#Pity for Pamela

[frimleyblogger]

Pity For Pamela

A review of Pity for Pamela by Mary Fitt – 240921 What a beautiful book. Originally published in 1950 and reissued by Moonstone Press who seem to have taken Mary Fitt, the nom de plume of the Classicist Kathleen Freeman under their wing, this is a powerful psychological study culminating in cold and calculated retribution. According to the excellent introduction by Curtis Evans, the book takes…

[fansplaining]

Some fangirls would spend entire fan-club meetings doing “Beatle-talk” in their approximation of Liverpudlian accents. They would act out scenes from “A Hard Day’s Night,” or even make up their own scenes, assigning each other Beatles personas, which they would stick with in the long-term. (Pity the girl who got Ringo!) ... Pamela des Barres, the groupie famous for her dalliances with real-life rockstars like Mick Jagger and Keith Moon, recounted her experiences with fantasy ones, too—as a teenage Beatles roleplayer. “We were two girls in a constant state of Beatle skits. I played John and myself, and she played Paul and herself. We could switch personalities with the flick of an accent. We [...] professed undying love with semiperfect working-class Liverpudlian accents. At night, we played all four people at the same time, when we would lie entwined in each other’s arms, pressing our four sets of lips together in an eternal expression of Beatle Love.”

@areyougonnabe's latest for Fansplaining digs into modern-day Beatles shippers and fanworks creators—but she also casts back to the fan practices of the 1960s, particularly the act of “Beatle-play.”

Read the article—or listen to an audio version, read by Allegra herself!

[elspeth-catton]

my saltburn hot take is i think the reason felix brought oliver to his mom's is because he was done with him.

you can see felix and the family growing increasingly bored of him, much like poor dear pamela he's overstaying his welcome at that point in the movie.

i don't really think felix cared about being the savior again, i don't think he cared period. he saw the phone call from his mom as an easy way to get him out of his life, because like m*chael g*vey said "he'll grow bored of you." and he did.

if anything he did it out of pity and saw it as a way to alleviate himself of any lingering guilt of cutting off a friend (toy) who has nothing without him, and if he got oliver his mother back then problem solved he doesn't need to stay with him anymore! and he's a hero in the process (which is a bonus but not the reasoning imo)!!

but finding out oliver lied i do think felix was genuinely hurt, not necessarily because he loved oliver (i'm not totally convinced anyone in the family truly knows how to love people outside of their family, prefer/enjoy the company of, sure. maybe even feel genuine affection towards, but idk about actual love) but because for the first time felix has experienced not only real betrayal, but also probably the closest thing to heartbreak felix is capable of feeling.

[joshsilverseyebrow]

peter steele for KERRANG! Magazine (1999),

(VIA BiggestBaddestWolve ON REDDIT)

(OP has said it suffered some water damage, so i’m transcribing what i can read from the first full sentence i can make out. but i hope you still enjoy!)

THE DYING GAME

“I’m waiting for the strength to kill myself…” PETER STEELE

But, consistent with recent interviews in which he’s disparaged the album as a “waste of money,” he’s about as interested in playing his record company's hard sell games as the Pope is in the contents of Pamela Anderson's bikini. He admits that he's only here at all because “I promised the other guys (guitarist Kenny Hickey, keyboardist Josh Silver and drummer Johnny Kelly) that I'd do my job.”

Steele's apathy is all the more surprising given that “World Coming Down” is his band's most complete, cohesive and fully-realized work to date. It's also arguably the New York quartet's bleakest recording: an album which resonates with world-weary cynicism and self-loathing and sees Steele cheerlessly embracing self-destructive urges and yearning for descent into oblivion.

Given his huge appetite for sarcasm and deadpan piss-taking, the album's none-more-black atmosphere verges on goth-metal parody - but today it's disturbingly evident that Steele's current dark mood isn't just an ironic affectation.

"I FEEL like a total ingrate," he sighs, slumping his massive frame into a leather-bound armchair as we retire to the hotel bar. "I have a great life, I have my health, my family and friend; I'm not the worst-looking person in the world, I've got a half-way decent band - and yet I'm not happy. I'm just waiting for the strength to kill myself."

From other rock stars, such whinging might seem like mere melodrama. But when Peter Steele admits to suicidal thoughts, his matter-of-fact musings are coloured by personal experience. On October 15, 1989, tanked up with alcohol and self-pity, the vocalist slashed both his wrists and crawled into the back seat of his car to die. “At that time it was because my girlfriend had left me and took 95 per cent of me with her. I thought I could not go on without her,” he sighs.

“Obviously I was wrong.

“The worst part was actually

coming home and hearing that my ex-girlfriend's mother had phoned my Mom and told her that i'd been hammering on her door with blood dripping from me. That was really embarrassing.”

At the risk of sounding unsympathetic, isn't slashing your wrists more of an attention-seeking act than a genuine suicide attempt?

"I wanted to shoot myself in the head," he shrugs, "but I couldn't get a gun - which is kinda ironic, considering you seem to be able to buy a gun on every corner in Brooklyn. Okay, it was probably not a wholehearted attempt last time - but next time it will be. Life is a game, and like cards sometimes you have to know when to stop playing. l'm not getting anything out of this any more.”

You must have fans writing to you telling you that Type O Negative's music has got them through difficult times - what do you think those fans are going to make of what you're saying today?

Steele shrugs, and drains his first glass of red wine.

“I’d advise anyone who's depressed to stop reading right now,” he smiles.

THE SHADOW of death hangs ominously over “World Coming Down,” Songs like “Everyone I Love Is Dead” and “Everything Dies” are rested in tragic personal experiences for Peter Steele.

The album was written in the aftermath of the death of his father on February 14, 1995, and recorded during a period when Steele lost an aunt and uncle and watched his mother battle againat serious illness for almost a year in a New York hospital.

"I expected her to die," Steele says quietly, "and unfortunately I still think she'll be next to go. One of the most traumatic things in life is loving someone and watching them die and knowing you can't help them. I just don't know how to handle watching people die. Maybe It's cowardice but I truly wish I'm next. I've tried everything in excess - Prozac, alcohol, cocaine and women - in an effort to deal with life. Nothing works for me.”

Steele says that his parents never discussed his own suicide attempt, but admits: "I think I hurt them a lot." The death of his father, has had a "profound effect" on the singer.

Is there anything you wish you'd asked your father before he died?

“I’d just like to have asked, Why didn't you spend more time with me?,” Steele says, sounding uncharacteristically vulnerable. “When I was a kid and he'd come home from work, it was like Superman coming to the house, but I always felt like I was some little happy dog that was always underfoot and he was always trying to kick me away.”

The youngest of six children - he has five elder sisters - Steele can trace his current feelings of worthlessness right back to his childhood.

“I used to feel that I was an unsuccessful abortion,” he sighs. "That I’d pulled myself out of the bottom of the bucket and lived. I remember when school would start, my father would say things like, ‘Now we have to buy him clothes’, and I’d just wish I could unzip my skin, crawl out and slime myself under the bed and die. I felt like such a piece of shit.

“My mother still doesn't have a good word for my father,” he reveals.

“I don't think she ever forgave him for inflicting kids upon her. I'd love to say to her, 'Mom, if he was such a prick, why did you stay?’ He didn't seem a bad guy to me. I think he was just tired by the time I was born. My mother had me when she was 39 and my father was about 41.”

No offence intended, but as the youngest of six kids, did you consider the possibility that your conception might have been a mistake?

“Put it this way, there was an average of three years between my sisters, but there was eight years between me and my nearest sister,” Steele replies without flinching. “I know I'm just the result of a biological urge at four in the morning when the pharmacy was closed."

DEATH FIRST impinged upon Peter Steele's consciousness at the age of seven, when his grandfather passed away (“I didn't really understand what was going on but I saw my mother was crying, and thought that it was probably my fault,” he notes). Born of Russian and Icelandic parentage, Steele grew up in the middle of two theo-fascistic ideologies - Catholicism on one side and the Orthodox church on other”, and although he recalls praying after the deaths of his grandfather and uncle, he rejects the Christian notion of life after death.

“If Hell does exist, then I'm certainly going there,” he smiles. “I actually think it's cruel that someone who suffered their whole life is just going to go to the grave and share the same fate as people like Hitler or Stalin, who deserve to go to Hell, But no one said life is fair.”

Do you believe you have a soul?

“No, I'm just a very inefficient meat machine lubricated with mucus and semen,” he answers.

And you don't fear dying?

“I don't fear death, but i fear dying.” Steele confesses. “The thought of being in a car accident or being burned and lying in a hospital suffering is horrible. I don't like pain - If I found out I had cancer, l'd probably rob a bunch of banks and hope I'd get shot by the police.”

So when you shuffle off this mortal coil, how would you like to go?

“I've been thinking of the cleanest way to kill myself recently,” he admits.

“Everyone talks about poisoning themselves - but you vomit and shit everywhere, which is not cool. A shot in the head would be ideal, but I'd feel sorry for the person who had to clean my f**king brains up.

“I’ve got a tidier solution, actually," he smiles. "I want to attach a water pipe to the wall of my house and then take one of my weightlifting bars, sharpen the end like a spear and place it into the top of the pipe about 40 feet off the ground, with a rope attached. Then I'd lie under the other end of the pipe, point it at my temple and let go of the rope. Gravity would take its course and it wouldn't be too messy. That would be a neat end to all this misery.”

You don't go along with the view that suicide is the coward's way out?

“No, anyone who kills him or herself automatically gains my respect,” Steele shrugs, betraying not a flicker of a smile. “No one knows what lies beyond, and it's a trip from which there is no return. You have to admire anyone who'll willingly step into the unknown.”

You don't think it's a selfish act?

“It is, but I don't think if I killed myself 'd be affecting anyone detrimentally.” he considers. “If I had a wife and child I might think differently.

“I'm starting to think that children are maybe what I need, actually,” he continues. “Maybe bringing new life into the world is a way of replacing the void you feel when you lose someone. At the moment, though, I don't think that I could be so cruel to a woman as to implant her with my demon seed.”

SUCH COMMENTS are a reminder that even when discussing grave matters, Peter Steele's bone-dry sense of humour is never far from the surface. The singer concedes that “sarcasm has always been part of my insecurity” and admits: “It's a strange thing that when I'm lying people believe me, and when I'm telling the truth they don't.” But he insists that he's deadly serious about initiating his own exit from this life.

