#and TEN (10) cookies to anyone who wants to discuss it

[descientia]

On Faith & Prophecy —

Firstly, because I have been asked before, and because it is somewhat of an unpopular decision: I do abide by the events of Episode Ignis’s main verse and factor this into my portrayal of Ignis rather than headcanoning it out. That is to say, Ignis learned about the prophecy and Noctis’s required death from a dying Pryna, which for recap’s sake was this:

A power greater than even that of the Six, purifying all by the Light of the Crystal and the glaives of rulers past. Only at the throne can the Chosen receive it, and only at the cost of a life: his own. The King of Kings shall be granted the power to banish the darkness, but the blood price must be paid. To cast out the Usurper and usher in dawn’s light will cost the life of the Chosen. Many sacrificed all for the King; so must the King sacrifice himself for all. Now enter into Reflection, that the light of Providence shine within.

He also saw visions of pertinent future moments, such as Noctis killing himself on the throne ( cutscene here ).

Prior to this revelation, Ignis was only aware of as much of the prophecy as Noct and most people were: In a time of great need, the Oracle would help the Chosen King to claim the power of the Crystal and save the world from darkness. He did not know that Noct’s death was part of the deal, and fwiw I don’t think anyone but Regis and probably Lunafreya did.

Ignis also didn’t immediately accept Pryna’s vision as truth, and when he battles Ravus and argues about Luna’s sacrifice, he still stands by the prophecy as he has known it to be. As they watch Lunafreya’s spirit leave her body, it hits Ignis that Noctis might be subjected to the same fate by the same prophecy, and he begins to view this all with new perspective. The battle with Ardyn in which Ignis loses his sight happens quickly after that, but he has further time to reflect upon all of this during his recovery ( and Noctis’s subsequent recovery ).

When Ignis suggests to Noctis that they cease their journey, it isn’t because he hopes Noctis will actually agree and give up at Ignis’s suggestion. ( I’ve read compelling arguments questioning Ignis’s decision to not disclose the full implications of the prophecy to Noctis, and calling into question Ignis’s denial of Noctis’s agency in making this decision— which would be fairly valid if Ignis was expecting to Noctis to make a decision that would be better made fully informed, but I have never viewed this scene in this way, even before playing Episode Ignis and learning the full context of it. ) Rather, he is testing Noctis’s resolve to push forward at a time when Noctis might be tempted to give up due to the losses already incurred. Ignis is playing devil’s advocate in this scene, suggesting that it’s okay to quit now in order to help Noctis himself realize he finds that idea abhorrent, as opposed to telling Noctis that he has to push onward when he doesn’t want to ( as it could be said Gladio is doing in the train scene; this is a prime example of the different approaches of Gladio and Ignis, and I’d argue a prime example of how much better Ignis knows Noctis and his emotional needs than Gladio does ).

His decision to not tell Noctis about the full consequences of the prophecy is because he believes there is no stopping Noctis from what he has already decided to do, and Noctis’s impassioned conviction that the sacrifices of others made on his behalf must be honored by his own fulfillment of the very role they have sacrificed in order for him to perform convinces Ignis that Noctis does not want to be swayed from his course. If he tells Noctis that fulfilling his role as the Chosen King will mean his own death, then Noctis might be too afraid to continue and resent himself for it. Or, even if he continues, he would then need to do so with the knowledge of his impending death looming over him. Ignis makes a decision not unlike Regis’s decision to withhold his son’s fate from him in order to maximize his enjoyment of life in the meanwhile. It could be argued that this is presumptuous of Ignis ( and, for that matter, of Regis ), but all of his decisions are made based upon what he believes is best for Noctis.

( Even more under the cut ! )

Ignis also tells no one else of the nature of the prophecy until after Noctis is in the Crystal. After that, he keeps it to himself for a short while ( so that the others do not have to bear that burden as well ), but does eventually share what he knows with Gladio, Prompto, and other relevant parties.

Ignis does not know about Ardyn’s true identity before the others learn it, as that was only revealed in the AU ending of Episode Ignis ( which I only honor in my specific verse for it ), nor the additional reveals from Lunafreya about the ring and the Crystal. It might also be worth mentioning that while the AU ending alone is where Ignis says things like “ I don’t want to die without him ” and “ this world means nothing to me without Noctis ” and a host of other things that sound a lot like his feelings for Noctis go beyond leige and retainer, I do write him as though these feelings are present even in my main verse; he just never had that opportunity to voice them.

On the topic of Ignis’s religious faith ( and oops I drifted pretty far from my original goals of tying these two things together ): he, as well as the royal family and most of Lucis, observes the faith of the Six. For Ignis’s part, this is more or less a nominal observance of faith, as they do live in a world in which gods have a tangible and empirically observed presence and he of course respects these powerful Astrals, but he is far from devout as far as paying them actual, spiritual worship goes.

When Ignis learns of the full extent of the prophecy ( and comes to believe it ), his regard for the gods is worsened considerably. Indeed, he comes to resent and perhaps even hate them, for he perceives the gods as being the ones to cruelly demand Noctis’s life in exchange for world salvation. ( Whether or not this is true or the gods are simply the messengers and perhaps arbiters of a truism that is out of even their control, even I am unclear. ) In Ignis’s perception, they could rule differently but choose not to, and even if that is not the case, they have long been playing a game with divine forces in which humanity ( and particularly Noctis ) are their pawns. Ignis cannot abide by this, and refuses to pay them ( even nominal ) worship any longer.

His worldview does become ( pardon the unavoidable pun ) darker as a result of this, and it would not be unreasonable for others to assume that Ignis’s newfound bitterness and resentment of the gods are in response to his blindness rather than in response to Noctis’s fate ( especially before they know of Noctis’s fate ). The truth of it, though, is that while he is of course frustrated by his blindness and the extreme difficulty that is now posed in performing even basic tasks, he does not resent his blindness, as it was a sacrifice that he willingly made to save Noctis’s life ( even if only for a short time ), and would unflinchingly make the same choice again. ( Mind you, he does not know how things may have gone differently in alternate universes. )

Ignis spends the ten years of darkness attempting to find a way around the prophecy, acting directly in defiance of the gods and their decree. His primary lead is within the Tombs of the Kings, which he explores at first perhaps with Gladio and/or Prompto, perhaps with Umbra, perhaps with other friends and allies such as Aranea, and later ( when the boy is old enough ) with Talcott. They are looking for inscriptions regarding the prophecy written in Old Lucian, a dead language that Ignis is now ( with so many having been killed in the Fall of Insomnia and now the Starscourge ) the last person able to translate. Unfortunately, as Ignis cannot see, he is unable to do so, and attempts to teach Talcott the language. Talcott is an admirable student, Ignis is an admirable teacher, but his blindness and the time constraints prove to be too much, and they are not able to find any way to avert the prophecy before Noctis returns.

In the alternate verse in which he does not lose his sight, Ignis is able to translate these documents directly and they do find some sort of loophole disclosed therein. Tragically, then, it is his blindness that renders him unable to save Noctis in the end.

[ahkaahshi]

sleeping over at their s/o’s house for the first time [scenarios]

pairings: sakusa kiyoomi; hirugami sachirou; kuroo tetsurou x fem reader

genre: fluff and humor, as per usual

warning(s): n/a

notes: kinda popped off on hirugami’s part. couldn't help myself. not sorry bout it either. can’t wait til we get to see more of his cute lil face in the anime.

he is so painfully awkward I love him

will just stand in the entryway with his duffle slung over his shoulder, staring straight at you until you tell him when he can put his stuff

this literally isn’t his first time over at your house but he acts like it???

poor baby’s obviously nervous about ~ spending the night ~

immediately washes his hands

brings his own pillow

asks if you’ve sanitized all your surfaces recently/if anyone in your household has been sick lately

does he wanna play video games? not until he’s wiped down all the controllers.

does he wanna watch real housewives? no, but you put it on anyway because you know he secretly loves the drama

does he want a snack? possibly? but refuses to eat on your bed because lying on crumbs is nasty

all he does is get under the covers and hang out

only moves to brush his teeth and, of course, wash his hands

will do a face mask with you but only after thoroughly reading the contents of the bottle/package

wears his hoodie and sweats to bed

is asleep before 10pm

2/10. total party pooper who only gets points because he’s hot and dislikes the same housewives as you do

Moments after releasing a rather loud guffaw at a funny scene from the television show you have playing on your laptop, you hear a small groan echo from beside you. Turning your head to the source of the noise brings your attention to your boyfriend, whose tall form rested on the bed beside you, ensconced in your blankets. His eyelids flutter open and his eyes the color of charcoal fasten on you before narrowing in a small glare of annoyance from underneath the sea of black waves atop his head.

Maybe you would’ve felt even the slightest bit intimidated if his face wasn’t close to being absorbed by the yellow fabric of his hoodie--and if he hadn’t flattened his hair against his forehead by closing the drawstrings to secure his hood around his head.

“Kiyo!” you whine, crossing your arms in front of you chest, “Were you really asleep just now?”

His dark eyebrows furrow as he answers matter-of-factly, “Yes. You know I go to bed at ten o’clock, (f/n). It’s ten thirty.”

You roll your (e/c) eyes at him and protest, “But this is a sleepover! Would it kill you to stay awake a little longer so you can spend some precious time with your beloved girlfriend?”

“Lack of sleep can lead to sickness. Sickness can lead to death. So, yes, staying awake longer to spend precious time with my beloved girlfriend could kill me.”

“I hate you.”

He lets out a long sigh and reaches over towards your laptop to close it, putting an end to your Real Housewives marathon. Once he’s moved it off of your bed, one of his arms snakes around your waist and pulls your body down towards the mattress. His midnight gaze doesn’t falter as he says, “If you get sick, I won’t be able to spend time with you like this, so sleep with me.”

Your heart skips a beat at his tenderly spoken words, and you crawl underneath the covers so you can place your head on his muscular chest and curl up beside him. The feeling of his warmth surrounding you is enough to make you melt into his arms and forgive him for completely ditching you in favor of sleep.

“(F/n).”

“Yes, baby?”

