#I don't want to get into details but good god this country is a nightmare

[shikai-the-storyteller]

Had a long chat with some of my coworkers today about work stuff and the state of the world and money and it was grim as hell, but it felt nice to complain and feel validated about said complaints.

But also damn. Nobody in my generation is doing ok.

[karahalloway]

Mardi Gras Mayhem - Chapter 9: Bastien

Fandom: TRR

Series: Mardi Gras Mayhem (click the link to read each part in order!)

Pairings: None

Summary: The TRR lads celebrate Maxwell's 21st birthday in New Orleans during Mardi Gras. What can possibly go wrong?

Synopsis: Bastien goes on the hunt for Leo and Liam in the Mardi Gras crowd...

Word count: 3,000

Warnings: M (swearing, brief mentions of nudity, spicy food)

A/N: This is a part of a collaboration written for @choicesprompts' March prompt.

Bastien

"Rico? You got eyes in them?"

"Yessir," came the crackling confirmation over the comms. "They're right in— Oh, shit!"

Bastien grabbed the mic in front of him. "Rico? What the hell happened? Rico?"

All he got was radio silence.

"Bring up the body cam!" he barked at the techie.

The tap of keys rang out as the view on the monitor changed.

"What in the—?"

Words failed Bastien. Never — in all his years as a King's Guard — had he seen anything like this.

"Are they... topless?" whispered the techie with a slack-jawed expression.

"I don't care if they're buck-ass naked!" snapped Bastien, quickly yanking his composure back together as the bare breasts continued to bounce past on the screen. "We need eyes on London and Paris! Dimitriou! Sit rep!"

"I'm neck deep in tits, sir...!"

"Goddammit!" hissed Bastien under his breath. "Why must I do everything myself...? Bruno!"

The techie nearly gave himself whiplash as he wrenched his mesmerised gaze away from the titillating view. "Y-yes, sir...?"

"Get me an earpiece and a tracker. I'm going green," he declared, pulling his jacket on.

Bruno's eyes widened. "But—"

"We need all the eyes we can spare out in the field. And since I can't work all this crap—" he threw his arm out at the various pieces of surveillance tech that had been shoved into the tight space they occupied, "—you're going to have to hold down the fort."

The techie swallowed nervously. But he knew better than to question his commanding officer. Especially in a crisis situation. So, he forced himself to nod. "Yes, sir."

"Good lad," approved Bastien as he quickly slotted the earpiece into place, and pocketed the tracker. "Keep all the comms links open, and keep me informed of everything."

Without waiting for Bruno to confirm his acquiescence, Bastien threw the back of the van open and jumped out onto the pavement. Slamming the door closed behind him, he dove into the press.

God, this was a nightmare...

When Constantine had informed him that the young princes wished to accompany the Beaumonts to New Orleans for Maxwell's birthday celebrations, Bastien had not thought much of it. One city was basically like any other when it came to security, after all.

So, he'd accepted the assignment on the spot.

But as he'd set about planning the details of the security arrangements, he had quickly come to the less than reassuring realisation that this operation was going to be anything but run-of-the-mill.

Not only had the Beaumonts picked the busiest weekend of the New Orleans social calendar — when over 1 million visitors descended on the city for the world-famous Mardi Gras celebrations — but instead of simply enjoying the festivities from the safety of the bar of their five-star hotel, the nobles actually wanted to join the chaotic extravaganza.

In matching costumes.

Bastien had tried to veto the sparkly outfits that Maxwell had smuggled into the country in his oversized suitcase. His team's job was going to be difficult enough trying to keep tabs on his royal charges without them camouflaging themselves in the same kind of gaudy garb that everyone else on the street would be wearing.

But his objections had not only been soundly ignored, but Maxwell had actually foisted the same loud ensemble onto him as well!

Christ alive...

Though as a consolation, he had managed to sneak a few additional tracking dots onto the Princes' clothes before they'd set out for their night on the town.

He just had to hope that nothing had happened to Leo and Liam (codenamed London and Paris respectively for this trip) after his team had lost sight of them in the wild crowd.

Because a few tracking dots weren't going to help in the face of a mugging, much less an assassination attempt. That's why his team also had boots on the ground — to provide close-quarters protection should things take a sudden turn for the worst.

At least, that was the idea.

Because Leo, especially, liked to treat his detail as (un)willing participants in a high-stakes game of hide-and-seek. And Liam was apt to blindly follow his brother into questionable situations, with the result that both royals had the potential to go AWOL in the chaos of the streets.

Which meant that Bastien had his work doubly cut out for him.

And he was not going to be the one responsible for losing the Rys brothers in a foreign country.

Full stop.

He'd rather face a firing squad than Constantine's ire.

Continuing to shove his way through the press, he finally arrived at the Rys' brothers' last confirmed location...

...but there was no sign of them anywhere.

Bastien craned his neck, hoping to catch sight of a tell-tale mop of blonde and/or raven hair, but too many people were sporting top hats, platform shoes, and even stilts. The haphazardly flying beads, coconuts and wayward boas were not helping matters either.

"Damn it..." he hissed under his breath.

"Sir!" Bruno's voice crackled to life in his ear. "I've got them, sir!"

"Where?"

"In the building. Two hundred meters to your right."

"Good work, Bruno," acknowledged Bastien, already elbowing his way through the crush. "All teams! Converge on my location, stat!"

Having arrived at the building in question — which he could see was some sort of dive bar — he was about to step through the door when Bruno's voice buzzed in his earpiece again.

"Sir! I don't know what happened, but I... I..."

"Jesus Christ, lad," shouted Bastien. "Just spit it out already!"

"I can't see them anymore."

Bastien froze. "What do you mean, you can't see them?"

"They're... they're gone, sir," stammered the techie. "They just... disappeared..."

The colour drained from Bastirn's face. "Oh, shit..."

A lost signal meant one of only two things: a technical malfunction or foul play. And since the realm of possibilities where all the tracking signal disappeared simultaneously was slim to none, that meant that they were definitely up shit creek.

"Rico! Dimitriou!" barked Bastien as the team leads finally arrived, sweaty and panting. "Cover the exists! No one's getting in or—"

He almost got bowled over as a large group of animated men wearing matching lime green t-shirts flooded out of the bar onto the sidewalk.

"Which way's the hotel...?" shrieked a well-coiffed blonde with the slogan Most Likely to Get Lost emblazoned across his chest.

"I thought we were going to a bar...!" objected a lanky brunette bearing the phrase Most Likely to Get Us All Arrested on his top.

"We just left the bar!" shouted a third, swinging his man purse out — and very narrowly missing Bastien's face.

"Good thing too, because all the hot guys are out here!" crooned a fourth sporting a tipsy grin and smoky eyeliner, as he laid eyes on Rico and Dimitriou.

"Hey!" objected his ginger-haired friend. "You're already married, Jerry! You made your choice! These hunks are for us!"

"So?!" retorted Jerry, grabbing onto Bastien. "Brad isn't here, is he?"

"No!" cried the redhead, giving his supposed friend a shove. "I saw him first! This one's mine!"

"Where the hell did you get this?" demanded Bastien he snapped a hold over the redhead's wrist.

"Hey!" cried the man. "What do you think you're—?"

"Answer the question!" ordered Bastien, raising the ginger's arm up so there was no way he could overlook the much-too-big Patek Philippe that adorned his manicured wrist.

"Okay, fine!" came the offended scoff. "A random guy with a fancy accent dumped it on me."

Bastien's eyes widened. "Was he tall and blonde?"

"Yeah, I guess so...?"

"Was there another male with him? Similar height, dark hair—?"

"How the heck should I know!"

"By paying attention," grumbled Bastien as he expertly slipped the heavy time-piece off the man’s wrist. "Rico! Dimitriou! We have a lead!"

Quickly extricating himself from the throng, Bastien pushed his way towards the dive bar, the other Guard hot on his heel.

Bursting into the smoky and dimly lit venue, he cast his eyes around the room, looking for the missing prince(s).

But he couldn't see them anywhere.

"Rico! Dimitriou! Fan out! If they're still here, we need to find them!"

The Guard dispersed, pushing and shoving their way though the press of patrons, leaving a trail of obscenities and split liquor in their wake.

Bastien, meanwhile, marched up to the bar, pulling his phone out as he went. "Hey! You!"

The bartender flicked his gaze up from the row of shots he was pouring.

"Have you seen these men?" Bastien demanded, thrusting a picture of Leo and Liam at the guy.

The man scoffed. "If I did, I ain't gonna remember. It's been a madhouse in here all day with sororities, bachelor parties, tourists—"

"Damn it—!" Bastien shook his head irately as he turned away.

They needed another avenue.

"Bruno! I need maps, blueprints, CCTV... Anything you've got!"

"Actually, sir, that may not be necessary..."