“I know someday I'll do it, I just don't know when,” he smiles. “When I feel l've become more of a burden than a help to those around me, It'll be time to take that swan-dive from the World Trade Centre. But one of the things that gives me a slight glimmer of happiness is irritating people, so l continue to live just to annoy them.

“But nothing gives me pleasure ary more,” he sighs, gulping down the dregs of his second glass of wine. “I’ve become really nihilistic and I just wonder who's going to be next to die. And I pray to God - if She's listening - that it's me.”

TYPE O Negative's ‘World Coming Down' album is out now.

[homosexualmorelikehomiesexual]

godddddddd sorry its like 3am but i cannot get this shit out of my head. the way elspeth is obsessed w other ppls trauma as a form of gossip and entertainment but still frames it as motherly concern. and how growing up w that caused felix to be the same way, obsessed with playing white knight to people so long as it can make him look good, and how he pressured Oliver into making up that sob story from the start. was it awful? i bet it was awful. that must be awful. fuck em. i just gave you what you wanted.

idk idk. something about how oliver desparately wanted to be with felix, to be felix, to be rescued, to take his place, to have something to be rescued from. but also bow felix desparately projects his own family dysfunction onto oliver, how he desparately wanted to see that part of himself in oliver, to pity him, to rescue him, to take him into the fold of his own fucked up family that he cannot see the flaws in but simultaneously desparately wants a distraction from. the desire to live vicariously through another, the hope they will rescue you from your circumstance, the desire to bury yourself in their skin, a layer of protection against reality as you acknowledge the dysfunction in your own life only through the others eyes. and then the way you gag them, show them but never let them acknowledge it. come with me, to saltburn. if you get sick of us, you can leave.

the way elspeth frames her kicking out pamela as something that pamela really wants, so she doesnt have to acknowledge how boring she finds her. the way felix unconsciously pressures oliver into making up a tragic backstory to be rescued from, so felix doesnt have to acknowledge how badly he wants to be rescued from his own family.

and!!!! the way that all oliver really does is play along. but he plays too well. they make it so, so fucking easy. the assumed narrative is that theyre the ones preying on him, but its turned on its head. he just gives them what they want, so he doesnt have to acknowledge how badly *he* wants it. he pretends he wanted saltburn all along, so he doesnt have to acknowledge how badly he wanted felix

this fucking movie, man

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

kismet

by mickeysshitshow Peter Parker, age 22, dies fighting Kingpin. Peter Parker, age 22, realizes how much he wants to live as he falls to his death and he prays for a second chance. (un)Fortunately for Peter, The Fates hear his call and take pity on him. OR- Peter Parker dies and seconds later he wakes up in an unfamiliar universe, drowning in a pool of foul smelling green goo. He curses himself for not asking the voices in his head any questions. Words: 5370, Chapters: 1/10, Language: English Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Batman - All Media Types Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: Peter Parker, Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley, Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake (DCU), Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Stephanie Brown, Cassandra Cain, Duke Thomas, Selina Kyle, Felicia Hardy Relationships: Tim Drake (DCU)/Peter Parker, Batfamily Members (DCU) & Peter Parker, Pamela Isley & Peter Parker & Harleen Quinzel Additional Tags: Peter Parker Lives in Gotham City (DCU), Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Needs Therapy, Batfamily (DCU), Protective Batfamily (DCU), Batfamily Shenanigans (DCU), Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crack Treated Seriously, Attempt at Humor, Stalker Tim Drake (DCU), Dimension Travel, Character Death, Post-Movie: Spider-Man: No Way Home (2021), Team Red (Marvel) via https://ift.tt/VG3mJZg

[spindlerat]

When her parents found out she was dropping out the were livid - well her dad was livid her mom just gave her a look of disappointment and pity, she hated that she wished she'd just yell at her.

they kicked her out, not wanting to support her if she was going to "throw her life away." She packed all her stuff into a bag holding and left she didnt know where to go. she decided to call bobby at the very least he could drive her to a cheap motel.

He said that he wasn't going to do that, it would be too dangerous for a young girl to be in a motel alone, and that she could stay with them until she got on my feet.

Once they arrived at the Dawn's house, she was greeted by his wife - Pamela she'd only seen her a couple of time during the scouting process, but she seemed nice enough, she gave her a warm hug "oh you poor thing you must be starving, you came just in time dinner is ready"

After dinner they showed her where she would sleep it was their child's room but they were on religious mission and wouldn't be back for a couple of months.

That morning, she woke up to the smell of freshly made pancakes she made her down to the living room and ate them.

its been so long since she's felt like this like she was a part of a family like she was home.

[overleftdown]

farleigh start and racism; oh boy.

(some people are going to find this post really annoying. some people are like felix catton.)

read this.

just some thoughts from the perspective of a person of color who is slightly too obsessed with this character. this movie leaves the viewer a lot of wiggle room to interpret how dynamics such as race and privilege come into play. there are certain parallels between this movie and the real world, and how unnoticeable white privilege tends to be for white people.

lemme lay some groundwork. from what i understand, the most prevalent form of racism and white privilege within upper- and middle-class circles is implicit bias. this is racist conceptualization that subconsciously interacts with one's perception of society and people. implicit bias is often externalized through microaggressions, differences in treatment and language towards a marginalized person, misplaced guilt or pity, and persistent denial of any existing privilege or marginalization. most of these biases are also founded on stereotypes. some racial stereotypes are heightening (e.g. asians are all smart) and some are lowering (e.g. black people are all lazy). all stereotypes are harmful. i'm going to discuss some of the stereotypes that could theoretically interact within the saltburn canon, as well as some things i've noticed within viewers. can of worms, to be honest. boutta get INTO IT.

to use one of my externalization examples, let's discuss (or, more accurately, let me discuss) the denial of existing privilege or marginalization. this is a subconscious way to uphold a sense of morality, effectively avoiding "white guilt," so to speak. as is clearly presented to us, the cattons are very attached to their methods of upholding their own self-righteousness. saviorism is a common theme within both elspeth and felix. in oliver's conversation with elspeth about poor dear pamela, you can see that oliver recognizes elspeth's need to justify her actions in an attempt to preserve her sense of decency. one can only assume that this applies to how they view farleigh's relationship with them. there's more to talk about there, but i'd like to start with the only overt mention of race in this movie.

in felix's confrontation with farleigh, farleigh makes the bold and brave decision to mention his blackness. i call this brave because it's genuinely a terrifying thing to do, and the end of this conversation is proof. "oh, that is... that is low, farleigh. seriously, that's where you want to take this? make it a race thing? i never know our footman's names; the turnover for a footman is notoriously high!" we have felix's intentional or unintentional shaming of farleigh. we have felix's appalled denial of any involvement of race or racial bias. we have felix's diversion away from farleigh specifically and onto his own inability to know his staff's names. felix made no further attempt to recenter farleigh, aside from telling him that the cattons have "done what they can." (which is SO absurd on its own. they are clearly and obviously able to do more. they are disgustingly rich). farleigh does feel ashamed after felix's response; you can see it on his face, and archie says it directly. here is a relevant and prevalent stereotype for all marginalized people: that the discussion of marginalization is exclusively weaponized to gain something or manipulate a situation. this is how felix chooses to see farleigh's implication of existing white privilege. this conversation results in nothing, does nothing, as felix chooses not to confront what he's probably thinking as he repeats the words "begging bowl" to venetia.

now. saviorism, guilt, and pity. felix specifically tells oliver that sir james made an effort to support farleigh out of guilt. i'd like to order some things in a way that i perceive them. frederica start runs from england, which is explained in a condescending way by felix. frederica start marries a so-referred-to "lunatic" who dug through fred and jame's money, although it's farleigh who only mentions fred's financial irresponsibility. out of guilt, james offers to pay for farleigh's education. the specificity of education is compelling to me. perhaps james is simply a patriotic man who strongly believes that english education is better. or this is a mobilized racial stereotype! who can truly know. i digress. james' offer to pay for farleigh's foreign education puts the cattons in an odd position; if farleigh is to attend english schools, he will need to stay with the cattons. if farleigh is staying with the cattons, he will need to be treated as equal to felix and venetia. this is all one long chain of obligations. none of these acts from one family member to another should be considered "charitable," because family should intrinsically create a trustworthy and supportive dynamic.

i believe that the cattons do consider their fostering of farleigh as obligatory. moral obligation, as they recognize that families are intended to have a sympathetic and loving relationship. they cannot, however, escape the truth that they're just guilty. the "begging bowl" and "biting the hand" are more symbolic of a starving dog and its charitable adopter than a cousin/nephew who's staying with his absurdly rich family. see, the cattons are fully and entirely capable of affording another child, of supporting frederica financially, etc. the only way i can rationalize their reluctance to do so is by assuming that they don't feel like farleigh deserves it. is this a crazy assumption? i genuinely don't see why else. of course, i don't think this mentality is explicit or conscious. it's more-so the reality that when farleigh walks in a room, he's not the same as anybody else. aside from background characters at oxbridge, the only on-screen black people are liam, joshua, and james' godson's wife (who gets degraded on-screen). this is the reality of being different in an environment such as the english aristocracy. the cattons choose to see themselves as the hand that feeds the less fortunate, more entertaining, and least inconvenient. the cattons' inclusion of farleigh is not only reliant on how well farleigh performs, but also on their own pity and guilt.

all of this is somehow, painfully mirrored by some takes i've seen on farleigh. maybe this entire post is presumptuous, but you know what isn't presumptuous? saying that certain people hold farleigh to an incredibly odd standard. while the cattons never canonically said anything along the lines of "farleigh doesn't deserve our love and support," mfs on the internet have. the number of times people have referred to this character as greedy, lazy, petty, and malignant is so odd to me. i'm insane, i know. i just don't understand how people can hold farleigh to the backdrop of an english aristocratic family and so passionately say that he, of all characters, is the most detestable. or that he, of all characters, has no reason to behave in the way he does.

is farleigh greedy? greed is defined as a desire for more. farleigh has no desire to climb ranks, no desire to replace or surpass felix, no desire to hold any power over any family member. he is maintaining, upholding a standard that has been set for him throughout his life. is it kind or selfless of him to meddle in other people's affairs with the cattons? no. does he have a reason to be upset that non-relatives of the cattons are a threat to his inclusion in the first place? yes. is farleigh lazy? i don't even need to explain this one. no. if you don't consider oliver lazy, then i really don't want to hear anything. is farleigh petty? pettiness is defined as "an undue concern for trivial matters, especially in a small-minded or spiteful way." farleigh's meticulous attention to trivial matters isn't undue in any sense. a person of color and their meticulous attention to trivial matters is almost never undue. elspeth is a good example of petty. is farleigh malignant? there are a lot of definitions of malignant and i've seen people apply all of them, in some way, to farleigh. that's just wrong. archie madekwe once said, "i was interested in humanizing what, on paper, seemed like a mean character, a villain, or a bully. i don't think he's any of that. he's very self-serving, but i think he's really a heartbreaking character." case closed, this was for my own piece of mind. had to write this section because good lord.

in conclusion to this post that has gone tragically off the rails, i think the in-canon and viewer perspective of farleigh is, perhaps, a little racially motivated. sue me. they are all very centered on this idea that farleigh doesn't deserve inherent respect, support, and love. to remove farleigh's rational position within the cattons family would be akin to removing his right to familial love. genuinely, that's how i see it. the transaction nature of farleigh's actions is responsive. he sees felix as a social shield at oxbridge, he sees elspeth and james as the beholders of his perceived security, and he sees saltburn as a way to escape from his lack of privilege and his lack of stability in america. boom. bam. pow.