“If you kick me off the bed, this will be our last sleepover.”

sweet boy who is very excited to spend the night at his girlfriend’s house!!

brings snacks and movies

he enjoys doing any activity with you, whether it’s watching movies, playing video/board games, or just cuddling on the couch and talking

not hard to please at all!!!

watches rom coms with you. secretly a hopeless romantic

you’ll probably spend at least ten minutes of your night trying to catch pieces of popcorn in your mouths

and another ten doing the same thing with m&ms

poor boy is too tall to fit under your blankets, so you have to give him an extra one for his legs and feet

bedtime attire consists of boxers with corgis on them, a sweater, and crew socks to keep his tootsies warm 🥺

brings you a pair of matching, corgi-patterned sleeping shorts bc he wants to twin with you

your parents are gone, meaning you can do chaotic activities...

... like baking at 2am!!

he loves to bake (and you can’t convince me otherwise). pls bake with him

wants to stay up all night with you but ends up passing out around 3am after y'all eat all the cookies you made together

11/10, best sleepover ever

Few things were more romantic than spending an evening with your boyfriend on your hands and knees, against the cold, tile floor of the kitchen, cleaning up the aftermath of the mess you’d created.

Lifting your gaze from the white goop coating the flooring, you glance over at Hirugami, who looks completely unfazed and unbothered despite his face still being decorated with dollops of whipped cream. Beholding this sight once more sends you into another fit of laughter that makes it hard for you to keep yourself steady.

“What?” he asks, a small smile creeping onto his lips at seeing you so amused.

In between breaths, you manage to ask, “Why’ve you still got whipped cream on your face?”

With a roll of his chestnut brown eyes, he uses his fingers to swipe some of it off so he can help himself to another serving. “Obviously,” he scoffs sassily, “I’m saving it for later.” His smart comment makes you snort rather unattractively, which, in turn, causes chuckles to pour out from his mouth. “I’m assuming that’s what you’re doing too, right?”

Your (e/c) eyes widen, since you thought you’d done a good job of clearing up the results of your whipped cream battle from your face. A glance at your reflection in the glass of the oven where the cookies were slowly baking soon proved you wrong. Instead of being irritated by this discovery, however, you let out another, wheezing laugh and fell onto your side.

To any outsider, the situation would’ve looked rather strange--an incredibly tall volleyball player dressed only in corgi-patterned boxers, a sweater, and socks, face covered in whipped cream as he fell about laughing with his girlfriend who wore a similar ensemble and was sporting the same whipped cream situation. However, in your defense, it was two o’clock am, and you were high on sugar.

"Come over here and I’ll get the rest off your face, then,” Hirugami suggests, extending his long arms towards you that beckon you closer to him. After you scoot closer to him, he pulls you into his embrace and starts peppering your skin reddened from laughing so heartily with kisses. With each press of his lips against your face, your heart flutters in your chest.

He only pulls away from you when the oven beeps, alerting you that the cookies you’ve been awaiting are finally ready. But he does so with hesitation, seeing as he’d been caught up in savoring the sweet taste of your lips instead.

“You ready to eat some cookies?” he asks with a grin.

Your reply makes him snicker: “Always.”

is fully prepared to stay up the entire night (spoiler alert: doesn't)

made an entire party playlist for y'all to listen to throughout the evening

expect lots of dancing, vibing, singing, and buzzfeed unsolved episodes

brings dance dance revolution over to your house and then proceeds to challenge you to a dance off

was not prepared for what you brought to the table

tries twerking to distract you but still fails

will go on a midnight mcdonalds run with you

is the kinda person to share deep, late night thoughts with

only with him can your conversations go from discussing the questions of human existence to debating which form of potatoes is the most elite

will 100% do face masks with you to keep his complexion lookin godly

INSISTS on watching scary movies

expectation: “don’t worry, babe; I got you!!”

reality: is visibly shaking underneath the covers, questioning all the shadows in your house

wears only a pair of shorts to bed even tho it’s cold af (he runs hot, if ya know what I mean heheh)

8/10. would’ve scored the last 2 points if he hadn’t stolen the blankets and made you wonder if your house was haunted

"(F/n).”

The familiar and gentle voice of your boyfriend rouses you from your semi-conscious state, and you hear the sheets of your bed rustle.

“I’m so tired, Tetsu... what is it?” you wonder groggily, not even bothering to open your eyes to see what’s upset him.

“I think your house is haunted,” is his response. Though he speaks calmly and coherently, his hazel eyes are wide with fear and darting around the dark bedroom.

“Oh, stop. I knew it was a bad idea to watch those supernatural Buzzfeed Unsolved episodes before bed.”

The bed sinks behind you, and you feel the warmth of the blanket he’d stolen from you earlier around your body as he pulls you towards him so your back is flush against his chest. While you appreciate his closeness to you, you can tell he’s far from relaxed. The grip his fingers have around one of your shoulders is tight, as if he’s using it as a stress ball.

You murmur his name with indignation and pry his cold hand off your shoulder, but press a gentle kiss against the back of it. “Baby, go to sleep.”

He noticeably stiffens when a quiet whoosh sounds from another part of your house. “What the heck was that?” he asks from where his face is buried in the back of your neck, too afraid to look around and risk finding something he might not want to see.

“The dishwasher.”

“Y-Yeah,” he stammers, “the dishwasher... of course...” 

With a gentle groan, you lift your head so you can turn and press a gentle kiss against his forehead in an attempt to soothe him. As soon as you plop back down onto your pillow, Kuroo takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, desperate to get a wink of sleep.

The sound of a creak brings both of you to attention moments later, however, and your heart begins to race.

“That was the house settling... right?” you whisper.

He pulls the blanket over both of your heads, fully cloaking your bodies beneath it and says, “Yeah. Yeah. Let’s go with that.”

At this point, you realize it’s going to be a long night for reasons other than those you’d expected.

[lady-divine-writes]

Kurtbastian fic “Always and Forever” Chapter 3

Summary: After the death of their daughter Grace, Kurt and Sebastian drift apart. Kurt wraps himself up in his grief so tightly he starts to push Sebastian away, and Sebastian, feeling himself shoved aside when he needs Kurt most, cheats. They make the decision to start over, to leave New York City and their pain behind, and start over again in a house Upstate. Sebastian buys Kurt a "fixer upper" and gives him free reign. While redecorating the room that will be his studio, Kurt comes across something interesting underneath the wallpaper. It starts to become an obsession for Kurt - an obsession that begins to replace Kurt's love for his husband, which Sebastian is holding on to by a thread. Can Kurt and Sebastian break through the pain and the hurt and find a way to fall in love again?

Read on AO3.

Chapter 3 (4753 words)

Kurt stares out his studio window at the neighborhood below. It’s 10:15 a.m. and a Tuesday, so it isn’t as if the place is teeming with activity. Everyone living on Colony Lane seems content to stick to their own spaces, abide by their own schedules, and go about their lives without much interference from the world outside.

Kurt hates to hand it to Sebastian, but that’s what he wants as well. Isolation in a quaint fixer-upper is precisely what he needs.

Another point for Sebastian. 

Damn. 

He seems to be racking them up lately, while Kurt…

Kurt can admit that he’s not trying as hard as he should be, but he’s giving himself permission to be selfish. There shouldn’t be a timetable for bouncing back from loss, and Kurt got the double-whammy. 

Sebastian gave him betrayal to get over, too. 

Kurt knows that he should deem repairing his marriage a priority, but he also needs to do what’s right for him. 

He hasn’t figured out what that is yet, but it'll come to him.

Underlying childhood guilt has him believing that he should introduce himself to the neighbors. Etiquette and all that. It’s what his mother would do. Every time his family moved, and there had been a handful of times, Kurt’s mother would bake a batch of cookies for the neighbors. She'd put a baker's dozen into colorful cellophane bags, tie the tops with curled ribbon, and take them door to door to say hello. She wouldn’t wait for people to show up on their doorstep with a casserole and a smile. She believed in being proactive. She would tell him, “New neighborhood, new life. Go out and be a part of it.”

But Kurt doesn’t want to, and the neighbors seem fine with that. 

It’s been three days, and Kurt and Sebastian have only gotten one visitor – the technician who came to fix the heating. Of course, the neighbors could be waiting for them to get settled. Then they’ll pounce over with perfectly iced Gingerbread Bundt cakes and Chicken Kievs, church invites, and Girl Scout cookie order forms, like a swarm of Stepford Wives. 

Kurt doesn’t care about being proactive, and his mother isn’t around to scold him for behaving like a hermit. 

That may sound harsh, but it's true. 

The clouds pulling together in the sky overhead, threatening rain, give Kurt an excuse to shut himself away and work on the house - an excuse he can ply without the assistance of a tragic backstory. With his laptop open on the floor in front of him, he browses those websites that feed his design fetishes: Ethan Allen, Neiman Marcus, Anthropologie. 

But he's not the least bit inspired. 

He’d decided to start small, take things room by room instead of attacking everything at once. But he gets stumped, staring at the screen in front of him, unsure whether the chair he’s been mulling over for the past half hour is gorgeous or gaudy. 

He should focus on bringing the living room together since it’s where they do the bulk of their entertaining, provided they ever start entertaining again. And he should do something about the master bedroom, which, for the moment, houses a bed, a TV, and a dresser within the confines of four ashy walls. 

Opinions on the topic vary, but Kurt has always felt that the bedrooms are the heart of the home. They’re sanctuaries where dreaming, planning, and affirmation happen. He only has the one to worry about, so he should put extra effort into making it comforting, relaxing, sensual on the off chance he ever plans on touching his husband again.

The jury is still out on that one, unfortunately. 

The kitchen, he’s not looking forward to decorating. Aside from his studio, he and Grace spent much of their time together in the kitchen. They baked daily: cakes, cookies, bread, and anything else they could slop onto a baking sheet and shove into the oven. They also made jam, pickled fruit, and taught themselves (using YouTube videos mainly) to prepare various types of cuisine. Some were a hit, others a miss, but it was always an adventure. 

Kurt had done something similar with his mother and her collection of vintage cookbooks, congregating around the kitchen island in the afternoons to shed the angst of public school, and spread the wings of his stifled creativity. He and his mother discussed everything in the kitchen while sifting flour and creaming butter. It was a tradition he had so looked forward to continuing. 

Now, he’d rather not be bothered going into the kitchen again.

