I’m kind,” she said. Her hair was bushy, copper-streaked with gray. “Aren’t you?” Sam asked. She had a pleasant voice for such a big girl. “Never thought of myself that way before. Gullible, yes.” And then to Constance, “You’re all done, dear.” “Can’t you see I’ve still got the other one to do?” Sam asked. “Right.” Snip, snip, snip. Constance jerked her foot back. “You need to hold still,” Sam said. Sam clipped the last nail, on the little toe of Constance’s right foot, then wheeled her from her bathroom back into her bedroom. Eunice spread a blanket across her lap. The blanket didn’t quite cover her feet, which were now slippered, yet distinctly cold. She could never be comfortable when her feet were cold.

. . .

“You are, I can tell.” “I am what?” “Getting cold feet.” Constance held her cocktail and looked down. A smell of lilac came in on the breeze lifting the gauze curtains in the study. Lilac was her favorite flower. They might have made a pretty wedding bouquet. She could feel William watching her. She smoothed one sleeve of her dress with her free hand. She brought the glass to her lips, then lowered it. “William—” What had she told him on that long-ago afternoon? What reason did she give? There were too many to count. They rolled through her mind, as her gin and tonic warmed in her hand. The breeze was a comfort, then it died, the curtains stilled, and she found her voice. “I can’t.” Nothing more was ever said between them. Not even when she returned the ring. She thought he might remark on that, at least. Choosing it was probably their most intimate moment. What he had first presented her with was a thin band that had belonged to his mother. The look on her face— shock that he would take such a step at all—was misinterpreted. He chided himself for not understanding how badly she would want her own ring, not one someone else had worn, however happily, for over forty years. At the jeweler’s he talked her into a larger diamond than she thought appropriate, or which looked good on her hand. “Isn’t it rather … ?” “Tasteful and grand?” he’d asked. “Vulgar,” she wanted to say, but didn’t. Of course, it was beautiful. Diamonds always are, and this was quite a good one. E color, very, very small inclusions, round cut. Two point three carats. “It suits you, darling,” he whispered, under the jeweler’s approving gaze. They met at Brown. Her field was history, his, philosophy. He was impressed by her academic ambitions, that she’d attended Smith College, that she was petite and self-possessed. He was no doubt used to women who swooned over his attention and the prospect of marrying his money. William was rich in that quiet, understated way people tend to find so attractive. He never called attention to his wealth. He dressed modestly. It was the family home that gave it all away. Abundant opulence. The silent, invisible servants. His aunt’s cool assessment of Constance, and then her grudging acceptance. Since his mother’s death, his Aunt Helen had run the show. William’s father made himself scarce. Like Constance, William was an only child. He didn’t seem entirely surprised by her refusal. Her letters to him the summer before, written from London, had been cool and objective, unlike his, which were warm and intimate. In one, he’d even begged her to return early so they could be together. She said she couldn’t just yet because she still hadn’t found a good topic for her doctoral thesis. In truth, she’d already settled on the fifteenth century English queen, Anne Neville. That era’s military campaigns and shifting factions were interesting enough, she supposed, but they were the stuff of men. She wanted to study the women. Marriages were political and strategic. Love, if it came, was after the fact. Anne Neville was a perfect example. She was married off at fourteen to a French prince who was killed trying to invade England. Then the widow of a dead traitor, she threw herself on the English king’s mercy. For her trouble, she was placed under the king’s guardianship, shut away, and urged to join a convent so the king could retain control of her fortune. Her only recourse was to marry the king’s brother. Such a rotten deal, Constance always thought. Trading one prison for another.

. . .

Eunice straightened the sheets on Constance’s bed while Sam removed dirty clothes from the basket in the closet. She put the clothes in a bag marked with Constance’s name and pulled the drawstring tight. “Plans for the weekend?” Eunice asked her. “Going through old stuff in the attic with my mother.” Sam’s tone said it was really the last thing she wanted to do. “Hm. You could tell her you’re sick or helping out a friend. Use me as an excuse, if you want to.” “I can’t do that. She depends on seeing me. She’s—you know, needy.” Constance nodded. Sam noticed. “But you’ve never met her, Constance. You must be thinking of someone else,” Sam said.

. . .