[urfavluvergirl]

Haunting Me - all of the girls you loved before au

AU masterlist - you can find other stuff under #🪼opheliajones

After lying to Ryan, Ophelia’s past starts to haunt her again.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

Sad blurb but it has to be done, basically Ophelia has a nightmare. Also thanks so much for the love on this au guys??? This is crazy I never thought I would get this much attention wow you guys are amazing thank you so much!!

wc: 630

things to look out for: verbal abusive father, panic attacks, absent father, crying, swearing, guilt, bad friends, angst, angst, angst :(

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you say something like that to her?” Pam’s voice echoed down the hallway to her father, Roman.

”She’s being a pussy! She’s scared and it’s fucking pathetic!” Roman yelled.

Ophelia was shaking, hiding in the closet in her room trying so desperately to calm down her heartbeat and block out the sound of their screams.

”She’s just a kid! How can you say that to her?”

Heavy footsteps made their way through the kitchen and up the stairs, into her parents’ shared bedroom.

”Where the hell are you going?” Pam asked, it sounded almost desperate as she followed her father around.

A loud sound came from the corner of the room, and Ophelia could only guess that it was her dad’s suitcase.

”I’m leaving, don’t even bother to call me.” Roman’s voice, hard set and scary. “You’re an awful parent Pamela, too soft and nurturing. She’s never going to make it in life.”

Ophelia’s heart cracked, more tears left her eyes at his words. She was only 14. But the more and more he said those words to her the more she believed him.

“No wait Rome— let’s talk about this please,” Pam pleaded, emotion flooding her voice.

Ophelia could only guess that her father had finished packing up his stuff, but before he stormed out like Ophelia was anticipating, everything stopped.

All of a sudden she wasn’t in her closet anymore, she actually didn’t know where she was. If she had to guess though she could probably pinch herself and it probably wouldn’t hurt. She was dreaming, but that only made her feel worse.

Then there was a faint voice, but it was getting louder and louder.

”Are you serious Ophelia? You lied to me?”

It was Ryan’s, and it was almost like the disappointment that was dripping from his voice was landing on her and it was suffocating.

”Look Lia, I know your dad left but it doesn’t mean you can be a bad friend.”

Nathan.

”You know, you look a lot like him in this light.”

Luna’s tears matched her own.

You’ll be just like him one day.

Ophelia's eyes snapped open with a gasp. She sat up in her bed to try and catch her breath, heaving.

She was covered in a cold sweat, the panic that she felt was debilitating. It felt like her heart couldn’t beat, and the sinking feeling in her chest turned into a tight ball.

She forced herself to breathe.

in

and

out,

in

and

out.

She looked over at the alarm clock next to her bed, 4:18 in the morning.

Groaning, she decided that maybe splashing some cold water onto her face in the hopes of getting her shit together and going back to bed.

Ophelia slowly tiptoed to the bathroom on her floor, thankfully no one was awake. She took in her messy, sleepy appearance from the harsh ceiling light.

Luna was right, she did look a lot like her father.

Hot tears streamed down her face before she could catch herself. And the harsh scrubbing and cold water only helped her on the outside, but not on the inside.

She should’ve told Ryan the truth, he probably would’ve helped her better than anyone else could. She just didn’t want the pity.

It was weird enough to have to tell people about her situation, but then again her essay about him probably really helped her get into BC as well.

So she thought that maybe she could just deal with it on her own in college, the moment she stepped on campus she could just share the same assumption as everyone else thought of eachother.

But maybe she wouldn’t be able to escape it like she thought she could.

[bugaboo25]

I Will Forever Love You Chapter 2

Okay, I'm gonna do it! There's more info on the masterpost about how this is gonna look, but I am gonna post the rest of this! Just bear with me if there's a lot of time between updates!

Masterpost Prev Next

Anways, onto chapter 2:

Danny groaned as he flung himself onto the table. Which, ew, the Nasty Burger employees obviously hadn’t taken the time to wipe down the table in days, as was told by the way his hoodie was sticking to a dark stain that sat next to him. He could feel Tucker shifting next to him, obviously wanting to ask, but Danny wanted to wallow in his own self pity for just a few more moments, thank you very much. Alas, he was promptly pulled away from his thoughts as Tucker nudged his side with his elbow. Danny turned his head, allowing his eyes to scan over Tucker quickly and efficiently. He was taller now, taller than Danny’s own 5’9”, and his beret had been discarded for a beanie that allowed his new dreadlocks to cascade down over his neck. His eyes told of his desire to speak, so the 16-year-old pulled himself into a seated position.

            “So,” Tucker began, his eyes shifting to ensure there were no ears on them. “What did CW want?” Ah, so that was the reason that Tucker drew Danny from his pits of despair. He was going to tell his friends; he just wanted a minute to wrap his head around the news before letting them know. Danny’s eyes drifted over to Sam, and the goth’s raised brow and clenched jaw told of her concern, even though she was trying to seem appropriately interested and not overbearing like she had in the past. He allowed himself a second to appreciate her half-shaved head once again, thinking back to the way Pamela had screeched just two days ago when he dropped Sam off at home after a devilishly fun evening at the mall.

            Danny groaned once again, double checking the restaurant for prying ears before hunching forward and speaking in a hushed tone. “I’m apparently gonna be crowned Ghost King once I turn eighteen.” Danny had to stifle a grin at the loud gurgling noises that came from his friends, the memory of him making a similar noise when he first met Jazz playing in his mind’s eye.

            “Danny what-“

            “When did you-“

            “Guys, guys, quiet down, people are staring!” Danny bit out, though his words held no venom. He knew they hadn’t meant to speak so loudly, and he also knew they wouldn’t be on the lookout for any attention they might gain. They had no League training, and Danny never wanted them to. He couldn’t keep them out of his life as Phantom, but he would never stoop so low as to introduce them to the world of al Ghul’s. He couldn’t, not when the only one in that damn place that ever cared about him was… Instead of lingering on that thought, Danny allowed himself to take on an easy smile as he continued forward. “It’s not a big deal. CW said I’ll have to go the Realms like, once every week or two after the coronation is over with.” Sam and Tucker noticeably loosened as the knowledge that their third wasn’t going to be disappearing into the Infinite Realms forever.

            The trio’s order number was called from the front of the room, and Sam slid out of the booth to go and grab it. When she got back, she handed out their food, and Danny stared down at his vegetarian sandwich. He had decided to make the switch a few months ago, his dreams plaguing him with ghost animals coming back for their vengeance. He had tried to ignore them, but the second that Vlad had sent a ghost cow his way, his desire to eat meat had disappeared. Sam had cheered when he told them of his decision. Tucker had just huffed in annoyance and refused to eat lunch with them for two days.

            “Dude,” Tucker whispered as he leaned into Danny’s side. “Breathe.” And suddenly Danny was inhaling an ungodly amount of oxygen as he realized he had been staring at his food, unbreathing, for the past five minutes. He would never admit it to anyone, but he often forgot, his body no longer required him to breathe more than once every hour. In fact, he still remembered the time Jazz had woken him up in the middle of the night due to his lack of breathing and the fact that his heart had only pumped once in 15 minutes. She had been crying when his eyes flew open, and they had had an hour-long discussion about how important it was to at least act like he was inhaling oxygen when around others. Still, he had to kick the thought about how the lack of breathing would make him even more hard to notice sneaking up on someone to dispose of them out of his mind multiple times.

            Honestly, with how often he failed at the task, it was a surprise Jack and Maddie hadn’t noticed. Though, it shouldn’t be, considering they hardly ever paid attention to the presence of their children. Danny ate his sandwich and enjoyed the comfortable silence that sat between the three friends, his hair cascading into his line of vision. Danny wanted to cut it, but the fact of the matter was, the more effort he put into being a greasy, grimy gremlin, the less likely the League was to find him out. He checked his phone, and, seeing that it was nearing 6:30, the time Jazz was set to get home for her trip back to Amity, said his goodbyes for the night to Sam and Tuck. His eyes slid over the window, and for one heart stopping second, he thought it was Damian with the way the lights reflected green in his eyes. But then his eyes caught sight of the scar on his left temple, and the illusion was broken. He huffed to himself, then willed his shoulders to relax. God, how he missed his brother.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

            Jazz pulled up to the Fenton household with a sigh on her lips. She hated being in the same house as her parents, but she hated leaving Danny alone even more. He had practically pushed her out the door the day she moved to Gotham for college, but she knew he hadn’t wanted her to put her life on hold for him. Still, she wished that she had the money to be able to take guardianship of her brother until he turned 18. If their parents ever found out about him… well, it wouldn’t be a pretty sight, that was sure. She may have thought they would understand after she first found out, but it had been so long, and their hatred for Phantom had only grown in the last two years…

            Jazz clapped her hands together. No point in worrying about what could happen, Danny had set so many backup plans in place that she had had to spend an entire 48 hours memorizing them. She just needed to focus on her main goal: get Danny to talk about his life before the Fenton’s. He had kept everything to himself for the past seven years, but this time, his Gotcha Day would be spent healing from past trauma – she hoped. Frankly, she would be lucky if Danny said two words about his past, he hadn’t said since the day she had convinced her parents to adopt.