Bastien snapped a hand up to his ear to make sure he'd heard Bruno correctly. "You found them?"

"I got a hit on their carrier signal. Both of them. They're—"

"Send me the coordinates!" shouted Bastien as he threw himself out of the front door again.

Pulling up the secure tracking app on his phone, he saw two red dots appear on the screen.

Less than a two blocks away...

But his path was blocked by a virtual sea of people. And trying to fight his way through the crush was going to cost him time... time which he did not have.

He was going to have to take a less direct route.

Spinning on his heel, he dived into the closest side-street, elbowing people indiscriminately out of the way as he went. As he moved further away from the epicentre of the carnival, the crowd started to thin mercifully out.

Five blocks out, where the crowd had dwindled to a manageable level, he changed direction, picking up a route that was parallel with the one that the two phone signals were taking.

He was almost level with the red dots flashing on his screen when one of them suddenly disappeared.

Bastien skidded to a confused halt. "What in the—?"

The wayward dot popped up again — in a different location.

Fuck.

"Sir, one of the signals—"

"I know," huffed Bastien in reply.

He didn't have the ability to track two leads at the same time — he was just one man and in his haste to make progress, he'd left the rest of his team behind.

"Which one's London's signal?" he asked Bruno tightly via the comms.

He'd hoped never to be in this situation. Of having to choose. But not all lives were created equal and health and well-being of the heir was ultimately more important than that of the spare.

"The one that's diverged. I... I'll mark it blue for you."

"Thanks, lad," acknowledged Bastien, picking up the pace again. "Send the location of the other signal to Rico. They can take up the chase for Paris."

"Right away, sir."

Ignoring the sweat steaming down his back courtesy of the impromptu exertion undertaken in an ill-fitting polyester jacket under the sultry Louisiana heat, Bastien continued his dogged quest, keeping half an eye on the tracking app as he went.

Before long, he arrived at the location where Leo's phone signal had come to an ultimate stop: Bubba's Gumbo Palace.

Without pausing to catch his breath, or wipe the perspiration from his face, Bastien pushed the gaudily-painted door open, the wall-mounted bell jingling to announce his arrival.

But a quick inspection of the small space (the intentional misnaming of the eatery having been an obvious advertising gimmick) revealed only a few cheap metal tables and chairs and a very pungent smell of garlic.

Maybe he was in the back...?

Wouldn't be the first time that the Crown Prince had been found in a questionable location under even more questionable circumstances... usually in the company of a woman (or three).

But as Bastien was about to take a step forward, he suddenly found his path blocked by a midget of a man, sporting a bald head and a splattered chef's apron.

"You must be hungry!" the man declared with a gap-toothed grin.

"Actually, I'm looking for—"

"Well, you ain't gotta look no further, ti!" pronounced the dwarf, jabbing his greasy ladle at Bastien. "Ma name's Bubba and lordeee if I ain't just gone and made da best batch o' gumbo this side o' Dixie!"

"I'm sure it's great, but—"

"The only question is, how hot do ya wan' it?" asked Bubba, scampering enthusiastically behind the counter. "Hot? Hellishly hot? Or hot enough to fry a Mexican?"

"Look, I'm not here for—"

"Mexican it is!" declared Bubba, furiously ladling gumbo into a bowl. "That'll put some hair on your chest!"

"I have hair on my chest..."

"Not this kinda hair!!" came the shouted proclamation as Bubba finished putting the finishing touches on his creation. "Now what do ya wanna wash it down with?"

"The only thing I want is—"

"Coke!" pronounced Bubba, slamming a can of Dr Pepper down on the counter. "No two ways 'bout it, ti!"

Bastien raised a brow, but held off on commenting. He didn't want to get drawn down an even more potentially time-consuming tangent than the one he found himself on already.

Instead, he reached for his wallet. "How much do I owe you?"

Since Bubba had refused to take 'no' for an answer, Bastien figured he might as well just pay up so he could—

The ear-splitting opener of Right Said Fred's I'm Too Sexy rent the silence of the small space.

"Oh, 'scuse me a sec," flushed Bubba, pulling the phone out of his apron pocket...

...a phone that Bastien instantly recognised.

"Bubba's Gumbo Palace!" chirped Bubba, lifting the device to his ear. "We got deee best—"

"Give me that!" cried Bastien, making a grab for the phone.

But the little man was surprisingly spry for his age (and height) and ducked deftly out of reach. "Now that was mighty rude—!"

"No ruder than you shamelessly misappropriating stolen property," glowered Bastien, sizing up the space and the angles in order to calculate the best way to get the jump on Bubba.

Bubba looked genuinely offended. "Stolen?! Sir, I'd neva! This here phone is mine by rights!"

"Uh-huh," muttered Bastien. "Because a lion-emblazoned phone case with the words 'Totally Roarsome' just screams gumbo-obsessed hillbilly."

"A man can have diverse interests," sniffed Bubba.

"Not that diverse," countered Bastien. "So how about you hand that phone over, and tell me how you got your hands on it, and I'll consider not reporting you to the cops for petty theft."

Bubba mulled his words over. "A'ight," he said eventually. "You can have the phone. But only after you have that gumbo. Can't have all that food goin' t' waste! And I gotta get somethin' outta this transaction!"

"There is no transaction!" objected Bastien. "You're lucky I'm not—"

"D'you want the phone or not?"

"...yes."

"Then eat the grub," insisted Bubba, pushing the tray towards him. "It's a fair trade, wouldn't you say...?"

Bastien heaved a breath. As much as he hated to admit it, taking Bubba up on his offer was guaranteed to be a much faster way to get what he came for than potentially spending several hours running around the French Quarter looking for a needle in a haystack. And if the little man reneged on his word...? Well, then there was always the option of slowly peeling back the midget's fingernails with the business end of his switch-blade.

"Okay. Fine. I'll—"

"Can't forget the secret ingredient !" cried Bubba, dumping half a bottle of hot sauce on the plate.

Bastien stared at the fare dubiously. The things he did for King and country...

Picking out a plastic spoon from the holder on the counter, he grabbed the tray and took it over to the nearest table. Sitting down, he dipped the utensils into the red hot mess in front of him, and lifted it to his mouth...

...and nearly spat it back out when the heat of the hot sauce hit the back of his throat.

But he forced himself to swallow. Because Bubba had potential information about Leo's whereabouts and Bastien had lost too much time already chasing his tail.

Twenty agonising bites later, Bastien was red-faced, sweating and his mouth felt like it has been dragged through a lava field. But he'd accomplished his mission. He'd finished the whole bowl. Without touching the Dr Pepper.

Even Bubba looked impressed. "Ooh-whee! That was some championship eatin' right there, 'cuz! What d'ya think? Good, huh?"

"It was... It was actually good," admitted Bastien. It was true — behind the towering wall of hellfire lay a surprisingly nuanced flavour profile. And he actually wouldn't have minded having some more... just with a lot less hot sauce.

"What did I tell ya?!" beamed Bubba. "Now, I also have—"

"Just the phone... please," interjected Bastien.

"Oh, alright," harrumphed Bubba, reaching into his pocket. "A bet's a bet..."

Bastien raised a brow. "Bet? Thought this was supposed to be a trade..."

"Mighta been a bitta both," shrugged Bubba unabashedly. "And you won, so what does it matter, huh?"

"You still owe me an explanation..." Bastien reminded him as he pocketed the phone.

Bubba spread his hands. "Not that much to tell, really. I'd gone out back for a smoke when I felt somethin' crunch 'neath ma feet, and I thought to Lord Ah must've stepped on a damn turtle again..."

"A turtle? In the city...?" queried Bastien sceptically.

"How else am I s'posed t' make turtle soup if I ain't got no turtles!" exclaimed Bubba. "But them sneaky critters are always excapin' outta their cage...! But anyso's, I look down and it inna a turtle but a phone."

"And you have no idea how it got there?"

"If I did, I'd've told ya."

Bastien's shoulders sagged. "Thanks, anyway..." Pulling out his wallet, he handed the little man a hundred dollar bill.

Bubba's eyes widened. "But—"

"For the trouble," Bastien said as he turned back towards the door.

"Wait!"

Bastien paused and looked back.

"How 'bout Ah give youse a lil' somethin' for the road, huh?" offered Bubba, scuttling back behind the counter.

"Thanks, but—"

"On da house!" declared Bubba, foisting a surprisingly heavy paper box into Bastien's hands before he could protest further and shoving him out onto the street.

Bastien shook his head. Stranger than fiction, that man...

But the story was not over yet, unfortunately.

"Bruno! Progress report!"

"Rico and Dimitriou are still tracking Paris' signal. They should be—"

"Call them off," Bastien huffed. "Leo seems to have deliberately dumped both devices to send us on a wild goose chase across the city... again."

"So... what's the plan now, sir?"