Constance’s family fell apart when she was nine. They lived in Los Angeles. Her mother had dreams of stardom that never came true. Her father worked as a bookkeeper for a number of small businesses—a plumbing company, which Constance remembered him praising for paying their bills on time, also a small theater troupe where Constance’s mother had had several auditions, then one modest part, then poor reviews and a gentle invitation to leave the cast. It sat badly with her. She stayed home, a cigarette in her hand, circles below her eyes, stains on her bathrobe. Constance was in awe of her mother because she had attempted something brave that other mothers didn’t, which made her failure more acute. When her mother made a new career out of disappointment and sloth, she lost interest in Constance. Constance escaped the pain of her rejection through books, into the world of knights and ladies fair. All those lovelorn women left to worry and wait while the men had their fun fighting. What did they do to pass the time? They reveled in the quiet and calm, no doubt, and kept busy with embroidery and weaving. The noble women would have held fine linens and lace; the servants sat at looms crafting tapestries to soften and warm stone walls. Constance learned the art of needlework from her downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Pauline Lester. Her hands were gnarled terrors, yet quick and precise when wielding a needle. She sewed the most beautiful things! Fields of ornate flowers and birds, a young girl with flowing blond hair that made Constance despise her own raven curls, a small white dog sleeping on the threshold of a charming cottage in the woods. Constance began with a simple patterned canvas, following the outlines faithfully, crying when she erred and had to pull the tender thread from where it didn’t belong. The world of her imagination, populated with dreams and the fabric in her own hands kept her going, far from the sour mood of her mother and the stony silence of her father. It was decided that Constance’s mother suffered from a nervous condition and needed to be in the company of people better able to help her. Constance waited with Pauline while her father put her mother and her one suitcase into the car and drove away. He was gone a long time. When he returned, he stood visibly straighter. His voice had a lighter tone. Soon, though, the task of caring for his young daughter weighed him down again. Constance’s father had been raised by his stepmother, then widowed and living in upstate New York. The stepmother was notified of the change in circumstance, and Constance was packed off on a train across country, alone, with her name and destination typed on a piece of paper and attached to the lapel of her coat with a safety pin. Her shock at the upheaval of her world was deep. What occupied a still deeper space within her was the splendor of the passing landscape. The desert seemed a glorious and terrifying place! She’d seen it before, of course, in little excursions with her parents before her mother cracked up. Pauline used those very words to a neighbor in her kitchen when she thought Constance was still embroidering in the living room, out of earshot. It was as apt a term as any, Constance thought. The woman who received Constance into her Dunston home on a still spring night was as solid as a rock. Lois Maynard would brook no nonsense, she informed Constance as she led the way up the dim stairway. But she would reward good behavior. Constance could be sure of that. In the years that followed, Constance was seldom punished and seldom praised. She was surprised to find how little she minded it. She adored school and excelled in all her subjects. “A natural scholar,” more than one teacher said. When she wasn’t at her books, she embroidered. The owner of the yarn shop in town, Mrs. Lapp, smiled when she came in. “It’s not the same shade of red,” Constance said. Mrs. Lapp stared at her sympathetically. To her, Constance was an unfortunate case. The grandmother—stepgrandmother—was well known. Her house, a mansion, really, was clearly visible on its high hill, particularly in winter when the trees bared. Not much of a life for a child, living in a cold place like that, Mrs. Lapp thought, though Constance was nearly thirteen at that point. She was small for her age, and had given up hoping she would be taller. Mrs. Lapp checked the skein Constance had taken from the peg on the wall, then consulted her inventory book and assured Constance that the lot number was the same. Constance gave her what remained of the skein she’d used to embroider a row of roses. Mrs. Lapp took both skeins to the glasstopped door where the sunlight poured through. “How right you are! The new is slightly more brown, isn’t it?” Mrs. Lapp asked. Even so, there was nothing to be done. Mrs. Lapp suggested that Constance use the new wool in a corner, somewhere the eye wasn’t instantly drawn. Constance had already thought of that.

. . .

“It’s nice to see you smile,” Eunice said. Constance was not aware that she was smiling. She wanted a skein of that red wool—the proper color. She needed to finish her embroidery. She loved it so. She pointed to the table by her bed. The lower shelf had her rolled-up canvas. Eunice brought it to her, set it in her lap, and then she and Sam went on their way.

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