            Jazz pulled down the sun visor and slid open the mirror, schooling her expression into one of pure will. “You can do this, Jasmine Fenton. You’ve spent the last two months in Gotham University studying psychology, and some 16-year-old boy will not-“

“Whatcha doin’?” Jazz’s pep talk was interrupted as she let out a totally normal, definitely cool and collected, screech. Danny started cackling, his torso sticking out of the floor of Jazz’s car.

“Danny! You can’t just pop into existence right in front of people who are having a private moment!” Jazz was chastising him, but Danny couldn’t help the giggles that continued to escape his mouth. Jazz huffed, threw open her car door, grabbed her bags, and started marching toward the front door. Danny was trailing behind her, but she didn’t care. She had forgotten just how unnerving it was when Danny appeared out of thin air, having empty space and then without warning he was just there. It reminded her of when he had first been adopted, of how he would suddenly appear and then disappear without so much as breathing loud enough to be heard. It was different now, though, as he no longer needed to put effort into softening the sounds escaping her body. Not for the first time, Jazz let herself wonder what type of homelife Danny had had before appearing in Amity.

She had only been able to come up with one plausible theory, and that was that Danny’s parents had been incredibly abusive. He must have had to learn to be as quiet as a mouse to remain out of his parents’ fighting, protecting himself from the vile side of humanity before he should have known how horrible people could be. That kind of history would be exactly the type to make someone refuse to speak about their childhood, so Jazz had allowed Danny to remain silent when it came to her questions. He didn’t have to give any answers he wasn’t prepared to, not until the traumatic memories started to cause real damage to his psyche. She was drawn out of her musings by Danny jabbing her side with his pointer finger, and when she turned a disapproving stare at him, he began rubbing the back of his neck.

“What’s up?” At the question, Danny’s hand dropped down so he could cross his arms over the ghost symbol on his hoodie. Honestly, Jazz wasn’t sure his coping mechanisms of ‘joke about my own death while simultaneously ignoring the fact that I died’ were completely healthy, but the clothing articles seemed to help keep him out of a depressive state, so she wouldn’t say anything.

“I was just saying that Mom and Dad were all hyped up this morning about something, so be prepared for anything.” Danny’s eyes took on that shine they usually did when he was talking about their parents, but she had never been able to place it. It was a mix between fondness and disdain, and what that meant for the adults in their life, she’d rather not know.

“Don’t worry little brother, I’m always prepared when it comes to Mom and Dad.” Jazz started opening the door, and then promptly froze in place as she saw the two adults running around the house like their lives depended on it.

“Don’t forget to grab the Peeler, dear! We need to make sure we take as much as we possibly can!” Mom was yelling at Dad as he descended the stairs to the lab, and a booming “Okay!” reverberated off the metal walls of the stairwell.

“Mom?” Jazz stepped forward hesitantly, not quite prepared for the sight of bags full of clothes and machinery alike. “What’s going on?”

“Jazz! It’s so lovely to see you! But why are you here? Didn’t we tell you we’re going to Gotham?” Mom looked at Jazz with a quizzical look, and finding anything remotely resembling care in the purple-tinted blue eyes was almost impossible. Jazz had to once again start the mantra of “they love us, it’s just… hard to see” in her own mind.

“No, you didn’t tell me you’re going to Gotham. Tomorrow is Danny’s Gotcha Day! I’ve been planning on coming back for months!” Jazz was tempted to let herself lose her temper, but she knew that it wouldn’t lead to anything productive. Instead, she settled for looking for any recognition of the one day that they got to celebrate Danny, since he claimed to not know when his birthday was.

“Danny’s Gotcha Day? That can’t be, that’s not until October 13th, right? It can’t be October already.” Mom was speaking as if she was stating a fact, but there was a slight frown on her lips as she checked the date on her phone. Jazz let her eyes shift over to Danny’s form, but he looked almost bored of the conversation. “Oh dear!” Mom was talking again, and Jazz decided that if Danny was okay, then she would be, too. “I’m sorry sweetie, we must have lost track of time down in the lab. You know how it is.” Mom’s voice was almost caring. “We were gonna tell you tonight, as a surprise! We’re going to Gotham for a week, Dad and I have a convention coming up that we just absolutely can’t miss. We’re leaving tomorrow, so go pack your bags!”

“Okay, thanks.” Danny shot off up the stairs, and Jazz followed after him. She needed to make sure he actually was okay; their mom had just admitted to forgetting about his stand-in birthday. Jazz knocked lightly on his bedroom door before slowly pushing it open.

“Are you okay?” Jazz sat down on Danny’s bed, shoving the bunched-up comforter out of her way while nudging a pair of jeans sprawled on the floor. She looked towards her brother and took in his appearance. His messy hair was hanging in his face, and his 5’9” stature was hunched over as he shoveled clothes into a duffle bag. He was throwing items like his chargers, toothbrush, and laptop into his backpack, and she hoped that he would try to do the online assignments that were sure to be filling his email by now.

            “Yeah?” Danny sent her a puzzled look, and not for the first time did she realize that Danny obviously didn’t know what it meant to be a priority to your parents. Jazz’s brow furrowed, but she saw the way Danny was pulling into himself, so she settled for subtlety.

            Jazz stood from the bed and gave Danny a long hug. “I’ll be in my room if you want to talk.” Then she was closing the door to Danny’s room and slipping into her own, the one she had lived in for 18 years, and the feelings of loneliness that hadn’t plagued her in two months crept back under her skin.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

            Danny continued to shuffle items into their respectful bags, no longer caring if they were messy. Well, that’s not to say he didn’t care, it just didn’t bother him as much as it did when he first decided to take on the persona of a slobby teen. All details would be taken into account when it came to the League. Once he finished zipping up the duffel, he turned to his backpack. He crossed his legs, and for the first time in months, he allowed himself to remember. He thought of green eyes, of heartbroken screams and explosions, and he thought of a presence by his side, watching every blind spot he would ever have. Danny clenched his fists, as he remembered the day just over a year ago. He had just confirmed that his powers were fully under his control, and as soon as he had been alone, he had zipped away. He had gone invisible and intangible long before he reached Nanda Parbat, not daring to risk being seen. He had flown around the entirety of the League’s base, searching for Damian. Alas, even his quarters had been cleared. Danny left, knowing his brother was no longer there, either dead or escaped. He was determined to find out which.

            Danny’s eyes opened, and he stuck his hand into the floorboard beneath his bed. He pulled out the wakizashi, eyes tracing every detail. He didn’t need to take the time to memorize it, as it was as familiar to him as it had ever been. For a brief moment, he considered taking it with him; but there was no way he would find Damian in Gotham of all places. Jazz would have noticed his lookalike by now. Besides, Danny didn’t believe in chance.

            He slid the wakizashi into his bag anyway.

[lesmisletters-daily]

First Sketch Of Two Unprepossessing Figures

Les Mis Letters reading club explores one chapter of Les Misérables every day. Join us on Discord, Substack - or share your thoughts right here on tumblr - today's tag is #lm 1.4.2

The mouse which had been caught was a pitiful specimen; but the cat rejoices even over a lean mouse.

Who were these Thénardiers?

Let us say a word or two of them now. We will complete the sketch later on.

These beings belonged to that bastard class composed of coarse people who have been successful, and of intelligent people who have descended in the scale, which is between the class called “middle” and the class denominated as “inferior,” and which combines some of the defects of the second with nearly all the vices of the first, without possessing the generous impulse of the workingman nor the honest order of the bourgeois.

They were of those dwarfed natures which, if a dull fire chances to warm them up, easily become monstrous. There was in the woman a substratum of the brute, and in the man the material for a blackguard. Both were susceptible, in the highest degree, of the sort of hideous progress which is accomplished in the direction of evil. There exist crab-like souls which are continually retreating towards the darkness, retrograding in life rather than advancing, employing experience to augment their deformity, growing incessantly worse, and becoming more and more impregnated with an ever-augmenting blackness. This man and woman possessed such souls.

Thénardier, in particular, was troublesome for a physiognomist. One can only look at some men to distrust them; for one feels that they are dark in both directions. They are uneasy in the rear and threatening in front. There is something of the unknown about them. One can no more answer for what they have done than for what they will do. The shadow which they bear in their glance denounces them. From merely hearing them utter a word or seeing them make a gesture, one obtains a glimpse of sombre secrets in their past and of sombre mysteries in their future.

This Thénardier, if he himself was to be believed, had been a soldier—a sergeant, he said. He had probably been through the campaign of 1815, and had even conducted himself with tolerable valor, it would seem. We shall see later on how much truth there was in this. The sign of his hostelry was in allusion to one of his feats of arms. He had painted it himself; for he knew how to do a little of everything, and badly.

It was at the epoch when the ancient classical romance which, after having been <i>Clélie</i>, was no longer anything but <i>Lodoïska</i>, still noble, but ever more and more vulgar, having fallen from Mademoiselle de Scudéri to Madame Bournon-Malarme, and from Madame de Lafayette to Madame Barthélemy-Hadot, was setting the loving hearts of the portresses of Paris aflame, and even ravaging the suburbs to some extent. Madame Thénardier was just intelligent enough to read this sort of books. She lived on them. In them she drowned what brains she possessed. This had given her, when very young, and even a little later, a sort of pensive attitude towards her husband, a scamp of a certain depth, a ruffian lettered to the extent of the grammar, coarse and fine at one and the same time, but, so far as sentimentalism was concerned, given to the perusal of Pigault-Lebrun, and “in what concerns the sex,” as he said in his jargon—a downright, unmitigated lout. His wife was twelve or fifteen years younger than he was. Later on, when her hair, arranged in a romantically drooping fashion, began to grow gray, when the Megæra began to be developed from the Pamela, the female Thénardier was nothing but a coarse, vicious woman, who had dabbled in stupid romances. Now, one cannot read nonsense with impunity. The result was that her eldest daughter was named Éponine; as for the younger, the poor little thing came near being called Gulnare; I know not to what diversion, effected by a romance of Ducray-Dumenil, she owed the fact that she merely bore the name of Azelma.

However, we will remark by the way, everything was not ridiculous and superficial in that curious epoch to which we are alluding, and which may be designated as the anarchy of baptismal names. By the side of this romantic element which we have just indicated there is the social symptom. It is not rare for the neatherd’s boy nowadays to bear the name of Arthur, Alfred, or Alphonse, and for the vicomte—if there are still any vicomtes—to be called Thomas, Pierre, or Jacques. This displacement, which places the “elegant” name on the plebeian and the rustic name on the aristocrat, is nothing else than an eddy of equality. The irresistible penetration of the new inspiration is there as everywhere else. Beneath this apparent discord there is a great and a profound thing,—the French Revolution.