"To wait for them at the rendezvous point. And pray they turn up..."

Otherwise Constantine would be chopping him up to make gumbo!

[rayclubs]

Gonna talk about my family a bit. Depressing stuff, really. Better not read it, I just need to put it out there somewhere because it's weighing on me.

Mom works night shifts. Dad isn't working right now, so he cooked dinner. Saw him wake her up gently to come eat with him, and just... Well...

She's kind of like a kid in a lot of ways. Eats all the sweets by herself, that sort of selfish. Dad goes along with it a lot, he's real nice with her. I just... Used to think he was nice with me too when I was a kid. Mom was always mean, but I thought dad was alright. He'd never beat me up, anyhow.

So I saw him being all soft and caring, and it just hit me that I never got that. I think they'd have been so much better without kids, and the fact that I turned out wrong didn't help. That they're quietly transphobic is one thing, but there's a load of issues with me. I think they always disliked me. Doesn't matter how much shit I can buy them now because I have all the resilience and none of the self-care.

Sis doesn't care either. I get nightmares, she knows I do - still, I get scolded for waking her up with my scared noises.

It's just... Rough. Knowing they want me gone, realizing they've always wanted me gone. You guys may not know this about me, but I'm not exactly a well of reasons to stick to god's green earth. I just work these days. Might get distracted for an hour or so, reading or talking to a friend - that's all the reasons I get.

Folks tell me to leave this house. In a hopeful kind of way - you'll get out, you'll live someplace else. I can't, not realistically. I probably won't. I don't know if I want to - I love this ugly old house, this horrible town, this dying country. That they don't particularly invite my presence is a different matter.

Also a bit tired of having to shush myself when it comes to these things. I know internet isn't a good place to detail your mental health to, but I really wish it were. I lost friendships over this. Close friendships. Talking to no one is just... Safer. Than talking to someone.

I don't have a doctor to put this on paper for me, but I've been awfully sick this month. I'm not going to delete the blog again, but I'm not hoping for this year's summer either. That's kind of dramatic, isn't it? Don't answer that.

[tariqchosenone]

Read this if you want to understand God and Satan

God is an all powerful and all knowing spiritual being who is Sonic the hedgehog.

If you want to study how God deals with the human race read the Bible. The old testament in bible details black history (jews are really black, not white, Judaism worships Lucifer). The new testament in bible talks about the teachings of Jesus Christ who is the son of God and what Jesus wants his followers (who he calls his brothers and sisters) to know and abide in his teachings.

This is all true. The world is ran by devil worshipping luciferians who dominate the Human population. If there are truly 8 billion people in the world, then there are 1 billion humans (who descended from Adam and Eve) and there are 7 billion non-human luciferians (who don't obey God, they obey the devil).

These luciferians pretend to be Christian and worship Jesus Christ but in reality they obey demons and the devil.

God of the universe who created the holy Bible, controls both the good and the evil.

I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the LORD do all these things.

Isaiah 45:7 KJV

For example God made 9/11 happen and made two commercial airplanes knock down both twin towers, why did God do this.

God let the devil (Remember God controls good and evil, so therefore God controls the devil). God let the devil knock down both twin towers in New York with bombs and two airliners and he also bombed building seven.

Why did God let something as tragic as  9/11 happen. Because the people inside the twin towers were non-human luciferians. God wouldn't have let 9/11 happen if they were all real human beings created by God.

The Devil knows the bible better than of you luciferians (you are a luciferian if you are reading this post) since the devil knows the scriptures he knows everything I'm saying in this post and the Devil is a master deceiver and master liar.

If you have friends and family for example. Your friend and family can worship the devil and you will have no idea they worship the devil. Satan gets all of his powers from lying and deception.

Black Americans who were enslaved from 1600 all the way to 1850s are God's chosen people we are the true jews of Israel.

The white people you see in the country Israel they worship lucifer, read the Babylonian Talmud and you will discover they worship and glorify Lucifer. Also in the Talmud it says Jesus Christ was a bastard son of a Roman soldier and that mother Mary was a whore (Mary was a holy virgin mother of Jesus).

Remember most Christians are luciferians that worship the devil, they will never tell you the truth. It is impossible for someone to tell you the truth that they worship the devil. Non-human luciferians are all deceivers and liars, my own best friend that I knew for 7 years was a luciferian But I didn't know until God told me in August 2019 in a dream he worships the devil.

Ask God if someone close to you is a luciferian and he will tell you a In a dream in a indirect way. When God speaks to you in a dream he speaks to you in a dark parable or a dark speech. God makes his dreams like a puzzle you have to decipher with God's wisdom.

And the LORD answered me, and said, Write the vision, and make it plain upon tables, that he may run that readeth it. For the vision is yet for an appointed time, but at the end it shall speak, and not lie: though it tarry, wait for it; because it will surely come, it will not tarry.

Habakkuk 2:2‭-‬3 KJV

When God gives you a vision (a dream)

You have to wait for something to happen in real life and wait until a appointed time and then the dream will make sense.

Sometimes you have to wait 5 years for a vision you got 5 years ago to make sense.

Only God can give you dreams, if you get nightmares (I've had plenty of nightmares) then God is trying to warn you of something, or God is trying to show how dark and evil something in your own personal life is.

[boop-le-snoot]

Doll Parts | tony stark x reader

i love him so much it just turns to hate // he only loves those things because he loves to see them break // and someday you will ache like i ache // Hole - Doll Parts

all hurt comfort. angst. no happy ending. big sad. tony could have been like this, you know. he was like this to pepper at some point. i don't know why i am like this today. rated M for themes of (implied) addiction & cheating and non-explicit mentions of intimacy. word count: 3,3k

It wasn't as if she was blind or dumb. She saw the way he treated everyone around him; whenever a single person got too close he'd push them away, consciously or not. The man loved pushing everybody's buttons as if he was playing Galaga for a living; rapidly, mercilessly, with intent. Tony Stark was not a man to whom a person would give their heart willingly.

It was her own fault she went and gave hers away, to him, of all people. And sometimes, it did feel like he loved her, in his own way. Tony would shower her with gifts and affection, cling to her whenever he wasn't away on SI business, and God, the sex was out of this world. Sometimes, she felt as if she would suddenly burst into a blinding flash of light, scalding and deafening, that would sprout from the invisible wounds his fingers left on her skin. Like fine china, she cracked little by little under his steady, tender hands.

The first time he'd ended their short, by average standards, but long - by his, relationship, it didn't come as a surprise. She had never held illusions on ensnaring the world's most notorious playboy. Younger and less jaded, she amicably agreed to get her things that very same day, blocked his number and left for an overdue vacation in the tropics. Being able to browse the gossip sites speculating on their lack of public appearances whilst sipping a Strawberry Daiquiri was a much better alternative to spending her nights holed up in rainy Manhattan, having to answer numerous "I told you so" calls from friends and relatives.

Maybe, three daiquiris should've been enough. But she'd quit smoking because he said the smell bothered him and she- well, she could do anything she wanted now. Being alone and not dating a very public figure definitely had way more perks than she previously had taken for granted in her much less exposed life. That's how the heartache began to recede: it was hard to mope when fun was calling for you by your name.

Some of Tony's character traits had migrated onto her. Which wasn't bad per se, she had been told she could use to loosen up. Her friends rejoiced in the newfound adventurousness, never missing an opportunity to go out, throw a party, go on a clubbing spree. She was game and she was enjoying it. Dolled up and eyes sparkling, the newfound confidence radiated off her like a beacon, attracting just about every single like-minded person in a five mile radius.

Tony's champagne he had sent to their table meant nothing. Her friends laughed and giggled and asked her all about the juicy details about the billionaire; as much as she searched the rowdy crowd for a familiar pair of baby doe browns, they weren't anywhere within sight. So she went back to talking and smiled as bright as the strobe lights, throwing down a whiskey shot to water the burning ache in her chest.

She found him on the dancefloor. Seconds after she stepped her foot into the mass of grinding bodies Tony was there, an equally happy and intoxicated smile on his face and arms wide open, as if they hadn't parted ways at all. She wanted to be angry with him, she really did, she wanted to snide his frivolity and the possessive way that he had the audacity to treat her.

His eyes, they were her untold weakness. She hadn't seen him so happy in months. Just once, she agreed, she'd let it slide. And so they danced, bodies accustomed to each other in the way that seemed to be impossible for her to achieve with anyone since the day that she left Tony Stark.

A splitting headache and a cold, empty bed greeted her the next morning. Thankfully, her clothes were laying haphazardly on the floor of the bedroom - the bed that was not his own but, rather, as she assumed, one of the many guest rooms in his tower.

Not the one to usually harbour shame of her very human needs, she felt like a cheap whore when she got dressed and grabbed her purse, making a beeline for the door to the elevator. As soon as the doors opened, she was greeted with a woman in a professional suit - tall, strawberry blonde and as cold as the Arctic, beautiful in the Vogue-magazine, unattainable way.