He could pick a page out of the IKEA catalog and recreate it. That should offend him. It did when Sebastian suggested it the first time Kurt redecorated their penthouse. But Kurt hardly cares. It doesn’t matter as much as it did. He can’t remember the last time he stepped into the kitchen and prepared anything more elaborate than toast and coffee, maybe dry scrambled eggs. Sebastian took over cooking duties after Grace died, which, nine times out of ten, means ordering out, if for no other reason than he gets to leave the house to pick up the food.

He knows Kurt appreciates the time alone more than he does a home-cooked meal.

Then there’s Sebastian’s office, which Kurt is decorating for the first time. He has tried to start a shopping cart for it numerous times, but, unlike the windfall of ideas he had for his studio, he can’t get into a groove. He remembers a time when thinking about decorating Sebastian’s office put a hundred ideas into his head. 

Currently, he has only one.

The cheap, vomit-worthy, knock-off furnishings of the no-tell hotel room he pictures whenever he thinks of Sebastian sleeping with another man. 

Kurt shivers in disgust. He wouldn't wish that on his worst enemy. 

The room or the infidelity.

But how would Sebastian react if Kurt decorated his office to look like the business suite at the Marriott?

Kurt snickers, envisioning the sitcom-worthy shock that would erupt on Sebastian's face if he presented that to him.

"As you can see," Kurt would say, strolling through the room with his head held high atop the straightest spine pettiness can deliver, "I have chosen the most flame-retardant carpet available in subtle hues of tan and beige, a color combination well suited for concealing cum stains. This ergonomic, curved leather loveseat, for when you want to get adventurous with your afternoon romps, which, at your age, requires plenty of lumbar support. Plus, it cleans up in a snap with just a Clorox wipe, so that's a useful feature. Faux fireplace, faux aquarium, faux chandelier... are we sensing a theme? And in the corner, I've provided you a foldout of your own, for when you bring... ahem... work home."

The grin on Kurt's lips slides when Sebastian, wearing a gutted expression, pops to mind. It's an expression that Kurt didn't believe possible for Sebastian till their daughter died. He's only seen it once. He doesn't want to bring it back.

He sighs. 

Revenge-dreaming isn't helping. 

It isn't as satisfying as he thought it would be.

He’s not breaking through his creative block anytime soon. He puts his plans for the other rooms on the back burner and decides to spend time picking out furniture for his studio. With the exception of his sewing machines, he didn’t bring anything from his penthouse studio here, so he’s starting over fresh. He switches tabs and starts filling his online shopping cart with the basics: a new drafting table, a cabinet, a chair he’ll have to custom-upholster, a bolt of drapery fabric he can repurpose to make a bedspread (if he goes through with his plans for a foldout), and a few other miscellaneous odds and ends, nothing worth wasting too much brain-power over.

The clunk-clunk of Sebastian stacking cans in the kitchen cabinets reaches Kurt upstairs, as does the water running in the sink while he washes dishes and the squeak of the sticky pantry door when he fixes it. Kurt plans on redoing the kitchen and giving the entire room a facelift. Sebastian knows that. But repairing the door gives Sebastian something to do.

Sebastian has been considerate enough to let Kurt do his thing undisturbed for the morning. Kurt’s reluctance to talk to anyone extends to Sebastian, which Sebastian understands. He’s keeping his distance. But it’s nice to hear him puttering around the house. It gives Kurt comfort, the same way listening to his father snore in the middle of the night helped Kurt feel less alone after his mother died.

He may want to be left alone, but it’s nice to know that he’s not alone.

Especially not today.

Today did not start out good for Kurt.

Kurt woke up later than he’d intended, and when he did, he couldn’t remember where he was. Sebastian had woken up and gotten out of bed hours earlier, leaving Kurt alone to sleep in. Kurt climbed out of bed and wandered around frightened, hands crawling along the walls, searching for something familiar. Footsteps passed somewhere underneath him, and he froze. He didn’t want to venture downstairs because he didn’t know who could be there. Maybe someone had broken in, or worse - this was somebody else’s house, and Kurt was the intruder. 

His heart raced. He started hyperventilating. He went from room to room, trying to figure out where he was and why he was there. It wasn’t until the second time he went into his studio that he began to remember. He saw his bag on the floor and, beside it, his sketchbook. He remembered sitting in there the day before, making plans. He remembered the wood grain of the floor, the dusty glass, the tree outside, the wallpaper, and that ripped corner by the window, which Kurt refuses to acknowledge any more than he has to.

He feels it behind him, like the sun on his back, trying to get him to turn his face to it, but he refuses. Of all the things he needs to deal with, that ripped corner and the word beneath it don’t make the list. It isn't doing the palpitations in his chest any favors.

It confuses him. 

It angers him. 

It saddens him.

It makes him consider what could have been, forces him to face everything he's lost. He didn't succeed in running away from his problems. He ran headlong into brand new ones.

But this is his house. He has to get used to it.

These episodes aren’t uncommon. They crop up whenever Kurt needs to adapt to change. They’re unexpected, like mines in fields he discovers he’s been running through when a second ago he was picking flowers in the park or strolling down the street.

It's their unpredictability that is the true torture. 

They show up even on his good days.

His life for the last ten years revolved around his daughter. When she was a baby, he adjusted his work schedule to match her sleep schedule. They had the money to afford the best nurses in New York, but Kurt didn’t want that. He didn’t want his daughter raised by a governess. He was as hands-on a parent as there ever was. 

As Grace grew, her schedule changed, and Kurt adjusted: daycare, Gymboree, kindergarten, ballet, elementary school. He dropped her off in the mornings, then picked her up in the afternoons. They spent the rest of the day going over her homework until it was time to make dinner, which they did together. 

That was the great thing about being a designer and freelance editor. Kurt could work from anywhere, and, aside from doing consultations at Vogue, he could work any time. 

When Grace became sick, her doctor visits and her medication regimen dictated Kurt's schedule, then her chemo.

Towards the end, there was only one item written in Kurt’s schedule - lie beside his daughter in her bed, holding on to her for dear life. 

And not just her life.

His, too.

In sickness and in health, Grace kept Kurt’s life regulated. 

Things flipped drastically when she died. 

He felt adrift. Detached from the life he had gotten used to, he didn’t know what to latch on to. His internal clock would wake him up at six to get Grace ready for the day, only to find himself walking into a vacant bedroom. At the supermarket, he would grab her favorite cereal out of habit and put it in his cart, even though it wasn’t on the list. He would jolt when he'd come across a song he thought she’d like or saw an advertisement for a movie he thought she’d enjoy. 

He has yet to stop the automatic deposits from his bank account to hers, her weekly allowance piling up on top of birthday and Christmas money. She had earmarked it for college (her decision, not his). Now it waits to be donated to the children’s hospital that took such incredible care of her. He doesn’t have the heart to empty it. She was so proud of it.

He doesn’t know what it will do to him to see the balance at zero.

But the worst moment of all, the absolute worst, was when he tried to go back to work right after they lost her. 

There are many moments after Grace’s death, during Kurt’s own struggle for acceptance, that blur together, but this one he remembers so vividly, it brings a lump to his throat and tears to his eyes. 

He was in the middle of a brainstorming session with his team. His boss Isabelle was there. She had dropped by with a box of cronuts and a grande nonfat mocha. Kurt hadn’t been eating. Everyone could tell. But Kurt overlooked the signs – the sharper than normal angle to his cheekbones and chin, his collarbone that showed through his skin a little too much, his hands that never stopped shaking. He had waved the food away when she offered. 

An hour later, he was on his third one.

The tension of his presence in the office so soon after his daughter’s death slowly dissipated, making way for the familiar, though attenuated, back and forth banter he had so missed. Without knowing it, he was paving the way for a potential comeback. He wouldn’t have a line up for a while, and he would need to keep an eye on fashion trends as they came and went in his absence. But this, this felt so natural, so normal, it almost seemed like it was. He got caught up in the rhythm of this impromptu jam session. He smiled, he laughed.

He felt alive again.

Somewhere in the middle of outlining a rough schedule, he glanced down at the time on his phone. Mid-sentence, he got up from his chair and walked over to get his coat off the hook by the door.

“Alright,” he said with a chuckle over Chase’s last clap back at a jab from his boyfriend Ian, “thanks for everything, you guys, but I’ve gotta run. We’ll talk about this more when I come in tomorrow.”

The room went pin-drop silent. Kurt didn’t notice.

“Where are you going?” Isabelle asked, getting up from her seat on the corner of his desk and approaching, knowing that he would need her in a second, the way she always knew. Kurt has referred to Isabelle as his Fairy Godmother ever since he first walked into Vogue fresh out of high school and trying to find a foothold in the hectic Gulf Stream that is New York City. She became his pillar of support, a sympathetic ear, and a clear head whenever he needed one. She had thrown his bachelor party. Hers was the condo he stayed in the night before his wedding. She’d hosted Grace’s baby shower.

Also, Grace’s wake.

She didn’t have children of her own and didn't plan on it, but she loved Grace as much as anyone.

And hers was the shoulder Kurt cried on when he found out Sebastian had cheated. 

Kurt looked at her, confused, wondering why it was that everyone around him seemed to be holding their breath. “I just… have to go pick up Grace. From school. I’m going… I’m going to be late.”

Isabelle shook her head and put a hand on his. “Sweetie… ”

It took Kurt a second. 

Even after one person gasped and another sniffled, with Isabelle’s sorrowful eyes staring at him, begging him to remember so she wouldn’t have to say it, he didn’t catch on.

When he did, it hit him like an electric shock straight through his body, rendering his muscles useless, and he crumbled to the floor. Isabelle held him for over an hour in that spot until Sebastian arrived. Kurt didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to go to their empty penthouse and face the truth about his empty life. He wanted to stay at Vogue with Isabelle and live in that moment where everything was alright again for one shimmering second, even if it wasn’t real.

But he had to go. He had to leave with Sebastian, who had hurt him, back to his home, even if it killed him because even though he felt like his life was over, everything else continued on. People lived, and people died. The sun set in the evening, but in the morning, it would rise again.

He just didn’t want to be a part of it anymore. 

Not without his Grace.