[leeofthevoid]

Cold-blooded Beings - Part 5

Farleigh Start x Reader

a/n: So sorry for taking a month. It's been hard to write for me especially after failing a subject. I'm doing well now though. On a decent break and hoping to update more this week. I want to finish this series and start an Avatar-themed one. :P

Warnings: Strong language, Violence, Mentions of Sex, Mentions of Death

Word Count: 2938

|| Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

Twisted Kindness

 “You know meeting a guest shouldn’t always be you wearing the most bright colored bralette to get their attention?” Venetia chuckled as she turned her head to you. “And wearing a bikini with just a short skirt to cover up is good?” She tossed back as she glanced at you, sitting on the piano cross-legged. You were both doing this book club thing together when Farleigh and Felix were both busy being boys, and it helps you two catch up on some good fictional boy content.

“You know, I’d kill to get a man like Draco. Sassy, Rich, Totally a bitch.”

“Like Farleigh?” Venetia pointed out with a teasing tone. You gave her a look and slid down to lie on the piano as you held some cheesy romance book you picked up on your way to Saltburn. 

“That’s not a funny joke, Vee. You know I had a crush on him at one point.” Your eyes were similar to those of a child that were robbed of their toy. Venetia found it endearing and stuck her tongue out at you when a voice cut through the air. 

“A crush on who?” Farleigh’s deep voice was a surprise to hear, making you sit up. Venetia smiled at you before her eyes turned to him “A crush on this boy named Timothy from your class?” She wasn’t wrong. You did tell Venetia that you had a slight crush on a guy in one of your classes.

“And I was not informed of this because?” He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms as he looked at you in intrigue. “Well. I’ll tell you when it comes up again.” 

He scoffed before Felix called out for him again. “I guess I have been summoned.” He looked at Venetia and then at you before turning. “Baby, your bikini is showing way more than you want it to.” You smiled at him before slowly looking down and quickly fixing your almost nip-slip and watching his back walk away. 

“Damn. You’re doomed.” Venetia grins and hides behind her book. “What now?”

“He so wants to shag you.” Venetia continued her one-sided enjoyment, watching you process whatever exchange you and Farleigh had while fixing your Bikini top.

Oliver arrived, and he had a glimpse of you and Venetia sitting in the room across the entertainment area. He waved at you and shyly looked at a very interested Venetia before you hopped down the piano and walked behind him while Felix walked inside and sat beside his dad. 

You slid past Elspeth and Pamela, who gave you a wave before you settled next to Farleigh. 

“Lower your excitement. I can taste the desperation from you.” You suppress your smile and grab a chair to sit next to Farleigh. “He’s heeeere! It's a bit pitiful that he looks like a sad puppy, but he’ll settle. Right, Farleigh?”

He looked up from his laptop, looking at you with an unamused look. He never really understood why you were still so obsessed with helping Oliver. He leans on the armrest of his chair while facing you. 

“You’re getting in too deep with this charity thing you’re pulling off. I expect you to be smarter than that, Sweetheart.” He sighed and raised his eyebrows in feigning disappointment that you were always a victim of.

“We talked about this yesterday, Farleigh. Give him a chance, alright?” 

He hummed and looked back down his screen while Elspeth made some commotion over Oliver’s eyes and expressed sympathy in her way. 

You spent the time annoying Farleigh without paying attention. Fixing the undefined curls on his head, playing with the frills of his shirt, and even resting your chin on his shoulder to watch what he was doing on his laptop, which he never really minded. 

It was nice to at least be in the backseat of the limelight after coming back to Saltburn. Your social battery got to recuperate, and the gossip was nice to hear without the obligation of paying attention. 

Oliver looked at you a few times to try and save him from the hogging he had, but you merely waved him off and sat comfortably next to Farleigh. 

Proving Farleigh right was the last thing you wanted to do. He might have been, but at least don’t let him know he was. He leaned on your head a little as he looked at your troubled little face and chuckled. “Eyes here.” You looked away from Oliver and settled back to watch whatever he was doing on his laptop. He lets you see all the latest gossip his friend groups have and starts your own little conversation.

You and Farleigh end up in the shade under the tree beside the pond after slipping away from the sitting area where they bothered Oliver. While you took time to fix his hair again, he reads a book. “This male character is annoying me. He’s so blunt and boring.” 

“Don’t spoil the book for me, idiot.” You hit him lightly on the forehead, happy that he rested his head on your thighs. He furrowed his eyebrows at you and breathed out. “Careful. This face is too priceless to be nicked by your claws.” 

“Well, just read the damn book, Farleigh. Don’t spoil it just because you’re annoyed at some guy.” He’s such a bastard regarding things you want to enjoy, evident by how he is getting back at you for letting Felix invite Oliver to Saltburn.

He put the book down and looked up at you with curious eyes. “You know, you always try to hide what you feel?” You didn’t stop playing with his hair while humming in response. “You’re dumb when it comes to emotions. I’m aware that you’re hiding something about Oliver’s visit.” Silence before he blew some air out. “You’re an open book, Honey.” You breathed in and sighed. He never fucking misses. 

“I like having Oliver here, I really do.” He raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt, “But I felt a chill yesterday. Like some sort of nervousness in my stomach when I was up all night thinking about how I’ll be a good friend to him.” 

There was silence before Farleigh made a disgusted sound. “That’s so fucking gross. You are all aware that Oliver is a grown-ass man, right? He should have seen the death of his dad coming.” 

Farleigh wasn’t mean. He knew in his heart that he only proclaimed the truth. And the truth is, these people only play with a fool’s life to justify their boredom. He loved his cousins dearly, and he loved you as much, but the fact is that you’re all cruel motherfuckers. He saw how you pursed your lips in some sort of turmoil that you only experienced for the first time. 

He loves the good girl façade you put out in the world, but a rich person is just cut from the same damned cloth of privilege. You were in your pretty little white dress without a taint of hard work on that beautiful body of yours while you continued to play with his hair absentmindedly. Yeah, these people just don’t get suffering.

“You think I’m only using Oliver?” Farleigh chuckled before caressing your face so softly. “I think you just fail to see the impact of your actions, baby.” You smile down at him, hands slowly going down to his face, tracing it with your well-polished nails. “I think I know exactly what I’m doing, Farleigh.” 

You slowly bent down, your face inches away from him. Farleigh was aware of how your hair tickled the places it could touch, and yet he said nothing but looked into your eyes. “Getting bold now, are we?” You smirked at Farleigh’s remark and slowly pressed your lips on his. 

An upside-down kiss would have been awkward for any mediocre fellow, but Farleigh knew how to make it work. Your small nibbles and teases were welcomed with low chuckles before you pulled away. His eyebrows shot up in confusion as he followed you with that lustful glint on your face, slowly leaning against the tree. He was quick to prop himself, like a magnet, he closed the distance between the two of you. 

His hands were delicate, of course. The way he caressed your pretty face and slid his other hand on your body. The gentleness made it a lot more hotter and intimate in a way. His kisses were tender, but he also knew when to pull away and witness your desperation by pulling him back in. The soft kisses extended down to your neck, teasingly sucking on the barrier of clothing that would expose your breasts if he pleased. Oh, this ass. He always did love when his sexual accomplice gasped and masked their arousal. You fell into that silly little trap, too. 

Teasingly kneading your breast made you shiver under his touch, and he liked it. He wanted the strained expression you had when you masked the surge of almost pleasure you’re chasing. “Farleigh. I hate waiting.” He smiled up at you before sucking on your collarbones so nicely that a moan escaped quietly. Your complaint did not fall on deaf ears, though. Farleigh placed his hand on your chest, feeling the hardened nipples that he quickly played with between his fingers. 

God, that feels so good. But thank goodness for Venetia. She called out to the two of you from the castle backdoor as she walked towards the tree you sought refuge in. Farleigh pulled himself away from you and smiled. “You lucky lady, I hope you make this up with me soon. This little slow burn you’re giving me physically hurts.” 

You chuckled and hit him on the arm before making yourself a tad bit more presentable for Venetia. She ran up to you and pulled you up excitedly, leaving Farleigh on his own as she led you away from possible ears. 

“At least be a little more discreet, love. Farleigh has been itching for a while, and seeing you both naked was the last thing I wanted to see.” She giggles while hooking an arm around yours. “Oh, shove off, Vee. You’d have to pay to see my body.” 

“You are becoming more daring as the days pass by. Loving it!” Venetia then brought you two to the edge of the pond, but the sun was not as harsh as it had been since you’d gone out. “I’m a little surprised that you’re not inside oogling at Oliver.” 

Venetia smiled and lay down on the grass, her thoughts back to the new boy who had arrived to visit them for the summer. Well…Felix, for the summer. He was so cute and idiotic that she just couldn’t help it. 

“I want Oliver.” She said out of nowhere. You glanced down at her from where you were sitting. The Cattons are weird people that your parents raised you not to be like. They always loved to take and take, yet they did not calculate the consequences of their actions. 

Last year, Venetia and Felix had a few days of strained relationship because of a boy named Eddie. You remember how Farleigh detailed the commotion and the stress Elspeth has gone through when he was thrown out of Saltburn. 

Farleigh sat opposite you as he laid out a decent array of biscuits that the café offered. “I called you here because you have to know a few things that went down when you were gone. Well…A few things that went down last summer.” 

You raised your eyebrows and munched on the goods while nodding for Farleigh to continue his story. “So Venetia and Felix weren’t on perfect terms when he left to go back to school this year because of Venetia. Felix brought another friend to go with him to Saltburn, his name’s Eddie.” 

“Wait, as in Piss Baby Eddie? Annabel told me some stories about that guy. Sounds like a real wuss.” 

Farleigh grinned like he pictured the image of Eddie in his mind. “God, he was cool before the summer. Not until he…Fucked with Venetia.” 

You gasped, quickly covering your mouth to clean up the biscuits. It’s better not to make a scene where people from your friend groups could listen in without your knowledge. Being friends with the Cattons did that for you. “Oh my god, Venetia did coitus with Eddie.” 

Farleigh cringed and threw a raisin at you. “Don’t say coitus, weirdo. And yes, very loudly, very clearly.” He moved closer and lowered his tone, too. “In Felix’s bedroom.” Your jaw dropped in surprise as Farleigh snickered to himself. 