"Good morning," The woman spoke in a pleasant tone.

She wanted to retch from the false cheerfulness. "Good morning, ma'am. I was just leaving," Refusing to bow to her own shame, she flashed an equally cheerful grin towards the blonde.

"I'm Mr. Stark's personal assistant, my name is Pepper Potts," They briefly shook hands, neither of them wanting to touch the other longer than it was necessary. "There is a car waiting for you downstairs. Be sure to take the left exit."

Internally fuming, she smiled slightly wider, seeing no need to introduce herself or prolong the awkward interaction longer than necessary. "Thank you, Ms. Potts, that will not be necessary. I have arranged my own ride. Have a nice day, ma'am," With that, she pressed the button once again, entering the elevator with the expression of polite contentment glued to her face like a persistent piece of dog shit she couldn't shake off the bottom of her shoe.

Ms. Potts' façade slipped slightly - she must've been new - as the blonde ran a sharply observant look over the woman in the elevator, pulling out her phone as soon as the elevator door was halfway closed. That was quickly forgotten, her head growing clearer with each second it was pressed against the cold window of the cab she'd called on the way downstairs.

It was a mistake, a perfectly human accident that happened to the best of them. Only it left a bitter residue somewhere south of her ribcage, something acrid and viscous that even alcohol couldn't melt. The more she drank, the thicker that ball of rolled up frustration became, bleeding into her work, her relationships with her friends. It was tiresome to keep craving something so far out of her reach.

The exhaustion grew day by day, until her chest felt constricted for most part of the day and all the oxygen in the whole wide world wasn't enough. Her heartache was saved, strangely enough, by aliens - they rained down on New York city like frogs during the Plague in the book of Exodus; as if God himself was angry at the state of affairs of his favourite pet earthlings. For a time, she couldn't afford to worry about her broken heart and focused on the dilapidated city, landing her resources and skills whenever, whenever she could.

Late at night, exhausted and drained, she allowed herself to flick through the news, eagerly soaking up the new details that seemed to pop up every other day. Aliens were real, Thor was one, Captain America was alive and her ex-boyfriend was now a member of the merry band of misfit superheroes.

She had never taken his hero sidegig too seriously. Tony had some good in him, he wasn't the attention-demanding supervillain-waiting-to-happen, but neither he was hero material. The Tony she knew was akin to a hyperintelligent kid left without supervision. Consequences were a slight setback, not a surefire deterrent for this man.

Her building remained mostly intact - some cosmetic damages that were repaired quickly and did not concern her apartment at all - so she stayed in the same place, much to everyone's dismay. A good chunk of her friends had moved away from NYC as soon as they could - not that she blamed them - but the calls of her family, consisting of begging and nagging her to move states, were beginning to climb over the annoying line very quickly. More often than not, she ignored all calls that weren't from her friends or work.

It shouldn't have surprised her that Tony showed up on her balcony one night - but the shriek that left her was utterly involuntary. His armored suit was noisy and clunky, just like was expected from a huge chunk of metal. Tony's face was a ghost of the man she used to know: he was pale, the bags under his eyes were fit to carry groceries in and he'd lost more than a few pounds around his middle.

Not that she had a glow-up. Work hours were long, volunteer work was by far more exhausting and emotionally draining. With her support system scattered across the country and free hours few and in-between, she'd acquired a shrink. Nightmares went away and the sluggishness, too, thanks to a couple of convenient prescriptions. It seemed like the professionals were as clueless as any in dealing with the aftermath of an alien invasion.

"You weren't returning my calls," Tony stated in the way of hello. It was so like him, to be skipping the pleasantries and glossing over the details.

"I have your number blocked," She replied unkindly, raising an eyebrow as the suit retracted and the man, wearing worn jeans and an oil-stained tee, stepped into the twilight of her home without an invitation.

"I wanted to make sure you are alive and your home is being rebuilt in case it was demolished. Stark foundation is shouldering most of the expenses," He offered in the way of explanation, beelining for the nice whiskey she kept in a tumbler in the living room.

The snort escaped her lips before she could help it; brain chronically overtired but medicated; Adderall and weariness. He was never a good liar, only a good faker. "Why are you here, Tony?" All of it: the damages, the casualties, all of it was public record, accessible 24/7. All he had to do was open Google.

He turned around, scanning her head-to-toe, in that not-quite-convinced way. "Just wanted to see if you're okay," He tried for nonchalant but his eyes were haunted. The whiskey glass he was holding empty in seconds.

She walked up to him, staying at an arm's distance from the man, before doing a slow, sarcastic twirl. "I'm fine. Not a scratch. Was in Staten Island that day."

He nodded, not at all convinced. "Good," Before slamming the glass down with such force, she was afraid the countertop now sported a rounded indent. Fingers twitching, he pulled the woman into himself before she could utter a peep, smashing their lips together without any grace, paying no attention to the way she froze as still as a statue. "God, I missed you. Couldn't bear the thought of you dying..." He mumbled in between harshly biting the plump of her bottom lip and steering the kiss towards his wishes, hand tangled in the hair on the back of her head.

He tasted like whiskey and desperation.

She couldn't not give in. She'd felt the same way when she watched his red and gold armor fly into that wormhole, missile in tow. She'd felt the same despair clawing at her ribcage when his lifeless body flew back from it before being caught by the rabid green monstrosity.

It wasn't graceful and it wasn't pretty; feeling like a monster herself, she responded the same way he did. She shredded his clothes, she clawed his back, leaving wet crimson streaks in the wake of her nails and whispered the ugliest, nastiest truths she had denied herself for so long. He left with the promise to stay in contact and for once, he did.

Nothing was the same. Tony was far from the careless, extravagant billionaire he used to be. These days he was a cynical, analytical asshole that one-upped people even before he had a real need to do so. Both of them had changed, really. She was not the tender uptown girl either.

The nights with him were rare and long; the nights alone with her work were recurrent and longer. The tower stood out on the NYC skyline like a sore thumb, beckoning with the unattainable snipe hunt of having something stable with the world's #1 superhero, Tony Stark. Each time they met, she felt almost as dirty as the time she stood in the elevator under the scrutiny of Pepper Potts.

Even if he didn't outright hide her. She'd ran into Black Widow and Clint Barton once or twice, each of them casting a glance at her Special Visitor badge before muttering niceties and moving on with their day. It was only slightly better with the Captain: he got in the elevator two floors below Tony's penthouse at 8 AM in the morning, just as she was leaving for work - dressed in a sharp pantsuit that was not-quite on Pepper's level. The soldier must've assumed she was a high-rank employee or a friend, the tips of his cheeks blushing as he spoke a quiet: "Good morning, ma'am," In that semi-formal tone of his.

Seeing a grown man get so flustered was quite adorable. "Good morning, Captain Rogers, sir," She replied in a matching tone, humoring him.

The elevator stopped suddenly and a few employees got in, staring openly at the national icon, who had his eyebrows slanted in confusion. The woman shared his sentiment: it was Tony's private elevator. She guessed all the other ones were too full in the mornings so the tower's AI put the underused one to work.

Or, at least, that's what she tried to convince herself of anyway. It wouldn't be past Tony to get jealous over something as trivial as sharing an elevator car with Captain America.

The plateau of normalcy didn't last long. Just as she was opening her third bottle of wine for the night, laptop open on the kitchen counter and proudly displaying "Tony Stark and Pepper Potts - America's newest power couple?" article, she realised he was a coward, too. Slowly but surely, he had ghosted her, not even bothering with an explanation of his sudden unavailability, the several dates missed and even more postponed indefinitely.

They were never going to be a normal couple. She had made her peace with that, ugly and depressing - but it was real. She thought what they had was real. She finally had admitted to herself that she loved him, loved an impossible man, loved to the bottom of Hell and pitfire. The fireworks under her skin had never fully gone away, she realised as more and more ugly sobs broke from her chapped lips.

She blocked his number again and bought herself a new one, deleting the "Tony Stark" contact for good. There was more than enough work to do and the time to feel sorry for herself was sparse. And if she picked up a habit to make sure the time working was spent with proper efficiency, without soaking documents in saltwater that her eyes seemed to overproduce those days? It wasn't a big deal. She needed to get back on her feet somehow, without being dragged by a man who wasn't even present to actively be ruining her life anymore.

If anything, she thought she should feel grateful. The blinding light, the stars that exploded and shone inside her only for Tony, became something poisonous and vile. It wasn't the bitter taste of regret; rather, she felt a flash of ravenous, burning anger every time his name or his face popped up in a press article within her eyesight. Love and hate weren't that different when it came to the intensity: she basked in those newfound feelings, taking care to pick apart and neatly sort each of his perceived flaws on a cute little shelf in her overtaxed brain and fatigued heart.