He was cried out by the time Sebastian got him home. Sebastian undressed him, helped him with his cleaning and moisturizing routine, and then put him to bed. It was Friday evening when Kurt shut his eyes and went to sleep. He lived that horrible moment at his office over again a hundred times before he opened his eyes. And when he did, it was Sunday morning.

Like this morning, but to a greater extent, when these attacks happen, locked in his own brain, sifting through the pieces to find one big enough and sturdy enough to hold on to, Kurt loses time.

In a blink, hours go by, sometimes a day. He’ll climb in the shower in the morning, turn the water on hot, and by the time he realizes it’s cold, it’s close to noon. He has sat at the dining room table for breakfast, staring at a bowl of oatmeal, and when he found the will to pick up the spoon, the oatmeal was old and stiff, and it was dinner time. He’s gone to bed on Monday and stared at the black behind his eyelids till Wednesday. 

As far as Kurt knows, it’s only around lunchtime, but he glances at the clock in the corner of his screen to make sure. 

12:45.

He breathes a sigh of relief. He double-checks the date to make sure he has a reason to and sighs again.

Still Tuesday.

Kurt switches back to the IKEA tab he’d been laboring long but not hard on earlier. He looks at the shopping cart he’s been steadily filling, scrolls through his selections of personality bereft, assembly line furniture, and groans. This isn’t him. This house, this blank slate, should be an endless fount of motivation. 

But he's numb. 

Maybe he's rushing into this. He should give this house and the neighborhood time to grow on him before he sentences it to the mundane.

He needs a break. (Kurt Hummel need a break from shopping? Since when?) He flips to a new page in his sketchbook. For shits and giggles, he tries drawing a sketch for his husband’s office. He starts with the easy part – Sebastian’s desk. Sebastian didn’t leave that in the penthouse, so Kurt will make it the linchpin and design around it.

Things flow surprisingly easily from there once he gets started, with a pencil in his hand writing on paper instead of working on a screen: an ornamental rug, a matching leather chair, burgundy velvet curtains, a chainmail style Tiffany desk lamp, 1930s art deco décor with a soupcon of Persian flair. But he doesn’t want the room to be too dark. No. Kurt wants nothing in their house to be dark. He adds a Salento chandelier over the open portion of the room and a sweep of color – one wall, opposite a window, a lighter shade than the rest. He doesn’t know what Sebastian’s office looks like, but there has to be a wall in there that will fit the bill. 

An enamel and copper vase, a Khatam inlaid photo frame, a few Negar Gari…

Kurt stops.

Would Sebastian want that? The softer elements countering the strict lines of the art deco pieces, what could be described as feminine influences, are Kurt’s signature touch. But might Sebastian prefer the art deco without Kurt’s fingerprints all over it? Isn’t that what Sebastian meant by Kurt being heavy-handed with the pastels? 

Back in high school, Kurt had decorated his bedroom so that he and his stepbrother could share it. He'd skipped school so he could complete it in one day. He’d worked hard on it, trying to fuse a masculine air with his theatrical influence. What he thought was an eclectic representation of the masculine and the feminine turned into a Moroccan-themed disaster.

The word his stepbrother chose to use at the time was faggy, but there were ulterior motives behind it.

Sebastian made jabs in high school about Kurt not wearing boy clothes, comments that adult Kurt recognizes as the teenage boy equivalent of pulling Kurt’s pigtails. But at the time, they stung. Sebastian wouldn’t have made those comments if there weren’t a grain of truth to them, would he? 

Sebastian has never retracted those statements, so as far as Kurt is concerned, they stand.

Kurt flips his pencil over and starts erasing. He’ll pare down the extras – trade the Tiffany lamp for a banker’s lamp, replace the rug with something more Brooks Brothers than Pier 1.

Maybe he should just opt for another IKEA recreation, but that feels like copping out, going back on his word. 

He could always ask Sebastian. He swears his husband has passed by a few times, his footsteps rising and falling outside his door, but Kurt didn’t think anything of it. He figures Sebastian is passing through on his way to get something from the bedroom that he needs downstairs. Kurt doesn’t imagine the man is pacing the hallway, even if he is, trying to find a way to tell Kurt that lunch is ready. Little things like lunch, innocuous things, have become huge divides over the past few months. With anyone else, Sebastian has a history of railroading over them, hurt feelings be damned.

But Sebastian has learned his lesson. He paid a hefty price learning it, too.

Contemplating between clearing his throat so that Kurt knows he’s there and letting another meal go cold, he sees Kurt’s head lift up. It seems like an opening. Whether or not it is, Sebastian takes it.

“Lunch is ready.”

“Mm-hmm,” Kurt mumbles, brushing eraser shavings aside.

“Are you… are you coming downstairs?”

Kurt erases again, then pencils something on a sheet of paper that Sebastian can’t see. “Hmm… mmm?” 

It sounds like a question and an answer, but since Kurt doesn’t follow it up with anything, it most likely means that Kurt will be skipping lunch… again. Sebastian knocks idly on the door frame, giving Kurt a second longer to tell him for sure.

“Alright.” Disappointed, he turns to leave. “I guess I’ll come back up at dinner then.”

Kurt doesn’t know why the thought returns when he wasn’t even thinking about it, why it decided to nag at his brain when he had been able to ignore it for this long, but that’s the way his brain works now. His thoughts don’t always travel straight paths. They twist and turn, taking one thing and linking it to something unrelated. Erasing the ideas he’d sketched out, removing every inch of himself from Sebastian’s office, made him think about how eager he was to be rid of that word darling from above the window, and that ripped corner returns to his mind with a vengeance.

Well, as long as Sebastian is there, he might as well ask.

“Sebastian?”

Sebastian pauses in the doorway, not daring to move. “Yes?” 

“When was the last time you were here?” Kurt raised an eyebrow at the idea when it originally came to him. When would Sebastian have come to this house that Kurt didn’t know? They traveled Upstate once a year, but they always did it together as a family. And while they were here, Sebastian rarely ventured out alone. Sebastian isn’t the kind of person who would buy a house sight unseen. 

Unless he had found it during one of his outings with Grace. Which would mean that Grace had seen the inside. 

Grace would have seen this room and thought it would be hers, thought that they would someday live here, and Sebastian hid that word darling by the window for her and not Kurt.

The thought is so painful, it makes Kurt want to tear his nails out with his teeth so he’ll stop thinking about it.

Sebastian keeps his eyes locked to Kurt’s profile so he won’t miss the moment Kurt decides to look at him instead of the floor, the wall, or the ceiling.

“I found this house online. It wasn’t even on the market when I stumbled on it. To be honest, I’d only driven by it once. I hadn’t been inside until we moved in.”

“But you saw the inside,” Kurt asks. “Otherwise, how would you know about this room?”

“I took a virtual tour,” Sebastian admits sheepishly, “but it was extremely thorough. I’ve seen the blueprints, gone over the permits and the zoning. I had Tristan from the office look over the place when he came up to visit his folks. He facetimed me while he was here.” Sebastian furrows his brow. “Why? Is something wrong?”

Kurt’s heart beats regular again. Grace hadn’t seen it. 

Thank God. 

His eyes find the torn section of wallpaper, but they don’t stay there. He doesn’t want to clue Sebastian in about it if Sebastian doesn’t already know. He wants to uncover this mystery on his own. If Sebastian gets to keep secrets, big ones at that, then Kurt wants this one for himself. 

“No, no. Nothing’s wrong. I was just curious, you know. Wanted to understand your process. Why this house, why this neighborhood, that sort of thing.”

Kurt’s sentence comes out choppy. It’s odd how awkward talking has become for them. Sebastian used to think that the two things they had mastered were talking and fucking. They did both together with such ease. There were never any boundaries between them, emotionally or physically. Even when they were cutting each other down, which they did in the beginning, they did so with such finesse.

Not like now, when Sebastian is walking on eggshells and Kurt doesn’t want to hear half of what he has to say.

“If you come down for lunch, we can talk about my process. If you’re curious, that is.” Sebastian watches Kurt expectantly, waiting for an answer. 

And while Sebastian does, Kurt looks at his sketch – Sebastian’s office, the same way Sebastian always has it decorated. This is Sebastian without him and Grace: bland and emotionless, no light, little color, and no joy. Nothing exciting, nothing nuanced, nothing to indicate that he and Sebastian are together.

Not even those snapshots he’s so proud of.

Kurt hasn’t decided whether that’s a bleak picture or not. 

“Sure. I’ll be down in a sec,” Kurt decides because he does and doesn’t have an answer to that one. It changes as the day changes, and the days change too quickly. 

“Alright. I’ll be waiting.” Sebastian walks away, or Kurt thinks he does. He checks the time on his clock. It’s closing in on 2. 

Kurt glances up at the window, the dangling wallpaper bouncing with the breeze coming from a draft near the ceiling. It would be so easy to tear it down – grab an edge and rip, be done with it once and for all. It might even feel cathartic, exposing whatever is underneath it. But lunch is ready. He’s already left Sebastian waiting long enough.

He leaves that mystery for another day.

[highonchocolate]

Take Two: The Guardian in Gotham Chapter 3

First   Previous   Next   Ao3

Bruce sat at the head of the long oak dining table and waited for his children to make their way into the room for dinner. They came in as a staggered group; Jason arguing about some novel with Dick while Tim and Damian brought up the back as they discussed their patrol routes for the night. After Alfred and Damian helped serve the food, Bruce cleared his throat pointedly and waited for everyone to pay attention. 

Once everyone had looked up from their discussions he spoke. “Alfred has a friend named Gina; and she had called this evening to see if her granddaughter could stay with us. She lives in Paris; but her classmates were bullying her and her parents thought a change of scenery would do her some good. I have agreed to let her stay with us in the Manor.” Even before he had finished speaking the table erupted with different questions from his children.

“Bruce are you sure this is wise?” Tim questioned over Dick’s ecstatic squealing (“I’ve always wanted a little sister!!!”), and Jason’s grumbling (“Shut the fuck up Dickhead. I don’t know why the fuck B is bringing someone into this house to live with this dysfunctional family.”). Ignoring his siblings; he pressed on “I mean, how are we going to hide Batman and the vigilante stuff from her?” As Bruce paused to answer Damian stood up and scowled. “Tt. This is a moronic decision. Inform me of when this girl is to arrive and inform  her to stay out of my way.” He lifted his chin and crossed his arms before marching out of the room.