“No, they did not!” 

“Oh yes, they did.” Farleigh was good at lying, but his honest expression and body language gave it away. It was fucking natural, and you cannot believe it. 

“Venetia, do you think messing with Ollie is a good idea? He’s my friend too, do you know? His father just passed away. He’s not some toy.” 

Venetia rolled her eyes at you, slowly fidgeting for something in her pocket. A cigarette which she quickly put in between her lips, lit up. “You’re one to talk.” She jabbed back. You frowned, looking down the pond. 

“It’s just a boy. I won’t do anything to hurt him.” She looked at you, sitting up a little while puffing out smoke. “You’re not Selfish like Felix. Don’t go nuts on me now.” You breathed out and silently focused on your surroundings. You do not want to get into a banter with Venetia right now. 

You sat there until sundown, silently accompanying Venetia as she gossiped about people you will never meet. Quite spectacular how she was still a social butterfly even when she dropped out of college. You made her go back first before you, knowing you needed some peace. 

The trees swayed nicely, and the air was quite chilly. Your clouded thoughts were finally simmering down. Why was it so hard for these Cattons to understand that riches don’t make them invincible? Mother always told you that the consequences of your actions will always come and get you. 

That is how you’ve learned to be kind and careful, no matter what happens. You did have your fair share of troubles, but not as big as sleeping on your brother’s bed with his best friend. That’s so…Embarrassing. 

Tainting…

If Venetia were in your family, Father would have made her kneel hard beans to think about her actions. He’s probably making her recite prayers that you are too traumatized even to utter now that you are older. But then again, whatever you were doing now in university would probably make them do that to you if they knew—especially the things you let Farleigh do, which are not much by his standards. 

Duncan ripped you from your peace, calling out for you to get ready for dinner. He kindly escorted you back to your room to change when he handed you a bag of sweets. You looked at it carefully and gave him a big smile. 

“You remembered? Thank you.” Duncan simply nodded before you caught him off-guard with a hug. He said a curt goodbye and left you to clean up. That man sure remembered you well, especially with the temperature of the water and the scent of peppermint candles in your bathroom. 

You removed your clothes and slowly dipped in the tub, taking your sweet time scrubbing off the dirt and the grime stuck on your skin. It was warm and perfect, enough to sleep in and nap. After a few minutes, you left the tub, put on a comfortable dark red cocktail dress with a low dip on the chest, and did your make-up and hair. 

It crossed your mind that you’ve never really talked to Oliver one-on-one yet, which should not be the case. You are not rude and should be an excellent co-host to your grieving friend. You quickly ran out to the west wing, where their connected rooms were located, knocking gently on the door. 

“Ollie, you in there?” A creak, then timid footsteps can be heard approaching the door. Oliver opened the door wearing a decent button-up and slacks. It was decent enough for a smart casual, but you found it funnily fit him. “May I escort you to the dining area?” You smiled at him with your arms held out for him to hold, mimicking a gentleman waiting for his lady that he gladly accepted with a shy scrunch of his nose. 

“I swear you’ve forgotten me already. I barely got to talk to you when I came.” You lead the way to the dinner area, heels loudly clicking on the floor. “Don’t be too sad. It’s your first night here, and we have the whole summer to enjoy together, you know?”

“I do know. By the way, are my clothes that bad?” You looked at him up and down and shrugged your shoulders. “Not really, no.” He pulled you with that sad look, eyebrows meeting in the middle. “Be honest now. I know you are meticulous in these types of things. Do you think Felix would find it disrespectful?” 

You sighed and gently squeezed his arm. “You should worry a bit more about yourself than how you present. Cut some slack and live a little.” You pulled him to walk again until you finally reached the dining area, where all of the Cattons and Pamela were discussing amongst themselves. 

They cheered when the two of you got there, you taking your place next to Farleigh, who gave you a wink before turning back to listen to Pamela and Elspeth. You quickly fell into conversation with them and enjoyed your dinner together.

a/n: We need prompts! Please send some. Hope you like my go back button here. :P

Previous | Next

[celandeline]

Summer of Like // Farleigh Start x OC (5)

On the chessboard in front of us, Venetia’s winning by a mile, which is how I know she isn’t really paying attention. It’s simply her way - whenever we’ve played games like this in the past, when she is focused on the board, she overthinks. When something else is on her mind, and she’s operating on instinct, she dominates. So maybe today, the day that Felix’s friend Oliver is supposed to arrive, was a bad day to challenge her to a chess match. 

Head propped up on my hand, I move one of my knights to take her pawn. “Your move.”

Venetia’s eyes scan over the board, and she quickly moves one of her bishops, taking the knight that I just placed, and putting my king in danger. “Check.”

I lean back in my chair and groan. I’ve only got a handful of pieces left on the board, and I’ve barely made a dent in her troop. Begrudgingly, I shift my king one space to the side. 

Across the table, Venetia laughs. 

“What, laughing at my misery already V?” I frown petulantly. “At least save it until you’ve actually won the game.”

“No, no…” She giggles again. “Are you listening to Mum and Pamela?”

The room that we’re sitting in - the globe room, Venetia said - is connected to the library through a small archway, letting the voices of the rest of the family’s chatter drift over to us. I tune into the conversation as Venetia giggles again. 

Elspeth’s voice is casual. “Well, I mean, they probably don’t have rehab in Liverpool.”

“No, gosh, no.” Pamela uses the same conversational tone to agree. “No, I can’t imagine they do.”

Venetia grins as I widen my eyes. The sheer absurdity of it - that in all of Liverpool, there couldn’t possibly be one rehab center - and the fact that they’re talking about it so casually, they can’t be joking, both makes me want to laugh and roll my eyes. Just how rich are these people?

Elspeth sighs. “Everybody just goes to ruin, I suppose.”

A moment of silence passes, and then Pamela’s soft voice breaks through again. “Where is Liverpool?”

“What?!” I say, keeping my voice low enough that only Venetia will hear. 

“I know,” She says, leaning forward across the chess table. “I love Mum, I really do, but I swear she has a knack for befriending the most daft people on the fucking planet.” 

I laugh, and move my last remaining rook to take one of her knights. The fact that she’s exempted her mother from that category just adds another layer of humor to the whole thing, and I don’t bother fighting back my grin. 

Venetia pores over the board for a minute before moving her other knight with deft fingers, knocking out one of my bishops. I sigh, resting my elbow back on the edge of the table to prop my head up in my hand again. There’s no way I’m coming back from this. 

From the library, Farleigh’s voice catches my attention. “It’s called Prescot.”

“Oh, it’ll be some awful slum.” Pamela says, pity dripping from her voice. 

“Mm.” Elspeth agrees. “Some sort of hovel-ish squat. And both his parents were dealing. God, and his mother’s a drunk. I mean, babies can be really affected. Traumatized.”

“Oh, they come out drunk.” Pamela adds, sounding grave. 

“Is that right that he had to put his fingers down his mother’s throat to make her sick?” Elspeth asks. 

I don’t catch the answer to her question, because I’m suddenly aware of a pair of eyes on me. I look up to see Venetia gazing out into the hall, a slow smile spreading over her face. She breathes out a laugh, and I turn my head to follow her eyes. 

A short boy stands in the hall just outside the library, his blue plaid shirt buttoned up all the way to the top. There’s an air of meekness about him, and everything about the way he’s styled himself reeks of insecurity. His eyes flick between Venetia and I, seemingly unsure of who to settle on. I make the decision for him, and turn back to look at Venetia, a grin playing at the corner of my lips. 

Oliver disappears, and from the library, Farleigh’s voice booms.

“And here he is now! We were just talking about you!”

Venetia rises from her seat, and I follow her lead, a knowing smile on my face. If there’s one thing I’ve come to know about Venetia, it’s that she likes her men pathetic. The sort of boys that have never really been on the receiving end of female attention before, and once they get a taste, would bend over backwards to get their fix. He’s just her type. 

She rolls her eyes at my look. “Stop.”

“I didn’t even say anything.” I say, teasing.

“I know what you were thinking - and I’m not going to! It’ll upset Felix.” She says, giving me a knowing look before turning to walk into the library.

“Sure.” I drawl, following her in. Maybe not now, but in a few weeks, when we’re all bored out of our minds and it’s unbearably hot? I’m sure her resolve will break.

Elspeth is giving Oliver the same once over that she gave me when we walk into the library. “Has Venetia seen you yet? Oh my god, she’ll die. She’s been draping herself about the house all day hoping you’ll come across her.”

Venetia rolls her eyes as she plops down on the sofa, patting the arm next to her. I perch there, and she leans against me, resting her head against my thighs. 

Behind us, Farleigh snickers from behind his laptop. “As it were.”

James ambles over to shake Oliver’s hand, and Venetia shifts, turning her head to shoot a look at Farleigh. “Stop it. I’m not going to.”

Farleigh raises his hands, placating but teasing all the same. “I never said you were.”

“I did.” I say, grinning down at Venetia. “But I’ve since been told I’m wrong.” I pick up a few strands of her hair and start braiding them together across my lap. 

Elspeth pulls Oliver with her back to the couch, placing him between herself and Pamela. I watch his eyes nervously dart around the room as I work on Venetia’s hair and a twinge of sympathy hits me. He and I are in the same boat, in a way. I was doing the same just a few days ago. 

“Pamela, darling, can you go and find Annie and ask about tea?” Elspeth asks. 

It takes Pamela a moment to register the question. “Yeah.” She says, hesitantly rising from the couch. “Yeah. Who, which…which ones that?”

“You’ll find her darling. Annie.”

Pamela takes a step towards the hall. “Where-?”

Elspeth’s grin tightens. “You’ll work it out darling.”

Almost steeling herself, Pamela says, “Okay. I’m going to work it out.”

James glances away from the television for a moment. “Kitchen.”

“Off you pop.” Elspeth says. 

Pamela lingers for a moment, and then steps out into the hall, muttering under her breath. “Ah, the kitchen. Kitchen. So, Annie in the kitchen... Annie in the kitchen.”

I finish off my braid and begin working on another as Elspeth lets out a long sigh. “Poor dear Pamela. She's been staying with us while she gets back on her feet. She's had an awful

time this year. Hideous. But oh! Oliver- so have you! God, I'm so sorry to hear about your father.

How utterly, utterly tragic. I've lost so many friends to addiction. So, so many dear, dear friends.