It wasn't healthy. A convenient escape for the summer; a cabin far, far away from the busy New York city - she took up the offer and relocated there, being content with working remotely, drinking strawberry mimosas by the lakeside. Day by day, the clarity of her mind returned, lulled into a false sense of security by the tranquil trees slowly swaying in the breeze and wide ripples in the water.

Tony seemed to be enjoying bringing chaos into her life and making her miserable. The quinjet landed right on the neatly manicured lawn in front of the cabin, several obviously exhausted and wounded superheroes dismounting the vehicle, Tony looking sheepish but determined in the lead.

She wasn't completely unaware of the rest of the world and knew of the fiasco the Avengers recently had. Was it the half-dead, limping Widow or the baby blues of the Captain, she couldn't tell, but the woman ushered them into her house, gathering the tools needed for first aid with haste. Fate wasn't looking to give her a break.

As soon as she stepped foot in the kitchen, alone, Tony was there, looking much like that time on the balcony, baby doe browns turned up to eleven and a groveling speech prepared on demand. He'd noticed her weight loss and the ashen tone of her skin, the prominent veins and the bags under her eyes. She was as obvious as a brick to the face with her vices.

She slapped him. He winced, but stayed quiet, preparing himself for the storm - and storm him she did, keeping quiet enough for most of the team to be able to tactfully ignore the scolding Tony was getting. "I despise, you, Stark. You're a coward. Do not dare to set foot in my house ever again."

Needless to say, the superheroes departed shortly after Natasha's injuries were stabilised and frowning, disappointed Thor and Steve (they'd asked her to address them by their first names) bashfully apologized for their sudden intrusion and any discomfort they might have caused. She smiled at Steve, wide and big; refusing to admit it was done just to spite Tony, she joked and blushed in response to the Captain.

Tony did not attempt to contact her again. For some time, she lived in fear - irrational one at that - he'd appear and wreck her life one more, final time, before admiring the destruction and leaving her a steaming pile of ashes on the floor. But seasons passed and all of it faded, like a vivid, terrible nightmare.

Piece by piece, her life was getting put back together. His name stopped invoking a swarm of feelings she needed to drown just to stay afloat; there were news regarding him, another violent altercation, and she simply flicked the TV back to adult swim. New friends and new hobbies were being made; the fine cracks made by his agile fingers were being filled with the gold of newer, better discoveries.

There was always something going on in the superhero world and finally one of the topics reached her line of work: mutant rights. She'd never stopped being a volunteer after that NYC invasion, making new connections in a domain previously unexplored, it paid off in spades regarding her career growth. The connections were vital to be able to climb the corporate ladder successfully.

Stark showed up at her door three days after half of his merry band of misfits were pronounced fugitives. This time, she expected it. She knew better than to expect him to assume responsibility by himself - a quick Google search and his relationship status was listed as once again single - the Virginia Potts she knew would not have let anything like that happen. Stark was on his own.

"They betrayed me," He'd said, from behind the door she had cracked open a few inches, to make him know he wasn't welcome in her home.

"I think you know now, how I felt then," She didn't falter, ignoring the way his still freshly-bruised face darkened. "As far as I am concerned, you deserve it. Goodbye, Tony." She shut the door without waiting for his response, hearing his footsteps slowly back away as she made herself another coffee.

Tony Stark taglist: @another-stark-sub @letsby @mostly-marvel-musings @rdjesus4ever @ladyeliot

Well um 💀 yeah. I'll go and attempt to scavenge some serotonin somewhere now. Thanks for reading! 💖✨

[barnesaintdead]

Pandora's Box Chapter One

Summary: Times have changed, great heroes were gone and all that remained was wreckage and lives to start over. After an alleged attack, Bucky is taken back to the past. With nightmares still vivid in his mind, he must choose between succumbing to fear or standing before it.

Warnings: smut, angst, mentions!abuse/rape/torture, +18

Word count: +1,200

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Mutant!OC

A/N: after Endgame, another Stark Tower was built in honor of Tony and everything he has done for the world. There are lots of details about him all the way in the new Tower. Also, I'm hearing Griss's soundtrack while writing this.

The first thing she noticed when her brain woke up was how cold her body was. The warm sunlight kissed her cheeks gently, seeping under her lashes and making her eyelids flutter open to a blinding white room. Observing her surroundings, she noticed she wasn't alone. A men was sitting next to her bed, a long forgotten book in his hands and low snores coming out of his parted lips. Her entire upper body ache when she tried to sit against the headboard silently. She stayed quiet, watching dust motes travel across the room in the early morning haze. It was a chilly one, for sure. Her last memories started to appear in quick flashes trough her head. She was sleeping peacefully when the first explosion startled everyone in the building, flames already taking over almost everything in the first round. And then a second and a third, and everything was chaos and smoke and her only wish was to crumble down with the building because, fuck, it was happening all over again. The the fourth explosion came, those strong arms that were holding her tight vanished in a split second and everything she knew was the hard ground and the iron taste on her tongue.

"Good morning, sunshine", the man greets, throwing her off of her reveries. He stretched his arms up in the air, joints cracking all the way.

"Why am I here?" She asked under a troubled look. Her eyes darted to the window. From that level, all she could bring up was the Statue of Tony Stark resting above the fountain, his hand aiming at something beyond the horizon. She was in the Stark Tower.

"You know why", Sam answered. "Pandora, am I right? Like in the files?"

The girl nodded once, her slender fingers tugging to the thin fabrid that covered her legs. The moment he called her by her codename, she knew she was doomed and he was already aware of everything she was and everything that was done to her. She wondered he knew a lot more than necessary when he swinged her personal diary in his hand before throwing at her side on the bed.

"I want you to see someone... Do you think you can walk?"

Pandora nods once more and start dragging her feet off the bed's edge, startling herself by the purple marks all along her skin. It wasn't a pretty view. The first steps were difficult, like the ones of a newborn doe, she would have fallen instantly without  Sam's support on her waist. Side by side, they moved slowly towards the room next door.

Once Sam pushed the door open, her entire body tensed as if the blood in her veins had turned into ice. With her knees shaking, she stammered unconsciously:

"Zim... Zimniy s-soldat..." [Winter Soldier].

In his bed, Bucky's head moved to the side and his eyelids fluttered seconds before open slowly. His movements were lethargic by the sedatives.

"Gotov soblyudat..." [Ready to comply]. He flashes a weak smile, his voice nothing more but a growl and he focuse his blue irises on the terrified girl. "Nobody have called me that in a long time".

"Yeah. I call him asshole", Sam scoffed.

Pandora, still petrified, let a diminish laugh scape before forgetting the excruciating pain that was rushing furiously trough her body and let herself collapse against the cold floor. Images of a long lost life before her freedom takes place, filling her mind and projecting painful memories that went straight trough her heart like daggers.‎ Fear hit her hard and suddenly she is out of breath and the floor underneath her seems to disappear. Choking and trying to collect herself hysterically from the ground, she end up falling back onto Sam's grip. He hugged her tight and hid her face against his chest without hesitation, hiding her. Pandora's entire body trembled to the point of chattering teeth, her knuckles already white from tugging his shirt between her fingers.

"It's okay, darling. Nobody's gonna hurt you", Sam assured, whispering with lips touching her hair. "I promise. You can trust me, can't you? I'm here with you, nothing's gonna hurt you".

Sam had seen many post-traumatic stress atacks, more so panic ones. He knew how to deal with it. With her. She was scared and feeling unsafe and probably triggered by whatever Bucky said to her in russian, kidding or not. The first thing he did was lift them both from the ground and place her small crooked figure onto the spare bad next to the wall and covered her with the biggest blanket he could find at the moment. He watched as she started to roll herself up in a messy coccon mode.

"Don't worry, Panda. I'm gonna be here with you. Just breath, darling", Sam is now stroking long caresses across the girl's back. Bucky who had been silent trough the whole situation looked at her fondly, but there was still a hint of pain or guilt in his baby blue eyes. He knew he caused her that crisis. It was his fault. He desired to erase himself from her mind for a moment.

Almost an hour passed until Pandora was stable again. Her muscles were slowly untwining and letting her breathe properly, full deep inhales and long exhales to soothe her aching throat. Sam smiled when she looked at him with teary, but thankful eyes, but he kept his hand in motion caressing her for a while, observing how relaxed she was once she saw that were no danger. Not in him nor in the room or in Bucky's presence. She was now laying with face half buried in the sheets. looking dead into Bucky's figure like she was studying him.

"Feeling better?" Sam finally asks, taking a step back from the bed. Pandora nods and looks at him. "I need to report to Fury and get you both some food. Think you can manage to be alone here with him for a moment?"

"I guess... Yeah."