After Damian’s outburst, Jason looked over from where he was arguing with Dick and added his input “Timbo’s right, B. How are we going to hide that from her?” 

“We’ll have to make sure at least two of you remain in the manor each night so that she doesn’t get too suspicious.” He answered. “Now, the only reason I agreed to letting her stay here was namely for Alfred, and also because of what her classmates did to her” 

“What do you mean, Bruce?” Dick questioned. “Did they like assault her or something?”

“Or something” He responded grimly before sending the photo to all three of them. 

As they looked at the photo, he observed their reactions to the image. Dick was not smiling for once, and his sunny blue eyes had darkened to an icy frost. His whole body was tense; and his jaw was so clenched his teeth were grinding together. Jason was standing up with two guns locked and loaded in his hands. He had also managed to procure a knife from somewhere, which appeared as he leant forward and asked “What were the names of the people who did this again?” in a completely lethal tone. Tim, already hacking away at his computer responded “Not there yet, but from what I can find out, she goes to College Francois DuPont and she’s fifteen.” He briefly looked up and made eye contact with Bruce before asking “How fast do you think we can get our lawyers onto those kids B?” At the declarations of his children, Bruce closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “We can not file any lawsuits yet, not without Marinette’s permission.” He answered, sighing tiredly. “Marinette?” Dick questioned. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” Tim responded instantly. “That’s her name.” 

“She will be coming on Monday, and Alfred will be picking her up from the airport. She is also going to attend GA, so someone please tell Damian.” Bruce said as he stood from the table. “Now hurry up, we have patrol tonight, and there have been rumors about a drug ring near Crime Alley.”

---

After coming back from the hospital and having a sleepover Thursday night, Chloé and Adrien were completely sleep-deprived as they trudged into school the next morning. Settling into her usual seat beside Sabrina, Chloé silently thanked all the Kwami that she didn’t have to sit next to Lila. Halfway though class, Mrs. Bustier suddenly frowned and looked at the back row. “Does anyone know where Marinette is? She still hasn’t arrived yet!”

“Probably still sleeping at home! She’ll come in completely late as usual!” Alya cackled. At her words, Chloé felt her entire body heat up with righteous indignity. She opened her mouth to tell that wannabe tabloid reporter to get her facts straight, but then Adrien caught her eye and shook his head. He then pointed at his phone, and mimed unlocking it before pointing to her. Catching the hint, she checked her messages to see that Marinette had sent them a text.

FashionableBug: Mari said to tell Chloé and Adrien not to do anything to Lila or anyone else that starts making stuff up. (From Luka btw)

You’reUnderAgreste: Me-ouch, My Lady. I would never!

QueenofMean: shut it with the puns, Noir. Maribug, I will only listen to you because you’re injured and I’m not going to go against your wishes.

Putting her phone away, Chloé resigned herself to a miserable school day. 

---

After school, she walked into Marinette’s room and flopped dramatically onto the chaise, before letting out a long groan.

“That bad?” Mari chuckled as she scribbled sketched one-handedly in her design notebook. 

“You have no idea.” Chloé responded. 

Their conversation continued into mundane things, such as everyone’s patrol routes, and various theories on who Hawkmoth was. Totally normal topics for teenagers. As the day drew to a close, they made plans for everyone to come over to start packing the next day before Chloé left the bakery and headed home.

---

Come Saturday, Marinette, Chloé and Luka spent the morning playing board games one handed “to level the playing field” as Luka put it and eating lots of cookies and pastries-provided by Marinette’s parents of course. Adrien and Kagami were attending their various classes until afternoon, so the remaining three spent their time relaxing, and coming up with a list of things to pack for Mari’s stay in Gotham. Two o’ clock rolled around, and the bells over the bakery jingled to announce the arrival of the final members of the packing committee.  

Any plans to begin their assignment of somehow fitting all Marinette’s fabrics into the suitcase were cut short by an Akuma. 

They all transformed, even though Kagami and Luka has been  extremely reluctant to let Mari go even though the suit temporarily healed her injuries. Climbing through her roof hatch, they set out across the rooftops to defeat their latest villain.

---

Five hours later, the teen heroes dropped into her room, and detransformed in various flashes of multicolored lights. They collapsed onto the bed and chairs and silently agreed to just  sleep , and get the packing done the next day.

---

All of Sunday was spent throwing various clothes and accessories into Mari’s pink and black suitcase. There were several sweaters and hoodies (added by Chloé), as well as several leggings and many thick pajama pants (Sabine).

Adrien (with the help of Tom) had somehow managed to pack over ten different pun-covered t-shirts, and by the time they were discovered, they had been buried under piles upon piles of fluffy socks from Kagami. Luka also threw in some scarves before Marinette added some toiletries, her sewing kit, and her computer.

Picking up the backpack she had decided to use as a carry-on, Marinette rifled through it to make sure she had everything in there as well.

Spare change of clothes in case she loses her suitcase? Check. Phone, headphones, and charger? Check. Sketchbook and pencils? Check. Disguised Miracle Box? Check.

She turned to her family (Not her teammates, not her friends, but her family.) and smiled. It was small, and bittersweet, but it was a smile. “Alright guys, I guess I’m all set.” She said, before joining them all in a group hug. They offered her soft, tearful smiles before Tom carried her big suitcase down the stairs. 

That night, Marinette fell asleep surrounded by all the people she loved, and she couldn’t have been happier.

---

The next day, her Papa carried her downstairs and placed her into her wheelchair (since she had a broken foot, and couldn’t use her leg, they had given her a wheelchair) before wheeling her outside and placing her into the car waiting by the street. 

Her friends were all inside, and she gripped Adrien’s hand tightly as they drove to the airport. 

As she stood to board the plane, she turned back to catch one last glimpse of them all. Chloé was leaning into Kagami’s side who was holding her girlfriend’s hand tightly. Adrien was waving wildly, and Luka and her parents all raised one hand in farewell. Her Maman and Papa has some red rimming their eyes, but they smiled at her as she was wheeled into the plane. Next stop: Gotham, New Jersey.

Since her flight left Paris at 10 AM, she was set to arrive in Gotham at around 12 PM/noon. With that in mind, she decided to stay awake for the entire flight so that her body could adjust better. 

As they crossed the Atlantic, Marinette, sitting in first class thanks to Chloé and Adrien’s combined nagging; popped her earbuds in, and began to sketch. 

She stared out the window as she touched down, shocked by all the dog and darkness in the city. As she collected her bags, and wheeled her way outside to look for her host family, she couldn’t help but notice how everyone in this city was much more on edge than most normal people. ‘They act as though they are expecting an attack at any second of the day.’ She mused to herself. Her train of thought was cut off by the sight of an elderly man with a powerful aura standing next to a limo with a sign saying “Marinette Dupain-Cheng”. She wheeled her way over to him and smiled brightly. “Salut! My name is Marinette! What is yours, Monsieur!” She questioned, holding out her hand for a handshake.

“It’s lovely to meet you Miss Marinette, my name is Alfred Pennyworth.” Alfred responded, smiling gently down at her. “Now let’s get you and your bags in the car, shall we?” He reaches out to shake her hand, and the moment their fingers touched her vision was filled with dark blue and red. She laughed and smiled up at him. “It is an honor to meet you, noble Peacock.” She greeted him in the Guardian language, honoring his position as a True Holder. “And it is an honor to meet you as well, Ladybug.” He answered. She grinned and allowed him to help her into the back of the limo before he climbed into the driver's seat and they sped off to Wayne Manor. 

---

When he saw the young girl, Alfred was shocked to say the least. She was roughly 5’ 4” (162.5 cm), and was very petite. Her stature, combined with her wheelchair, wrist brace, and the cast on her leg, all strengthened his resolve to protect the young girl from any further harm. That was only intensified when their auras recognized each other. How could anyone place the responsibility of upholding balance on such a young child? 

As he drove to the Manor, she informed him that the Cat, Bee, Dragon and Snake were active on her team. Before he could ask her what the threat they were battling was, they had arrived at the Manor, and she had immediately tensed and gone silent.

Deciding that it was better to ask more questions later, he got out of the car to retrieve her bags and chair. Master Bruce and three of his children except for Master Damian were waiting in front of the doors to the Manor, and they all waited patiently for her as she exited the car. 

---

Marinette was nervous. Sure, taking to Monsieur Alfred was really fun, and she couldn’t wait to tell him more about Paris, but now she was meeting her actual host family! What if they didn’t like her? What if they decided to send her back?! Then what would she do?? A small cough interrupted her downward spiral, and she looked up from her lap to see Monsieur Alfred waiting in front of the open door with her wheelchair. Grabbing her backpack, she awkwardly maneuvered herself into the chair and allowed herself to be wheeled out in front so she could meet Monsieur Bruce Wayne.

---

Note: Alfred doesn’t know that Marinette is the Guardian. He just knows she’s a Ladybug holder.

[mynachopaper]

Heyo...I’d like you to answer all of the weird questions that say a lot please...😇🖤

That’s very naughty of you. I expect payment when I’m done...

1. coffee mugs, teacups, wine glasses, water bottles, or soda cans?

Wine glasses. I love their shape

2. chocolate bars or lollipops?

Chocolate

3. bubblegum or cotton candy?

Bubble gum, I like the oral fixation

4. how did your elementary school teachers describe you?

Wierd, creepy, creative. “He needs to find an outlet or have a beating”- My arabic teacher

5. do you prefer to drink soda from soda cans, soda bottles, plastic cups or glass cups?

Glass bottles

6. pastel, boho, tomboy, preppy, goth, grunge, formal or sportswear?

Tomboy

7. earbuds or headphones?

Headphones

8. movies or tv shows?

Both

9. favorite smell in the summer?

river in the cedar forest

10. game you were best at in p.e.?

Fencing

11. what you have for breakfast on an average day?

Nothing (sometimes fruit if I need to)

12. name of your favorite playlist?

SHmood

13. lanyard or key ring?

key ring

14. favorite non-chocolate candy?

Turkish delights

15. favorite book you read as a school assignment?

Simon versus the Homosapien agenda

16. most comfortable position to sit in?

Legs to my chest on a chair

17. most frequently worn pair of shoes?

My trainers

18. ideal weather?