It's the root of Poor Pamela's horrors too I'm afraid.”

Farleigh doesn’t look up from his laptop as he adds, “And the only interesting thing

about her.”

“Farleigh!” Elspeth shoots him a look over her shoulder. I resist the urge to snicker, lest I be given the same stare, but Venetia catches my eye and a little laugh slips out of my lips. She grins as well, lips pressed together. 

Elspeth turns back to Oliver. “No, she is rather dull actually. But she's so beautiful. You have to admit she's very beautiful. But it's only ever really been a curse. I mean, the men Oliver. You wouldn't believe it. The latest one is some ghastly Russian billionaire. Malignantly ugly, of

course. She's been holed up here for months hiding from him.”

It’s largely the same conversation that I had with Elspeth when Venetia and I arrived, so I find myself tuning out, more focused on making little braids all throughout Venetia’s hair than Elspeth’s explanation of poor dear Pamela. Still, as Elspeth talks, I can’t help but feel that little twinge of anxiety that’s becoming more familiar the longer I’m here. The importance placed on Pamela’s beauty - the black-tie dinners every night that have me poring through Venetia’s closet - the casual way that Elspeth talks about addiction and tragedy - it’s all a reminder that I don’t fit in here. That I’m really just here for Venetia’s entertainment. 

I start another braid in her hair, and try not to think about it too much.

< previous part | next part >

[taxevasiontactics]

The Godmother's Godchild [4] - To What Great Heights...

Synopsis: You make good on your word to Peppino. In return, he gets exactly what he wants - lots, and lots, and lots of customers. You get the feeling that this won't last as a good thing for very long.

Warning: None.

For once, you have a use for every shilling technique you learned in retail. Everyone you talk to for the next week – every delivery, every pickup, every visit – hears about Peppino’s Pizza. You talk to people you never thought to hold long conversations with. You even learn that the grocer clerk’s name is Pamela after living here for nearly an entire season!  You know that your attempts to weave in meal habits as a lead-in are cheesy at best (ha ha), but you get a few nods of acknowledgement during your jabbering. You only hope that your efforts are not in vain.

You get your results back very quickly when you visit the pizzeria shortly after your shameless advertisements.

“Welcome to Peppino’s Pizza!” Gustavo shouts over the kitchen window’s ledge as he jumps up to grab a hanging order ticket. He sees you, lighting up with a smile and calling your name above the din. “Hey! Be with you in a second!”

You see both men in the back, hurriedly rushing around between hot ovens. Dough flies through the air in varying states of roundness, sauce splatters with terrifying accuracy, cheese rains like snow, and toppings scatter in coordinated chaos.

You slip into one of the turning chairs at the counter. You feel like you’re watching a cartoon show through the rectangular view to the back; it’s just missing the sound effects and ridiculous music.

“Take your time!” you try to shout over the din.

You don’t have to wait very long. Just minutes later the kitchen door slams open, and Peppino shoots out with a tower of pizza boxes in either hand. You don’t even get a chance to say hello, he’s so fast – in a flash, he ties them all to the back of his scooter, jumps on, and disappears in a cloud of dust.

Gustavo comes out a few seconds later, hat off and wiping the sweat from his face with a huff. He goes to get a drink from the soda fountain as you hum.

“Busy day?”

“Yes!” He laughs, then comes back to sit with a sigh. “It’s the busiest it’s been for a while! We haven’t had the chance to sit since we opened. When you said you would get the word out, you really got the word out, didn’t you?”

You rub the back of your neck sheepishly. “I didn’t think they would all call today. I guess we hit the prime time for pizza parties?”

Gustavo guffaws, finishes his drink, and gets up to make your usual order. You catch up over the countertop after he sets it in the oven. You laugh as he complains about his hobby work. Apparently Gustavo yodels, though he doesn’t get much of a chance to show it off to anyone. He lives in an apartment building, which makes for poor practice unless he wants to annoy one of his neighbors. He quilts, too. That’s something he can show off more readily. You make him promise to bring his latest work for you to see when it’s done.

As for you, you’ve gotten the library squared away and got started on the workroom - one of the workrooms. Aunt Marian saw fit to make one dedicated to alchemy and one to spellworks, as well as a storage “closet” (you know damn well it’s bigger on the inside) that you’ve yet to broach. You would be annoyed with her hoarding habits if you didn’t understand the value in every item of the alchemy room. All the other junk? You just don’t have the talent nor preternatural affinity for it, so you tell him you plan on getting rid of it.

“Why?” He leans on his elbow, face resting in the palm. “You could always learn how! Everyone has a bit of something, even if it’s not true right away.’

You chuckle halfheartedly. “Trust me. I’ve tried.”

“Oh.”

Ouch. There it is. The awkward pity face. You thought you got over it, but that still bugs you every time you see it. This is one of the times you prefer kids over adults, they’ll take anything at face value and accept it as it is. Adults either already know the answer, or assume they do. You tell yourself every time, you need to figure out a better way to tell people.

A beat of silence passes before Gustavo clears his throat. “Well, at least you gave it a good try! That’s what matters, right?”

His positivity is genuine, you know, but it still stings. You’re grateful that the kitchen timer dings, summoning him to the back. You have work to get back to, anyways.

---

Pamela’s hand waves for your attention at the till as you roll up. She looks like she’s dying to tell you something, fit to burst if she doesn’t spill right this minute. You tilt her head as wordless permission to get on with it.

“Did you see those big trucks this morning?” She whispers scandalously.

“Huh? No.” You frown, handing her a box of dry pasta. “I live outside of town, remember?”

“You missed out, then. There were these big ole trucks that came rumbling down the road when I was driving in this morning. Pshooe!” Pamela’s hand rolls across the counter’s surface, mimicking the vehicles she saw. You recognize it from your morning transits in the city – big rigs, classic highway cloggers. “They were hauling huge containers and flat beds full of construction materials. Steel, brick, lumber, you name it, they had it.”

You make a hum of interest, though the idea has already run through your course of curiosity. You dig out your wallet and thumb between paper slips in anticipation for today’s total.

“What do you think they’re going to use it for?” She slips the money from your hands when you offer it and gets to rifling around for your change. “The mayor’s office didn’t give any notice about a new project, and we’ve never had anything that big come through.”

You scoff, stuffing what she hands back into the proper pockets.

“Corporate something, probably,” you reply. “I’d hate to see whatever warehouse or multimillion condo gets set up. I like how open the land looks out here.”

“Uh-huh, me too. Have a good day!”

“You too, Pam.”

You load up and get out of town. You’ve been in an absolutely dour mood since you last talked with Gustavo. You haven’t even gone back to the restaurant for a few days; no craving means no excuse to hang around. No matter what, be it cleaning, organizing, or simply sitting outside, you can’t get rid of it. It festers in the back of your mind like a worm, burrowing deeper and deeper until it sits at the base of your skull in a tight knot. It’s as absolutely, totally, and utterly frustrating as it is tiring.

The only moment you get any reprieve is when you see Aggie waving to you from the side of the road. You pull over and stick your head out of the window as she comes to your side, leaving behind a gaggle of kids standing around a tall tree. Thomas is among them, you notice. This time, he’s the one who looks extremely annoyed.

“Hi, Doctor!” Aggie greets over your engine. She flashes you a quick, thin smile. Guilt, if you’ve ever seen it. “Uh, can we… ask for your help?”

You give a look to the group, humming. “It wouldn’t happen to involve whatever’s going on over there, would it?”

“Uh, yes.” Her guilt multiplies. “We were flying Thomas’ model plane around when the wind kicked up, and…”

You look up to the higher, thinner branches. Lo and behold, you see a real beauty of an RC plane precariously hanging near the top, tangled up with no way of crudely dislodging it without breaking it. Climbing up there would be a stupid idea; even if the trunk is sturdy and the limbs are thick, the plane is likely out of any child’s reach if they manage to get up there.

“Man,” you mutter, shutting off the engine and getting out. “You’re lucky I like you little punks. What is it with you kids and trees?”

You haven’t climbed that high in years, nor do you don’t know anybody with a tall enough ladder. However, when you step out of your truck and look up, you get a quick shot of adrenaline. You’ve chased a cat before and kept up, track record says your athleticism is fantastic. You are possessed by the confidence of a thousand squirrels. The children need your help. Meddlesome instinct or not, you want a win.

You wrap your limbs around the tree and begin your ascent.

Your confidence wavers six feet above ground. You cannot climb the tree, your body tells you, you are going to fall very, very badly if you keep this up. You elect to ignore its warning and continue upwards, committing to helping despite fear. If you falter, you’ll fall anyways, so don’t look down.

It’s a careful, slow affair. In the time it takes for you to get within sight of your prize, Aggie manages to flag down another adult to assist. You glance down from where you cling to an unsteadily wavering branch. A bewildered Peppino stares back up at you, surrounded by a flock of concerned children.

“I leave you alone for just a little bit- what are you doing this time, crazy?!” He shouts up.

“Helping.” You inch forward. It’s just within sight. “They got their plane stuck in a tree.”

“You couldn’t have asked for help?"

You get another inch, grunting, “Maybe, but I almost have it. It’s within reach. Just a little further.”

“You talking to yourself about all of this doesn’t make it any better! You’re going to fall!”

You ignore him too, willing the wood within your grasp to quit shaking as you shuffle forward like a caterpillar. Just a little further and your fingertips can touch it, then you can grab it and get out of this tree. You can see the younger folk start to back up as your anchor leans downward.

“Careful!” Aggie’s probably biting her nails by the way she suddenly gasps. “Be careful! Be careful!”

“You’re almost there, just a little more!” Thomas shouts upward.

You lunge for it. You snatch the plane from the tree’s hold, victorious, before the world lurches forward with a loud snap. You don’t even have time to yelp. Everything spins in a wild blur, tree and sky and ground all becoming one stretch, stomach slamming your throat as the rest of your body goes tumbling down and you can do nothing but squeeze your eyes shut and tense and curl and wait for the sudden stop.

“Caz-!”

“Ough-!”

Your weight crashes unmitigated into a jumbled mess of limbs. The wind is knocked out of you and aches bloom across your body. For a second, you can do nothing but wheeze for air and stare up at the tree’s canopy, dazed. Underneath you, Peppino groans.

Oh, wow. He caught you.

The realization makes you shoot upright in spite of your protesting tailbone. You hurriedly roll up and off of his stomach, grabbing the plane from where it lies in the grass. Somehow, it's still in one piece after your tumble. You hand it back to Thomas.