"I'll be back in a second then. Distract her, Barnes, will ya'?"

Bucky waved at him and whitin a second Sam was out of their sight. The air tensed a bit with the sudden silence, she wasn't much of a talker, neither was him, but they kept the eye contact before Bucky broke the connection to take a look outside the window.

"What happened to you?" Pandora's voice startles him, making him let out a chuckle begore putting his attention back on her. She was more mature, it was visible, there were some new scars, but still the same soft, childish features. Her question was short but complicated. He sighed.

"A lot, after Hydra. They wanted me to murder Steve, but I just couldn't finish. He broke the brainwash and after that I started to remember. When everything crumbled down, I found a place to stay in Bucharest", He lost himself in his thoughts for a moment, looking at his metal fingers. "I started a routine, everything was about remember who I was and be invisible. Then, the enemies came... Zemo, he caused a lot of problems... Thanos and the war. I turned to dust when he snapped his fingers, but Steve and the others brought us back. We fought, we won. I'm very thankful for their help. Shuri, who erased Hydra's poison from my head. I wouldn't be nothing without them, probably dead by now".

"So did you nightmares stopped?"

Bucky remembered his times under Hydra control once again, a specific moment, when he was in a cage. The girl next to him helped him sleep trough his nightmares that day. Pandora helped him even tho she was just as scared.

"Those never go away. They're always there, lurking inside my head", He laughed. "The nightmares never were about the brainwash, but about what I did when I was their puppet".

Pandora's eyes went to the ground. She understood him, her own nightmares almost drove her crazy most nights. She abused sleep pills and alcohol, but not even that made them go away. They would be always there. Her heart sinked into her chest for a second and then she heart his voice calling again.

"What about you?" He now had turned his body a bit to the side, for her to look at his front. The sheet went down a bit, showing his marked skin, so many scars in a tiny piece of him. A cold chill went down her spine.

"I was always running. Everytime something would get out of control, I just ran away to another city, then another state, and another country until I end up in that apartament".

"Get out of control...?" He lifted his eyebrow and she licked her lips.

"The things like those explosions and the fire?" She let out a faint laugh. "I'm used to that happening all time. I bring disgrace to everyone around me and that's why you should let me get out of here as soon as possible. I wouldn't want to ruin your lives."

"You mean you started the fire? You caused the explosions?" He asked.

"No. God, no. I... I didn't do anything is just... It happens around me, like I'm cursed or have this terribly bad luck", she shook her head. "I would never hurt anyone".

Outside the room, Sam and Fury listened carefully to their conversation. They new eachother from another times and leaving them alone was the best idea Sam had to show his boss that the girls wasn't a threat. Fury continued to listen while reading the girl's diary carefully while Sam got out to get the food he promised. When he got back, his boss was watching both of Hydra's best agents talking about their periods of peace and chaos with his hands befind his back.

"You hungry?" Sam asked munching on a big piece of his own cheeseburguer before handing one in the other man's direction.

Fury refused with a hand gesture and handed over her diary. He need to know nothing more, that was more than necessary.

"We're keeping her".

"Excuse me?"

"Project 001: Pandora", Fury repeated slowly, with a mischievous smirk in his face. "We're keeping her."

[mimzy-writing-online]

In my Creative Writing class, I wrote a scene where the protagonist is being dropped off at an orphanage. The orphanage I set up was ugly and dark, and the head mistress was a mean, horrible lady. One of my peers that reviewed it warned that this is a cliche. Is that true? I don't mind changing it, but the thing is my orphan boy will be adopted by a wonderful man and finally have a home he truly belongs to. How can I create a need to belong without being trite or cliche? Am I better off

anon continued: making the orphanage a good place? I want to build up to the fact this boy will finally find a loving family and home.

My answer: You should change your setting, but it’s very possible for you to maintain that it’s an unpleasant experience that sets a strong contrast for the eventual loving family.

I recommend switching the setting to a group home. Group homes function similarly to the way orphanages did in the past.

Group homes are facilities attached to child protective services that are designed to house a large number of children in the foster care system at one time.

To do that, there will be a staff of child caregivers to manage the children. The caregivers work in shifts, so there will be a day shift, evening shift, and night shift. Meaning they work 8-9 hours a shift (the extra hour might be related to catching up the next shift on any new developments, such as a new child arrival).

There might also be a care worker or two specific to managing that group home who works with each child’s case worker. They would have day shifts, a normal 9-5 type consistency. 

There will also be a manager for the group home who accounts for funding, financial decisions, staffing and schedules.

These facilities work with CPS and by extension the government. They get government funding and must meet state government established standards for quality of care, child-safety, and facility management/wellbeing.

Group homes usually stick to a specific demographic of children. Example: boys or girls group homes, only accepting children within specific age ranges (0-4, 5-8, 9-12, 13-18) or group homes that are specific to children with special needs. And they have a set capacity, a number of beds they can fill at max. Set capacity varies on state laws. According to the Children’s Bureau (a part of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, average capacity is 4-12 children (source) 

They are by far more humane than the media-presented image of an orphanage.

But that said, they can still be unpleasant.

For one, a group home isn’t a replacement for the love and care you get from an emotionally healthy family. The child is competing with several other children for attention and resources. Your character may develop an attachment to one or two of the caregivers, but the caregiver is not there all the time and their attention is stretched between multiple children.

There’s always a sense of temporariness. Children get placed with new families and new children take up the beds the same day. That’s not an exaggeration. The foster care system is overwhelmed by cases of children being removed from the home, so there is a high demand for foster families and group homes with open beds. As soon as there’s an opening, case workers are jumping to get one of their kids placed there.

It should be noted that CPS works hard to make sure that removing the child from the home is the last resort. To do this, they try to offer services to children in need, like helping parents apply for welfare if the issue is the child isn’t getting fed. Loving family, but parents who are struggling financially. Or helping connect families with finding therapy for special needs children. 

The other children aren’t in a happy situation either. They’ve come from abusive or neglectful homes or have lost their loving parents. They’re living with unknown traumas and high emotions that are difficult to process. It can lead to acting out: temper tantrums, anger, trying to hurt themselves, all of which are stressful for the caregivers trying to calm the child and the children watching from the side lines. It can lead to bullying, hoarding of food or toys.

And in the defense of children who act out this way, because villainizing the bully is a cliche as well, those children aren’t acting out of some evil desire to hurt. They’re just in pain and they don’t know how to express their emotions fully, which leads them to the form of expression they’re most familiar with: what their parents did, or what they did in the past that has worked before.

Those children are the protagonists of their own story in a sense, they don’t fully understand that everyone around them has emotions they’re dealing with inside, or how their actions make others feel. The younger they are, the harder it is to understand the feelings of others and the consequences of their actions.

Which is why bullies apologize years later, when they’re old enough to understand that what they did and said hurt someone else, another person with their own complex emotions and experiences, realizing that they became someone else’s nightmares when they were too young to understand.

So, so far (recapping for my ADHD self, because tangents are a thing I struggle with) 

Group homes can be painful experiences because: 1. Not enough love 2. Lack of stability 3. Other children acting out and being visibly distressed is a distressing thing to watch.

4. Group homes (and the foster care system in general) get a very limited amount of funding. I can’t speak for other countries and their social welfare programs, but America has a habit of cutting social welfare funding in favor of just about anything else.

So sometimes group homes have a few hidden, run down parts. Things that have fallen through the cracks because funding can’t take care of everything and they have to meet the bare minimum first.

Children are fed and clothed and the facility is clean, has running water, electricity and is heated. That’s the bare minimum. Smaller things slip through the cracks- like furniture is old and creaks and on the verge of breaking, there are rips in couch cushions, little holes dug in the wall or tiny graffiti hidden in corners and behind furniture where bored children tried to find something interesting to do. The bathroom pipe leaks so the floor is always wet. One of the bedrooms doesn’t get warm air, so there are extra blankets for that room.

They don’t make the place awful, it’s not the worst thing about living there, and for children who had hoarder or neglectful parents it’s a good deal better, but those are details that are pretty common.

5. Caregiver fatigue. Caregivers are wonderful people who put a lot of time and energy into caring for children, but it can wear down on their mental and emotional health. And they try their best to hide it, but children are sensitive to those things somehow, even if they don’t understand what it is they’re sensing.

It’s to be expected that you find a tired social worker who is late and harried from managing god-knows how many cases. Or caregivers who have a little less patience, but certainly aren’t cruel. There are so many sad cases they deal with every day and there’s never an end in sight, so they run the risk of caregiver fatigue or burn out.

They’re human, and they’re trying their best, but sometimes their job demands more than they have in that moment.

Also, it should be addressed that social workers are not paid enough, not anywhere near as much as they should be.

So it’s easy for a group home to be an unpleasant but not necessarily evil experience.