Thunder and rain

19. sleeping position?

Curled up on my side

20. preferred place to write (i.e., in a note book, on your laptop, sketchpad, post-it notes, etc.)?

Notebook but laptops are great for convenience

21. obsession from childhood?

Horror stories and or occult (Yes I cringe too)

22. role model?

Don’t have one

23. strange habits?

I like to practice voices and movements (mostly for DnD) anywhere. Shopping, cooking, with the cat. normally I’m on my own but I’ve been caught a few times.

24. favorite crystal?

Obsidian

25. first song you remember hearing?

Wide, wide as the ocean- My dad sang it to me as a kid

26. favorite activity to do in warm weather?

Swimming

27. favorite activity to do in cold weather?

Bonfire jumping (used to do it with the scout kids)

28. five songs to describe you?

Fall into me- Alev Lenz

Rush- I am waiting for you last summer

Smile- Nat King Cole

Limb to limb- Fatal

Kiss breakdown- Micheal Brook (Perks of being a wallflower soundtrack) 

29. best way to bond with you?

Discuss your passions and your fears. Other than that, play silly games with me.

30. places that you find sacred?

Anywhere that is deemed so. 

31. what outfit do you wear to kick ass and take names?

My pajamas (honestly no idea)

32. top five favorite vines?

Don’t have favourites.

33. most used phrase in your phone?

I love you to the moon and back.

34. advertisements you have stuck in your head?

I have adblock so I don’t hear enough for them to get stuck. Maybe the old spice commercial.

35. average time you fall asleep?

12-1am

36. what is the first meme you remember ever seeing?

The orly owl

37. suitcase or duffel bag?

Duffel bag

38. lemonade or tea?

lemonade

39. lemon cake or lemon meringue pie?

Lemon meringue pie (obviously)

40. weirdest thing to ever happen at your school?

Nothing too weird. We did have a slew of dead birds that were killed and placed in weird positions. They were claimed to be omens.

The culprit was never caught. But I did have an old journal where I kept notes on them. I lost it in the move though..

41. last person you texted?

My online friend in the uk

42. jacket pockets or pants pockets?

Jacket pockets

43. hoodie, leather jacket, cardigan, jean jacket or bomber jacket?

Hoodie, I need the soft

44. favorite scent for soap?

sandalwood

45. which genre: sci-fi, fantasy or superhero?

Fantasy, DnD for life

46. most comfortable outfit to sleep in?

Shirt and underwear

47. favorite type of cheese?

Brie

48. if you were a fruit, what kind would you be?

Orange

49. what saying or quote do you live by?

Already answered

50. what made you laugh the hardest you ever have?

When my friend and I got stuck in traffic so we listened to the John Mulaney story about the salt and pepper diner. Afterward we actually made the playlist and listened to it. We died, the song got to us and we lost our minds.

51. current stresses?

My Father being ok back home. Me not finishing uni. Breaking my promise to my friends back home of making something of myself.

52. favorite font?

Bree Serif

53. what is the current state of your hands?

Their ok, quite dexterous. My nails have grown out too

54. what did you learn from your first job?

People take production for granted. The public opinion of a show means little. The entertainment industry is weaker than everyone treats it.

55. favorite fairy tale?

The Bloody Chamber

Book by Angela Carter

56. favorite tradition?

Our family does breakfast in bed for the birthday person

57. the three biggest struggles you’ve overcome?

Self harm, the invasion of my country, getting out of my old life.

58. four talents you’re proud of having?

I improvise well, I remain calm in an emergency, and am often the first to act. I have good emotional skills. I will always find a way, though it often comes at great cost.

59. if you were a video game character, what would your catchphrase be?

After someone tells me I can’t do something “HAVE YOU MET ME?!”

60. if you were a character in an anime, what kind of anime would you want it to be?

Probably Shonen. Love me some JoJoBA

61. favorite line you heard from a book/movie/tv show/etc.?

Yeah, I stayed. I stayed, because every time you threw a brick at my head, or said I smelled, it *hurt*; but it could never hurt more than every day of my life just being *me*! I *stayed* because I thought, if anyone can change me, can make me... *not* me, it was you! - Kung Fu Panda

62. seven characters you relate to?

Tarzan-Stich-Quisimodo-Ginger (From Chicken run)- Po (Kung fu Panda)- Mulan (Yes really)- Charlie (Perks of being a wallflower)

63. five songs that would play in your club?

Shut up and dance with me- Walk the moon

Suzy- Caravan Palace

Rocket Fuel feat. De La Soul - DJ Shadow

Come with me now - KONGOS

Dance with me tonight - Olly Murs

64. favorite website from your childhood?

Miniclip

65. any permanent scars?

Some on my arms and a large one on my forearm 

66. favorite flower(s)?

I’m a cliche, I love roses

67. good luck charms?

My Celtic ring and my pride pin

68. worst flavor of any food or drink you’ve ever tried?

It was chocolate shrimp in Sanfrancisco. Fad food with an abhorrent mixture.

69. a fun fact that you don’t know how you learned?

Spiders don’t kill every prey that falls into their web. Sometimes they just wrap them up and let them squirm helpessly.

70. left or right handed?

Right, unless eating

71. least favorite pattern?

Uh... not sure

72. worst subject?

Maths

73. favorite weird flavor combo?

Fries and Icecream

74. at what pain level out of ten (1 through 10) do you have to be at before you take an advil or ibuprofen?

8

75. when did you lose your first tooth?

I was 5

76. what’s your favorite potato food (i.e. tater tots, baked potatoes, fries, chips, etc.)?

Baked potatoes, especially with Sour cream and garlic 

77. best plant to grow on a windowsill?

A succulent?

78. coffee from a gas station or sushi from a grocery store?

Sushi from grocery

79. which looks better, your school id photo or your driver’s license photo?

School Id (not by much though)

80. earth tones or jewel tones?

Jewel tones

81. fireflies or lightning bugs?

Fireflies

82. pc or console?

PC

83. writing or drawing?

Writing, though I wish I could draw

84. podcasts or talk radio?

Podcasts

84. barbie or polly pocket?

Neither

85. fairy tales or mythology?

Mythology

86. cookies or cupcakes?

Cookies

87. your greatest fear?

That I had no impact on anything

88. your greatest wish?

To gain the power to change the world

89. who would you put before everyone else?

The one I love. A partner (If we had a child then it falls to them)

90. luckiest mistake?

When I had an accident at work over my selfharm wounds. Some metal staging scraped against my arm.

91. boxes or bags?

Bags

92. lamps, overhead lights, sunlight or fairy lights?

Fairylights

93. nicknames?

Teddy, Monster, Quis

94. favorite season?

Winter

95. favorite app on your phone?

Reddit is fun

96. desktop background?

My current Pfp

97. how many phone numbers do you have memorized?

2 My parents

98. favorite historical era?

Don’t really have a favourite

[turningtimeinthetardis]

from the HCs... Annie Edison and Britta Perry!

Ahh 2 of my favs! Here goes (I have A Lot of thoughts about them as you can probably guess from all the Brittannie and Annie-centric fics lol)

Annie Edison

1. I feel like in my little curated corner of Community Tumblr, it’s largely accepted that Annie is a thriving lesbian. To confirm, she’s gay as fuck. 

2. Piggybacking off 1, my HC for how she realizes is that she takes a course titled something like “Introduction to Human Sexuality and Desire in Media” as a dual social sciences and humanities course with Abed in S4 or S5 and it helps everything (“i’m comfortable being uncomfortable with my sexuality,” comphet driving her to try and get with guys Britta’s been with as a socially acceptable proxy for pursuing Britta herself, trying to kiss Britta, the elf maiden thing, etc.) click into place for her. Also, Britta’s her first girl-to-girl kiss because she wants to know what it’s like to kiss a woman before she starts trying to date one, because otherwise she’ll think/worry too much about it. 

3. Her fav. part of living with Troy and Abed, besides getting a chance to enjoy the childhood/young adulthood she never really had, is getting to make meals together. Her family dinners were usually fraught with awkward/tense silences, so she enjoys the generally upbeat dynamic in the apartment, even if the boys aren’t always the best cooks.

4. Her music taste gradually shifts from straight-up pop to being a bit of an amalgamation of the group’s.

5. She and Shirley bond over baking non-denominational cutout cookies for their winter parties.

6. She and Britta occasionally wax poetic about the joys of kissing women when they’re drunk if Jeff’s not attending whatever party they’re at. Drunk!Annie will also competitively challenge just about anyone to a rap battle. She’s actually pretty good and has a surprising knowledge of Drake and Mac Miller songs, but if someone makes her start laughing while she’s trying to rap, she’s toast.

7. She works part-time in the produce dept. of a nearby Whole Foods to earn rent money (idk where this idea came from, but I inserted it into a Trobedison fic a while ago and it’s always stuck with me).

8. The group keeps up with each other via a group chat, but Annie has special ways to stay in contact with some of them. She, Troy, and Abed send each other postcards, even when Troy’s back and settled with Abed in LA, and she and Frankie are pen pals.

9. She eventually makes peace with the fact that she can’t really reconcile with her parents.

10. She only works for the FBI for 3-4 years before realizing it’s too straight-laced for her following all the insanity of Greendale, and she doesn’t like mostly being a desk jockey. She slowly transitions into becoming a full-time private investigator a la Jessica Jones (minus the superpowers and alcoholism).

Britta Perry

1. She vacillates between being a functional bisexual and a disaster bisexual.

2. The group’s treatment of her in S3 fucked her up more than she’ll ever admit to anyone besides Jeff (more on them later) and she ended up smoking a ton of weed that year to cope.

3. Her relationship with Troy wasn’t necessarily the best (cause he was in love with Abed THE WHOLE TIME lmao what was S4) but being his first, both sexually and with serious relationships in general, kind of helped Britta realize her self-worth, in terms of being able to teach others things and having her input valued and appreciated.

4. That experience helps her realize she can use her empathy in her job/career path and she starts shifting from thinking about just being a psychologist to going into therapy as a more specific specialization. Also, we stan a sex-positive queen who’s very open about discussing consent, safe sex, etc.

5. She volunteers at a local animal shelter at least once every month, depending on her schedule, even though Suzie B. and, later, Daniel become aloof toward her after she returns home from said volunteering.