“Run along,” you tell them. “Go on. Have fun.”

“Thanks. Uh. Have a good day!” He and the rest of the kids quickly get back to the field, far away from the tree – and far away from Peppino, who sits up and scowls sourly at you.

“What did I tell you?!” He gets up, flinging one hand to where the branch broke. “You were going to fall! What happened? You fell!”

“I was ready to eat dirt if I did,” you retort. “Could’ve driven myself back and patched myself, we’re not far from the house.”

“Oh, you and the broken leg you got from falling. How would you drive with that?”

Peppino’s exaggeration brings a burst of laughter from you. He’s ridiculous. The mental image of trying to push your truck while hobbling along back home is so ridiculous it jostles your brain out of the ruddy ditch it’s wallowed in for the past few days; it manages to make you feel something other than sad. You swallow down your next argument. This isn’t the good deed you were hoping for today, nor the aftermath you expected, but you feel better.

You tromp through the grass towards him, looking him over. Your scrutiny makes him retreat, so you lift a hand to stop him from scuttling back.

“Are you hurt?”

He jumps at your sudden question. “What?”

“Hurt,” you repeat. You vaguely gesture his way. “I fell on you from pretty high up.”

“Oh.” His shoulders slouch again, as does his frown. “I don’t need your worry over my back, I’ll deal with it. Like I always do.”

“If you say so.” That’s all you need. You jab a thumb back at your truck, conveniently located next to his idling vespa. “I’m going home to make some ‘magic tea’ for my back. You’re welcome to it if you want.”

You walk, leaving no room for argument. Peppino follows, though not without a muttered string of low words.

The drive is short. You have to coax your visitor in by crossing your heart again and again, you will not slip anything weird into his drink. No sleeping draught, no forget-me juice, and certainly no shape-changing nonsense! Even after the placating promises, Peppino still treats the doorway like he’s going to get zapped the moment he crosses the threshold.

You can barely hold your laugh when he finally steps inside. His cringing face relaxes, replaced by utter bemusement as he tilts his head.

“You look disappointed!” You continue to chortle, closing the door behind him. “What? What is it?”

“I’ve never seen the inside. I expected Mama Marian’s place to be more… magical,” he mutters.

“Yeah, well, surprise. If she didn’t magic everything she could get her hands on, she was like any other eccentric aunt who hoards and meddles in everyone else’s problems.”

You lead him into the kitchen, getting water on the stove and rummaging through your hackneyed storage space for materials. Peppino sits down at the doily-laden table, fingers drumming on the wood. You can feel his eyes on your back as you work: grinding, sifting, measuring.

“It’s not too different from cooking,” you say over your shoulder. “Just has to be more precise.”

He scoffs, “I can see that. You know everything that is going in, yes? And why? And how?”

“Yup, everything.”

“Then it really isn’t that far.”

You hum in acknowledgement as you both lapse into silence. Peppino’s fingers drum on the wood. Your mortar grumbles when you drag the pestle in its bowl. You hear your pot start to simmer, a small hiss of steam drifting from its spout. Still, you aren’t satisfied with the grain size yet. Bigger than you want becomes inefficient, smaller than what you want lets particles go right through the strainer. You don’t want to waste filter paper for a quick two cups.

The drumming stops. You look behind you and find that the man has fallen asleep sitting at the table, face propped up in one hand with an elbow on the wooden surface. You feel a stroke of empathy for him – lounge chairs and tables were as comfortable as beds when the work was tough – and let him sleep.

You can hear him quietly snoring over the kitchen clock’s ticking. You’re not used to working so leisurely, much less with someone else in the room. You’re hyperaware of every movement, trying to keep your noise to a minimum while you finish up the dry mix and dump into the boiling pot.

Eventually, Peppino shifts in his chair, clearing his throat and shaking out the sleep. Just in time, the dead air was starting to get boring.

 “Hey, Peppino?” “What?” He sounds convincingly lucid, you’re impressed.

“When’s the last time you had a decent night’s sleep?”

“Ha!” The man slaps his knee. “Ever since the restaurant got busier, I get up earlier and stay up later! Every day, we hardly even have time to sit down and we rush around like rats. But can I complain?”

He holds his hands in the air, sighing. You thought it was funny when you saw him and Gustavo running around, but if it’s been like that every single day you can’t help but feel bad.

“Maybe a little,” you reply. “No, I cannot.” Peppino sinks back into his chair again, the lines under his eyes multiplying. “We make the payments on time, so I have to keep the customers we get in any way.”

The healing potion has finished brewing, according to your internal timer. You strain it out, dividing the liquid into two mugs. It’s still not maroon, but a weak red will do for pain relief. You bring them to the table, sliding one to your guest.

“Sure,” you say before taking a sip, “but you have to make time for breaks, before your body makes the time for you.”

“I’m ­robust, I can handle it. There is nothing I can’t do.”

Peppino drains his cup in barely two pulls, bids you good day, and leaves to open the pizzeria.  You’re a hypocrite, sure, but that just gives you an insight to what kind of trouble a mindset like that can bring.

---

You get a call late at night while you’re trying to shove a heavy table out of the way. You really hate the carved marble stuff, it’s always been a hassle to move anywhere, but there’s your phone on the table’s surface buzzing away with a name you hoped wouldn’t bother you for at least another month. You groan, wipe your face with the back of your arm, and pick up your phone.

“Heyyyy boss.”

When are you going to come back?

God dammit. You take a deep breath inward, praying that the receiver does not pick it up, and run one hand down your cheek to get out the bitter tone before she can hear it. You knew that would be the opening question. You and Candance have never gotten along. She is the corporate face at work, which already puts you at odds with her, but there is just something about her that makes you itch. You understand the budget cuts. You understand the massive workload you and the others have to pick up to accommodate the massive rush of patients at times. You understand the stress that everyone undergoes to keep every one of them healthy while working under such tight constraints, including yourself.

You will never, ever understand why Candance insists on profit margins that directly contradict your job description.

 You lean back on the table, your free arm folding across your stomach. “Well, you know, I’m still trying to get the place cleared up. I still have PTO from last year.”

Ah, yes, the year you took no days off. People quit, you picked up the slack, all for no extra pay. You felt bad. You didn’t want anyone else to deal with what you thought you could handle.

I know, but it’s becoming a problem. The work you’ve placed on everyone else in your absence is starting to take its toll.

“They all knew Aunt Marian,” you answer. A stab of guilt goes through your heart anyways. “Look, I just need more time to figure all of this out.”

How much more time? “I… I dunno, as long as I need? It’s still pretty hard-“

I need a concrete answer.

You breathe out without really giving your lungs a chance to absorb the air. It’s always like this. It’s always like this! Better you than someone else, though. You can handle it.

“I’ll get back to you in a month. I’m almost done with the cleanup.”

Alright, good. A month. That works. Don’t forget that your contract expires at the end of the year, we need to renew it when you get back.

“Yup, sure thing boss.”

Take care of yourself. Don’t forget to call me back.

“Will do.”

The call disconnects.

You want to throw something out of the window.

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

kismet

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/VG3mJZg by mickeysshitshow Peter Parker, age 22, dies fighting Kingpin. Peter Parker, age 22, realizes how much he wants to live as he falls to his death and he prays for a second chance. (un)Fortunately for Peter, The Fates hear his call and take pity on him. OR- Peter Parker dies and seconds later he wakes up in an unfamiliar universe, drowning in a pool of foul smelling green goo. He curses himself for not asking the voices in his head any questions. Words: 5370, Chapters: 1/10, Language: English Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Batman - All Media Types Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: Peter Parker, Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley, Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake (DCU), Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Stephanie Brown, Cassandra Cain, Duke Thomas, Selina Kyle, Felicia Hardy Relationships: Tim Drake (DCU)/Peter Parker, Batfamily Members (DCU) & Peter Parker, Pamela Isley & Peter Parker & Harleen Quinzel Additional Tags: Peter Parker Lives in Gotham City (DCU), Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Needs Therapy, Batfamily (DCU), Protective Batfamily (DCU), Batfamily Shenanigans (DCU), Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crack Treated Seriously, Attempt at Humor, Stalker Tim Drake (DCU), Dimension Travel, Character Death, Post-Movie: Spider-Man: No Way Home (2021), Team Red (Marvel) read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/VG3mJZg

[jokey05]

Gotham Sirens! Six AU

Because what's better that six awesome ladies that deserved better ? Even more six awesome ladies that deserved better.

( Note for the ex-wives I'm talking about the fictional musical, not the real historic figures)

I've had this idea for forever, and I finally found every counter part:

Talia Al Ghul- Catherine of Aragon

Queens. Extremely Loyal. Love their children. Should have got out of the situation. Powerful Connections

Selina Kyle - Anne Boleyn

Just a party gal ;D ( it's actually one of the most complex and deep person out there but gets reduced as nothing more that the sexy girl)

Andrea Beaumont- Jane Seymour

Wish both were more in to the spotlight (pun, laugh,now thank you). Never got to see their son grow up :'I. Both were so much in love and just wanted a family.

Natalia Knight- Anne of Cleves

Got the better end of the stick. Classy. Sassy. Umboterd queen was to beautiful for the man to even look at. Rich AF.

Harleen Quinzel - Katherine Howard

Only used as a sexual object by men? Blamed for their actions even if they were forced into it ? Is still seen only as a sexual thing because it's "empowering" and not a fucking resoult of their trauma? Still demed child like and immature? You bet.

Pamela Isley - Catherine Parr

Girlboss. Couldn't be with the one she loved because of some stinky man. Indipendet but also really compassionate ( Yes Poison Ivy could simply take over the planet and kill humans in their sleep but she choose to be a cottage core lesbian, she is compassionate, or at least pitying)

Does this make Bruce Henry? Kinda. Will I apologize? No. Should I have named this "Bruce Wayne's Ex-Wives"? Yes, but it didn't sound that catchy and we are not here to talk about him.

I need someone to animate this please, it would be awesome. I need my pop group of comics anti- heroes. They become the family and support they never actually got.They do a tour and talk shit of Lex Luther together. Joker is gone in negative five seconds. They bring the kids to their concerts and organise concerts with the Birds of Prey. I need this group somewhere in the comics please. Lady Shiva is their bodyguard that absolutely doesn't wanna be there but is forced to, Onyx Adams founds it very funny , turns out Shado is a really good manager and Jade and Rose get (adopted) brought along for the ride.