[dungeonqueering]

so uhm. this is for that divination thing if you're up for it! but i wanted to put in a submission instead of an ask so i could include a picture!

my character is a human priest (cleric but more caster-oriented in short; 3rd party class!) i made for pathfinder named daichi izayoi. he/him and generally male-aligned but his gender is somewhat nebulous. he's chaotic neutral and worships our campaign's god of fear, named vereor. oh, he's also incredibly bi and has been in a relationship with a cute sorcerer nicknamed argo and (currently) a princess named maria.

from here i'm not... totally sure what all details you're really looking for? so i apologise if little to none of it is quite what you were wanting.

he's generally a pretty amicable person, albeit incredibly bad at conversation and fairly introverted. he doesn't usually like being around people, but that doesn't mean he won't give them a fair shot and entertain them for a little bit. if nothing else he tries to be polite. he hates rich people, though (he's dating a princess because Complicated). that said, he's also an impossibly petty asshole who can't let a grudge settle.

he has depression and schizophrenia and a surprisingly morbid fear of the dark given he worships a fear god. the dm hasn't really done anything with the fact that he frequently hallucinates, but the other player and i are working some narrative stuff out between each other regardless. in his backstory we know that they've caused him to do some terrible things.

he worships and serves vereor under the impression that he owes him a sort of "life debt," though he's not entirely aware of the exact circumstances that this debt came about. all he's really sure of is that as a child he probably should have died but didn't, and those who would have done him harm at the time were vanquished when he woke. he was about four or five then.

he has no memories of the time before this waking, and since then he's been plagued with terrible insomnia and even worse nightmares. on the other hand, he's also been able to occasionally enter a world of dreams ravaged by monsters when he does manage to sleep. here there lives a girl who looks nearly identical to him. she's a knight-figure who the other party members name vyrno to avoid confusion.

(the short of this situation is that he was cursed to sleep indefinitely as a sacrifice to vereor and vereor mcguyvered it to where he could at least sort of live normally)

because vereor's not exactly the best-known (or best-liked) god in this world, daichi doesn't really do a whole lot of priesting for his god. it's much more private worship, much less doing things in vereor's name; and vereor himself doesn't seem to have a problem with that. nowadays at age 23 he frankly just wants to settle down and tend to a garden and not be involved in supernatural bullshit, but a general sense of "i should at least attempt to help and be good to the people around me" pushes him to get involved when weird things start happening. by this point he's sort of gotten attached to the adventuring life with his basically-brother and half-orc fighter kevron, though, and he feels like he still has things left to do.

what exactly he does with these situations is where the neutral part of his alignment really hits hard? he'll go exploring a ruin and travelling cross-country to save people he doesn't even know, but he'll also open the doors to a maybe-cursed tomb just to help out his girlfriend, everyone else be damned in the process. he's working things out.

uhh, i think he's also died once? dunno if that would be worth mentioning.

i'm so so sorry if this was stupidly long-winded but i don't usually get the chance to talk about my children;;;; if you end up not doing anything with this, that's totally fine! i'm just glad i can share information about my boy.

oh! and here's a picture of him that i also have posted on my blog! it's admittedly for a swap au so his personality is a lot more mellow than it seems here, but -waves hands-

thank you so much for listening! have a good day!

_______________________________________________________________

Hey, this is great. The more detail the better.

Your first card is the four of Wands. It depicts two people waving bouquets of flowers at four sticks holding up a string if flowers, all in front of a castle. This signifies creative endeavors concluding favorably. Celebrate life passages and reward yourself for your success. A period of freedom and new choices begins.

Your second card is the Ace of pentacles. It depicts a cloud hand holding a large Pentacle above a flower garden. It is a good time for self improvement and beauty. Money is not a concern at the moment. Your projects will grow and prosper. Trust your instincts and ideas. Others can help you, so rely on friends and family.

Your final card is Judgement. It depicts an angelic figure blowing a horn from the clouds at six pale nude figures in boats who all raise their hands to this figure. Arguments and contracts will resolve in your favor. If you have wronged someone, seek reconciliation and forgiveness. Likewise forgive those who have wronged you. Move on.

Together, this seems to signify a major positive uptrend for Daichi. Reconcile, celebrate, indulge creativity, and make decisions based on your instincts. Those around you are likely to be supportive of this positive time for you.

[alphacentauriiswatchingyou-blog]

Steven Moffat Appreciation Day 2017: DWM Production Notes

With the end of the Moffat-era we are not just losing Steven’s writing talent on the screen, but also in the monthly DWM column in which he answers questions from readers of the magazine, sometimes serious, sometimes less so. Here are some of my favourites: 

Is the Doctor's accent innate or part of the TARDIS' translation system? While people and lizards from Earth hear the Doctor speak with a Scottish accent, would beings from other planets hear him speak with a totally different accent?

The Scottish accent is prevalent throughout the universe because it is so sexy. That's one hell of an evolutionary advantage.

How do you think the other Masters would react to Missy if they ever met?

Oh, I've given it thought! Surely there's fan fiction already? There must be - to your work, if not! The impossible one, of course, is the Delgado/Gomez simmer-fest - but oh, imagine! Hooded gazes at dawn! Sneers like sword slashes! Sexy prowls, cat-like circling! In no time flat, a country cottage, three kids and a Volvo.

One summer evening, as they both puff away in the cigar gazebo, watching the children (identical girl triplets, dead white and levitating) rebuilding the lawn mower into a nuclear reactor using Master Plan Q, the question inevitably arises...

THE MASTER: My dear, you've never exactly told me who you are.

MISSY: You're always so busy, trying to drain the world's oceans, or rob banks with dinosaurs - 

THE MASTER: I just want the kids to have a future. 

MISSY: Then why do you keep trying to blow up the planet? 

THE MASTER  Must we always take this attitude to my work? 

MISSY: Or freeze the polar ice caps. 

THE MASTER: That was a simple administrative error. 

MISSY: Don't you think there might be a clue in my name? 

THE MASTER: Missy? 

MISSY: Tiny bit of a clue? 

THE MASTER: I have long suspected there was some cunning word play involved. Some abtruse hint as to your true identity, of some fiendish complexity and subtlety that it eludes even my mighty Time Lord brain. Is it short for Mistress, though? 

MISSY: Yep. 

IN THE GARDEN, THE TRIPLETS OBSERVE THE TWO CIGAR TIPS GLOWING MORE BRIGHTLY FOR A MOMENT IN THE SHADOWS OF THE GARDEN. 

THE MASTER: My dear, do you think the triplets ever get lonely?

AND FROM THE HAPPY HOME, THE REST IS SILENCE. EXCEPT FOR THE NIGHTLY SING-A-LONG OF THE ADDAMS FAMILY.

In Kill the Moon Clara is very upset at the prospect of killing a big chicken. Yet in The Time of the Doctor she is seen gleefully roasting a turkey! How can she care so much for one type of poultry and so little for another?

Oh, for God's sake! It's not a turkey inside the moon, is it? It's a giant, pregnant space dragon and some spiders. Have you no grasp of physics?! Has Doctor Who taught you nothing?!

RUSSELL T DAVIES asks: I love your list in DWM 482 of the Doctor's many wives. Did you ever think we'd be having that conversation, 10 years ago? But... what's this? His marriage to Queen Elizabeth the First was unconsummated? But, but, but... in The End of Time Part One, the Tenth Doctor arrives on the Ood-Sphere to greet his old friend Ood Sigma with the words, "Got married. That was a mistake. Good Queen Bess. And let me tell you, her nickname is no longer... ahem." So, what does that mean, boss? What can it possibly mean?? Steven, what does it MEAN??? Thank you.

Oh for God's sake. PAY ATTENTION. You've gone soft up there in Manchester. Practically tofu, I'd say. Probably all that lazing about, never writing any episodes for me, even though I wrote six for you. Yes, SIX. Actually, no, SEVEN. Time Crashcounts too - and it was for charity. But never mind, oh no, I'll just type on and on and neglect my children, that's fine.

Okay, the facts. I said the marriage was unconsummated - and so it was. You saw for yourself in The Day of the Doctor - he ran straight off after the ceremony. Would we have put that on television if it wasn't true? But I never said - not once, not ever - that the relationship was unconsummated!

Yes, Russell! I went there. Even as you gasp and clutch the furniture for support, I am writing in the pages of Doctor Who Magazine about pre-marital shenanigans! I realise you've probably never heard of such unsanctified naughtiness - glancing at your resume, I see you write mainly about fruit and veg for Channel 4 - but it does go on, you know. Well, outside of Manchester.

So there you are. You may sleep again. The Doctor's boast in The End of Time (oh, and thanks for that title, just before I took over) and my statement that his marriage to Elizabeth was unconsummated are in no way contradictory. True fact! Accept my True Face. Back away in shame at your wrongness.

Actually, write me a story, and we'll say no more about it.