6. She and Troy watch random dance recitals on YouTube together from time to time.

7. Britta deleted Jeff’s drunk voicemail after she got to the ten minute mark because she thought listening to the rest of it would hurt too much.

8. She’s the most likely study group member to instigate snowball fights.

9. Post-Greendale, Britta eventually leaves her job at the Vatican to work in Greendale Hospital’s Dept. of Mental Health Services as a therapist. She also volunteers with the city’s local LGBTQ+ youth support group once or twice a month to offer her services there. 

10. She and Jeff eventually get their shit together in post-canon and develop their friendship into a legitimate relationship. When they eventually announce their engagement, they both swear up and down that they’re only getting married for tax purposes. No one believes them.

Thanks for the ask!

[dlwritings]

Burn | Peter Parker | pt 1

series masterlist found here

general masterlist found here

pairing - Peter x reader word count - 1,531

summary - Peter and his class just landed in Venice, and he just wanted to go to bed. You just had a long day of running errands, and you wanted the same thing. Funny how public transports can sort of bring together two completely different people with one shared goal in mind.

After an eight hour flight, Peter was ready to get off the plane. With Ned drooling on his shoulder and MJ bouncing her knee throughout the entire trip, he needed his space. And a bed. After Germany with Mr. Stark and the rest of the Avengers, he never wanted to experience jet lag ever again. If that meant sleeping for a few hours while everyone else ran out of energy on the Italian streets, that was fine. He’d revel in the fact that he was smarter than them while they were nodding off at dinner and he was inhaling his authentic Italian pizza.

It felt like it took forever just to get off the plane. Peter officially decided that was his least favorite part of plane rides. People would stand up around him ten minutes before the line to exit was even moving, and he got hit in the face by at least two carry-ons while people were taking them down from the overhead bin. Now he really needed his space. “Why do you look so mad?” MJ asked Peter, nudging him in the arm to get his attention. Peter looked at her and forced his features to relax. He hadn’t even realized his jaw had been clenched and his eyebrows had been furrowed until she drew his attention to it.

“Just want to get off the plane,” Peter said. “There’s too many people here.”

MJ nodded understandingly and picked at her fingernails, staring out the window of the plane. She, like Peter, was still seated, waiting for the line to start inching forward before deciding to stand up. Peter liked MJ. For a long time, he was pretty sure he had a crush on her, but after the pair discussed feelings and emotions and potential relationships, they both realized they’d be better off as friends. Now, Peter was about as close to her as he was to Ned. They had their own secret handshake, MJ knew about his secret superhero identity, and she was the perfect person to go to for advice. She was nearly as awkward as he was, but she could usually steer Peter in the right direction when he was feeling lost about something. She was smart that way. He liked having a girl friend around. Ned was lousy with advice.

When the class finally got off the plane, everyone was ready to explore, just like Peter knew they would be. It was 10:00 in Venice, which was only about 4:00 in the afternoon in Queens. Mr. Harrington allowed everyone to stay out until midnight, knowing that they all had abnormally endless energy. Instead, Peter decided to go to bed. That way, when the class was inevitably woken up at 9:00 the next morning, he’d be awake and used to the new time zone while everyone else would be confused as to why they felt like they were awake at 3:00 in the morning.

Peter learned a lot of things from Mr. Stark, not the least of which being the best ways to kick jetlag in the ass.

The class got on a bus to go from the airport to their hotel. It stopped a few times along the ride, picking up and dropping off people. While all of his classmates chatted excitedly, Peter just did some people watching. Peter loved people watching. He thought people were so interesting and that there were a lot of things you could learn just by looking at them. Was the older gentleman and the 20-something-year-old pair father and daughter, or was it a sugar daddy and his baby? Asking himself those serious, thought-provoking questions was how Peter liked to spend time when he was bored in public. That bus ride was no exception.

Mr. Harrington informed the class that there was one stop before it was time for them to get off. Peter let out a breath of relief. He didn’t understand how the other kids weren’t tired. They had just spent eight hours on a plane. How were they not exhausted like he was?

The door to the bus opened, and Peter prepared himself to create the background story of whoever boarded. But he was caught completely off guard when you walked on. You were so pretty, his jaw dropped a bit. His mind started reeling with ideas of your story. The way you didn’t look up at anyone made him think you were shy. You let your hair hang in front of your face as you looked down at your feet before sliding in the seat across from Peter. You were wearing high waisted jean shorts and a white shirt with black polka dots tucked into them. On your feet were a pair of tan sandals. You had a tan backpack on but had placed it on your lap when you sat down. Your outfit and general appearance told him you were around his age. He wondered where you had been all day and where you were going. He couldn’t get himself to make up a story, because he wanted to know your real one.

Peter had to look away, because you suddenly looked up and locked eyes with him.

You had had a long day. You had to make some deliveries for your mom and had only just finished. Even though you had a job of your own (waitressing at a pizzeria down the street from your house), you spent most Saturdays and Sundays (your two days off) delivering bread, cookies, canoles, and the likes from your mom’s bakery to her best customers. After a long day of running around town, it was already 10:00 at night. You wanted nothing more than to curl up in your bed and sleep.

So you hopped on the bus instead of walking the short distance from your last delivery location to your house. You sat down across from a group of tourists and stared at your feet. You could’ve fallen asleep right then and there. But something felt weird, keeping you from staying at peace. You looked up and saw a boy staring at you. He looked away just as you locked eyes with him, staring down at his own lap. He was cute. His cheeks were flushed pink, as were the tips of his ears. His hair was brown and fluffy, a bit of a mess like he had been running his hands through it all day or had just woken up. Since it was clear to you that he was a tourist and he and his friends were surrounded by luggage, you wondered if he had just landed in Venice.

The bus came to a stop, and you stood up to get off, as did the huge group of tourists that the cute boy was a part of. You bumped into the cute boy who muttered multiple apologies- some in English, some in broken Italian. By his accent, you knew he was from the US. You just smiled at him and hurried off the bus. Stupid American boys getting you all flustered.

Peter watched you walk in the opposite direction of the class’ hotel and almost wished he had spoken to you. Not that it mattered. Not really. He was in Venice with his friends, and only for a few weeks. It was pointless to think about you any longer than he had allowed himself to on the bus.

“Don’t be lame, Peter,” Ned whined as they got to their hotel room. Peter was already switching into his pajamas while Ned was grabbing his camera and a sweatshirt to pull over his head. “It’s our first night in Venice!”

“Exactly,” Peter said, plopping himself on his bed. “Our first night. Night. I’m sleeping.”

“How are you even tired?” Ned asked.

“How are you not?” Peter said. “We’ve been on a plane for eight hours.”

“My excitement is keeping me going!”.

Peter rolled his eyes and laughed as Ned waved him off and left the room. He stretched his arms up and laid his head on his hands.

Staring at the ceiling, he allowed himself to think about you again.

After his fleeting crush on MJ had passed, Peter hadn’t really had a crush on anyone. He missed it. He missed those butterfly feelings he would get at the sight of a girl and the constant wondering of “Does she like me?” or “Does she even know I exist?” To some people, those thoughts were daunting, but Peter liked them. They made him feel alive. So he let himself think about you. He didn’t let himself create your backstory, but he let himself come up with your future. A future where you saw each other again and he said more to you than a few fumbled apologies. A future where you found his awkwardness charming and endearing and not stupid and childish. A future where you explored Venice together and maybe held hands along the way.

What? Peter was just a teenage boy, and everyone makes up stories to help themselves fall asleep at night.

That night, he slept without dreaming, even though he was hoping for a chance to see your face again.

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

TAGLIST

@bangtan-serendipity | @planetdemon | @the-singing-clown406 | @tomshufflepuff | @bluelalal | @grandloser | @jackiehollanderr | @mindset-jupiter

If you want to be taken off the list (or be put on for only certain people) just message me and let me know!

[wpdeed]

Why We Love 10 Best eCommerce Theme and You Should Too!

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Electro Electronics Store WooCommerce Theme

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Biagiotti - Beauty and Cosmetics Shop

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Nexio - Fashion WooCommerce Theme + RTL

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Pinkmart - AJAX theme for WooCommerce

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Eurotas - Clean, Minimal WooCommerce Theme

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Lauriel – Multipurpose WooCommerce Theme

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Each one of the themes on my list has something that makes it unique or stands out from other options. So take the time to review each to see which theme fits the needs of your eCommerce site. No matter which theme you choose, I’m confident that it will improve the overall design, layout, and performance of your eCommerce store.

[all-hail-the-witcher]

blaze it bitches

in honor of weed day have this mess ______

ship: ralbertxweed

genre: the biggest load of crack to ever crack

warnings: weed juice, panera, there’s a shane madej quote, t h r e e quotes by Mr Michael Himself, uhhh, cowboys, oh mothman, general idiocy, and all credit for fruity pebbles to my good nugget mikey

words: 1041 it’s baddd yalll

editing: nope

_________

Race idly spun a pen on the counter, waiting for the clock to hit 10 so he could begin to close. He wasn't sure why he had chosen to work the closing shift at Panera. Pretty much no one came in after 9, especially on a Monday. Currently the only patrons were a group of annoying teenage girls more interested in taking snapchats than talking to each other, an elderly couple eating soup in the corner, and a high school age girl and boy sitting in a booth, eating nothing but bread and sweet tea, having an intense discussion about whales.

In essence, Race was bored out of his mind.

Until exactly 9:48 when Albert walked through the door, waving around two to go cups from starbucks. “Raaaaceeerrrrrrrr!” he sang awkwardly, tripping over his own feat and spilling a few drops of what looked like tea on the floor.

“Al get your high ass outta here,” Race sighed. “I’m workin and you’re just gonna bother me.”

“Butttt cupcakkkeeeee,” Albert whined. “I know how to get mothman!”

“Mothman ain’t real and neither am I,” Race muttered, taking the rag and wiping down the counter. “Now get outta here before Jack makes you.”

Albert sighed. “Least drink the tea I brought you?”

Race sighed, just wanting Albert to not get him fired for once. “Fine.”

Albert smirked.

“But then you have to go, alright?” Race said, holding the cup to his lips and taking a sip.