I read an article that said there was a TARDIS flooding scene in an episode of the 2012 series that was cancelled due to Karen Gillan being unable to swim. Could you elaborate on that further, please?

We decided not to drown Karen. There was a meeting. We voted.

Do you have any plans in store for the Cyber-Brigadier? Or will he just be left in limbo, protecting Kate wherever she goes?

Oh God, can you imagine. It's the spin-off: "My Dad's A Cyberman!"

KATE: Dad, please don't sit in my office. CYBERBRIG: Just sorting out a few things for you... KATE: Really, we're fine. CYBERBRIG: You've got far too many people. All you need is a Sergeant, maybe an occasional Captain, and a nice family car for you all to drive around in. Keeps the Earth perfectly safe! KATE: It's changed days, Dad. CYBERBRIG: And why don't have a big sign outside - UNIT HQ, with your name on it? Does you good to see your name on a big sign. KATE: Well, we are supposed to be a top secret organisation. CYBERBRIG: Yes, yes - you put 'Top Secret' on the sign. Have I taught you nothing about security?! And for goodness' sake, why do you have all these women about the place? How much tea do you need? KATE: They're scientists. CYBERBRIG: Scientists?! Have we been infiltrated? Evacuate the building, I'll lure them into a nuclear reactor. KATE: They work here. CYBERBRIG: They what?! You only need one scientist, Kate. A funny one, with silly clothes, that's the ticket. Give him a tiny little office and a table, he'll be perfectly happy. KATE: I'm a scientist. Science leads, that's what you taught me. CYBERBRIG: Exactly! Science leads! But only if you let it. Round them all up, put them in booths, waterboard any trouble-makers - KATE: Dad, you're getting excited again! Your moustache has slipped. CYBERBRIG: Oh, no, has it? It's this face, it's a bit slippery - like all aliens. I say, Kate - do you think people know my moustache isn't real? KATE: I think they always did.

Since the earliest days, whenever we viewers follow the Doctor into the TARDIS, he seems to take quite some time getting to the console before the TARDIS takes off. But when we stay outside, the door barely has time to close before dematerialisation occurs. What's your in-universe explanation for this quirk?

Oh, you and me both! I've worried about that for years. And in fact, decades before I got anywhere near Doctor Who, I came up with an answer. It's not in the show - it is not canonical - but I offer it up.

The TARDIS knows the future. Or rather, the TARDIS makes no distinction between past, present and future - for any time machine, time is all one long event stream, hanging there in causality, unmoving and unchanging. In other words the TARDIS already knows when its connection to real time and space will no longer be necessary, in any given part of the event stream. So as the Doctor and friends move towards the console, in the world outside the doors, the TARDIS has already fast-forwarded to the take-off the Doctor is about to perform.

Any good? Got something better? All head canons are equal!

How come the Doctor allowed River Song to go freely with her vortex manipulator but he kept disabling Jack's?

Every time he grabs River's wrist, it all goes very wrong.

[In Heaven Sent] who put the chalk marks around the missing paving slab, and who buried the slab in the ground? Was it whoever created the trap?

Oh, this is... wrong somehow. I figured out, in detail, how the Doctor's first few trips round the castle worked, but I deliberately buried it. I wanted atmosphere and mystery: for us to be trapped in the Doctor's nightmare, never sure what to trust. And I particularly liked (and still like) the idea that everyone would have a different theory about the logic. Peter Capaldi has one version, Rachel Talalay has another, and in a moment you'll have mine. But mystery and discussion is better, I swear.

So. What follows is not canonical. It's just the best I could work with from what the Doctor told me. Frankly, and with all my heart, you're better off not reading what comes next. Never trust answers - they're the opposite of conversation.

Okay...

The first time round the castle, the Doctor is there for many years - because there is no clue leading him to room 12. He's ancient by the time he understands that room 12 is important. It's a very old man who starts punching the wall...

After a few thousand years of this, he realises he's going too slowly. He needs to get the next version of himself into room 12 faster. But how to leave a message in a recycling puzzle box that a man like him would ever trust?

One ancient version of the Doctor doesn't punch the wall. He totters back out of the chamber before the veiled creature can arrive, and scratches the words 'I AM IN 12' in every nook and cranny he can find. He chooses that message because it sounds a little like a cry for help, and that always appeals to him. The next Doctor might even be fooled into thinking it's Clara. Oh, the cruelty of the Doctor to himself!

He knows that some of those hidden messages might just survive, because he knows the castle reset isn't perfect - the dust in the teleport room, the skulls in the water, the way the portrait of Clara he painted (of course it was him, the soppy old fool) has aged. Suspecting that objects moved from rooms, or added to them, sometimes can resist the reset, he pulls a scratched-on flagstone from the kitchen floor and buries it in the garden (later Doctors add the details of the arrows and the spade). It's this message - one of only two that manage to survive - that he always finds. The loop shrinks, the Doctor is younger as he punches the wall, and the Time Lords tremble as the storm grows closer.

The other message that survived? In my head - and I suppose, only there - 'I AM IN 12' is also written on the back of Clara's portrait. The trouble is, the Doctor draws too much strength from her smile ever to turn her face to the wall...

There are many more and I recommend to read them all. You can find a lot of them on reddit or on here. I really hope old chibs keeps this up, but I know it will never be as glorious as the answers of Steven “Master Selfcest Fanfic Writer” Moffat.

[babe-regent]

So... HRH, why don't you tell us about your wedding day?

The Prince of Wales winced and covered his face with hishands. “Oh… would that it had never happened! How can I possibly relate the humiliatingagony of being yoked to that gauche, stinking, crude, over-rouged,unappetising, pouter-chested gawk?” He took a deep breath and steadied hisnerves with a glass of sherry. “But… I-I shall try, if only to disabuse you ofcertain fabrications the bride has felt herself entitled to make…”

“The last thing I remember clearly was Maria’s lovely house inRichmond. If… if only she’d made some sign – given me hope that our separationwas not final – what followed shouldnever have occurred. Of course, she was indignant about the letter… but whohas not written bile in a fit of pique and then anguished afterwards in regret?A hundred apologies were met with silence! I waited as the sun faded from view,but the curtains did not shift and my beloved angel did not appear. So Ireturned, in utter despair, knowing my situation to be without hope. LovingMaria – the best of women – and knowing, knowingwhat cruel fate awaited me on the morrow… I own, I drank and wept and drank untilMorpheus saw fit to end my misery, and then – horror! – I discovered upon wakingthat the repugnant Caroline was no nightmare but a flesh and blood harpyawaiting me at St James.”

“I thought of my country, my debts, and Maria’s refusal tosee me and… madly, that it was all over… that there was no recourse. Had I mytime again, I should have left the bitch at the altar, but my dear friend, LadyJersey, insisted that it would all be well… if only I could get through the ceremony…the King was so pleased, oh god…” 

Hepaused to wipe his eyes and refill his glass. “He told me, that morning, that Ishould have no occupation but to gift the nation with numerous progeny by thatcreature!”

“I suppose I looked the part, I’ve really no idea, gave awaymy hat, you know… in the paintings I’ve the most pretty coat, no idea what’s happened toit, blue and silver, pearls and brilliants… felt like a hair-shirt, when – whenyou’ve had that much gin and brandy… ah… the world takes on a lurid pall; aterrible, swaying, putrid horror… I told William, I told Moira, anyone who wouldlisten, that Fitzherbert was the only woman… but then we were at the chapel. Theway Bedford tells it, and he and Roxburghe were like supporters on a coat ofarms. Caroline asked me what was the matter with me: My prince, you have such a sad face on! God’s teeth, I – I can’t…!”

He shook his head, composed himself, and took anothersteadying sip of sherry.

“Well the thing progressed, unravelled, galloped roundme like a trick pony, and I couldn’t tell you half of what anyone else who wasthere might, if you asked them… I looked for Frances through my tears, darling Frances,but it was Maria I wanted, my beautiful Maria… and the longer it went on, prayers and good wishes, thefurther I got in planning my escape – I couldn’t, wouldn’t, no… it was too much! I feared she would never take meback if I went through with it so, so I stood up – determined to leave – only…P-papa said it was too late – too late!The archbishop, perhaps he saw it in my eyes, nuptial fidelity, dear god… I wanted to disappear, I wantedto hide in Maria’s sweet embrace and never be heard of again, I wanted to die…  

I was certainly in no condition, that night, to consummatethe abominable travesty… but I’m damn’d sure I would have remembered wakingface-first in the grate. I’ve always had a fondness for fine carpet, and thatwas where I slept and you can’t tell me it wasn’t better than the alternative.The next morning, however… urgh… oh, you wantdetails?” The Prince rolled his eyes. “She was filthy – hadn’t even troubled towash herself… I – I, faith, I believe I’m liable to be sick…!”