Albert plunged his hand into the pocket of his sweatshirt and pulled out a handful of fruity pebbles, dropping several on the floor. “O-kayyy.”

Race made a face. “What's in this tea Al? It don't taste like nothin from starbucks.”

Al gave him a half smirk. “You like my weed juice?”

“Weed juice? Is this- you made tea out of weed?” Race looked at the paper cup first in shock and then in awe. “Wait, this is brilliant.”

“Course it is,” Albert proclaimed. “I invented it.” He reached his hand back into his pocket for more fruity pebbles. “Want some munchies?”

“Sure why not.” Race could slowly feel the affectionately named “weed juice” taking affect. Hopefully he wouldn’t break too many things while he was closing.

“Racer can you go kick out those teen- wait a second, what are you doing here Al?” Jack looked at Albert skeptically before wrinkling his nose up in disgust. “Alright I don't know which of you brought the grass but I can smell it and I’m not dealing with this tonight so I suggest you two get outta here before you accidentally explode the place.”

Albert’s eyes widened in excitement. “We can go hunting for mothman!” he exclaimed, looking at Race expectantly.

Well, he wasn't gonna remember this in the morning anyway so might as well. “Yeah!” Race agreed, throwing off his apron and hat and wailing them at Jack.

“Try not to get arrested!” Jack called after them, shaking his head.

Once outside, Albert led Race to his car and opened the trunk. “Okay so I figured it out! Mothman wont show us to himself cause we don't look like him so we gotta dress in his truest form.” He handed Race a cheap cowboy costume and a hat.

“Mothman’s a cowboy?”

“Duhhhhh,” Albert rolled his eyes. “Cowboys are the most most cryptic, and sos mothman! It’s how’s he’s stayed hidden all these years.”

Race nodded solemnly in agreement, hastily pulling the costume on over his clothes and jamming the hat on his head.

“Oh I only have one pair of boots though,” Albert frowned. “Guess we’ll have to share.”

Race frowned in agreement. “Oh!” he perked up. “I’ll wear one of your boots and you can wear one of my vans!”

“Yes!” Albert pulled one of Races shoes off of his foot, knocking him backwards. “Now we just gotta go to the spot!”

•••

“The spot” turned out to be behind a bush in a kids playground.

“Are you sure we’ll find mothman here?” Race asked, peeking through his dollar store binoculars at his dark surroundings.

“My sources say yes.”

“You have sources?” Race asked skeptically.

“Course.” Albert took a swig from his to go mug.

“Are you still drinkin that weed juice?”

“Nah.” Albert looked at the cup fondly. “It’s my munchies. I can taste the colors.”

Race leaned over. Munchies sounded good right now. “Can I have some?”

“No! My munchies!” Albert wrapped the cup protectively in his arms.

“I want!”

“No!”

“Give!”

“Quiet you’re gonna scare away mothman!”

Race shut up immediately. He didn’t want to scare away his cryptid friend. He had to film a tik tok video with him and become famous!

After ten minutes though, he couldn’t be silent any longer.

“I’m tired,” he whispered loudly. “When is mothman gonna get here?”

Albert knit his eyebrows together, considering while he chewed on a few red fruity pebbles. “Oh I know!” he exclaimed. “Let’s talk about stuff mothman would like so he knows we’re friends.”

Race was intrigued. “Like what?”

“Hmmm,” Albert pondered for a few minutes before beginning to rant. “Crickets are scary but rubbing your legs together under a blanket as such is nice so crickets made some points i guess.”

Race nodded in agreement. “And like,” he thought for a second. “Ok so whales slap. But also they’re big and they don’t need to be.”

“Whales are very cryptic,” Albert yawned. “And I guess no offense to anyone who actually likes them but kiwi birds are weird and why did they need a fruit named after them and why are they fuzzy and who gave the Fruits the right to be fuzzy like what the fuck- WAIT WHICH CAME FIRST THE BIRD OR THE FRUIT- god they’re as cryptic as whales.”

“That’s a good point.” Race laid back in the grass. “Maybe if we go to sleep mothman will show up to kiss us goodnight.”

“You’re so right!” Albert quickly joined Race in the grass. “I’m tired anyway. So this is like,” he pressed his lips together, thinking hard, “killing two birds with one egg.”

“Birds work for the government,” race muttered. “Night Albie.”

“Night racer.”

Race dozed off, dreaming of yodeling with mothman and getting verified on tik tok.

__________

okay look idk either if you wanna read actual good high ralbert shit go to @papesdontsellthemselves cause I basically just stole his brand (and his quotes) for this fic so

feedback is always appreciated hmu to be on the tag list

tag list @fairly-awkward-trashcan @well-the-kids-do-too @racetrackcook @ughwaitwhat @aw-jus-let-em-try @tommy-s-s0cks @voice-foundshoe-lost @stopthe-presses @ridin-in-style @pinecovewoods @i-got-no-clue-what-im-doing @bencookisagod @be-more-chill-evan-hansen @stellar-alpaca @saxoph-ella @smolcanadiankid @disney-princess-sized @the-newsies-justice-for-zas-blog @insane-tomato @spot-conlon-king-of-brooklyn @have-we-got-news-for-you @thatfancyclam @myidkwhatmynameisblog @legoflambwrites @not-a-scam @albertdasillvaprotectionsquad @entschuldigung-bitches @thebroaaesthetic @tea-and-theater @seasickdolphin @auspicioustarantula @newsies-of-ny @mrs-higgins @sunshine-e-cigarettes  @spot-me50-papes @papesdontsellthemselves @deathcast-s @the-poodles-of-pulitzer

@hopefully-not-the-ghostbusters @humanracoon @irondad-spiderson-duo @albert-eats-cookie-cake 

[choiceslife]

When Worlds Collide: Part One (Limited Series)

Disclaimer: Based upon characters in Choices - Endless Summer, It Lives in the Woods, The Royal Romance, #LoveHacks, Home for the Holidays and ?? series. All characters presented are the property of Pixelberry Studios. I claim no ownership. This story is purely the work of the poster as fanfiction.

Overall Series Rating: 18+ (NSFW)

Warnings: Adult Language, Adult Content, Sexual Discussions. Future chapters may contain SMUT and Gratuitous Sexual Descriptions

Overall Series Summary: The sisters are together again and Ava Cunningham believes only they can help her.

Author’s Note: This Limited Series is a companion/sequel to Divided By Circumstance. I suggest you at least read that series in order to understand this one. As with most of my stories, this is a crossover and is part of my interconnected Chromatic AU. My MC’s are as follows: Carrissa Monroe (TRR), Abby Bennett (#LH), Scarlett Joy (HFTH), and Taylor Reed (ES). There will be an End Note following this chapter.

Tag List: @brightpinkpeppercorn @mysteli @cinnamonroll-duffy @darley1101 @debramcg1106 @katurrade @ladynonsense @luxurylives @regrettingnathan @akrenich @teamtomsato @riseandshinelittleblossom @kinkykingliam @jlouise88 @kenjikatsoros @eileendannie @marshmallow-ortega @littlecrookedheart @i-choose-liam @boneandfur @bobasheebaby @tmarie82 @walkerismychoice @europeanguy @pixieferry @sstee1 @3pawandme

This is very much sensitive content and NSFW. You have been warned.

***

Louisiana - Somewhere

Barely 8am and the rural Louisiana heat was quite high for this late in the fall. But Jake McKenzie didn’t mind. He preferred warm weather over anything remotely cold. There was just something about being able to go outside and let the sun’s rays soak into your skin that Jake enjoyed. Sure, he’d been to places with colder climates and had a good time, but he found the process of bundling up to be rather annoying.

Plus, he wouldn’t be able to go for his routine run outdoors if he lived some place with colder weather. He’d be trapped inside on a treadmill at one of those cookie cutter, corporate gyms that he despised. World Fitness. Jake tried it out once during a free trial weekend. It sucked. He much preferred the makeshift gym in his garage and the ability to jog without worrying about a time limit because the place was stuffed to the rafters with people. Too many people. This eventually led to several other patrons always waiting to use the machines.

But running outdoors on his own time, without anyone else around, was much more in his comfort zone. Just him and nature. And running outside meant that Jake didn’t need headphones to tune out unwanted distractions. He was able to run freely with his own thoughts and nothing else.

The repeated ‘thwap thwap’ sound of Jake’s worn sneakers ricocheting off the pavement always brought a soothing calm to his mind. He could usually tell from the repetitious noise just how close he was to meeting the Navy required time for a mile and a half run - 16 minutes 10 seconds - the new maximum time allowed. In his prime, Jake could easily best that time with a 6 minute mile pace, but nowadays he’d be lucky to run a mile in under ten minutes.

Gotta ease up on all the beers, Hotness Jake imagined Taylor saying to him playfully as he wiped his brow with the back of his hand. The sweat had matted his shaggy brown hair to his head and periodically a rogue drop would try to course its way towards Jake’s eye. Burning eyes while running wouldn’t feel good at all. The sweat running down his bare chest and what was left of his abs, however, felt great. Particularly because of the heat. Whenever a brief breeze did blow, his body would get a momentary reprieve from the humid feeling with a slight cooling effect.

As Jake crested a slight hill in the road, he noticed a car parked along the side of the pavement well off in the distance. It was a pretty unusual sight as his chosen running route was a very desolate, practically abandoned, stretch of highway. Jake couldn’t remember the last time he saw a vehicle that wasn’t his truck or Old Man Crabbypant’s rust-covered Cadillac.

___

“I think I see him. Shaggy brown hair. Average height. Crooked smile.”

“That’s him. That’s Jake McKenzie,” Ava said as she slammed the trunk of the car. “Quick, hide the binoculars and take off your shirt.”

“What? Why?”

“Dan Pierce!” Ava snapped. “Don’t question me! Just do it!”

“This is ridiculous,” Dan replied as he tossed the binoculars into the back seat of the rental car and slipped his tight blue t-shirt off. He kept muttering to himself as he moved to the front of the car and set the hood open to rest on the prop rod.

“He’s a lonely man, yet he ignored every person that approached him at the bar when I was observing last night. I just need something to entice him to stop and chat. Now stop complaining and work what your momma gave ya Dan. And pretend I’m not here.” Ava quickly made her way down the slight embankment off the side of the road and crouched down out of site.

“How do you know he’s lonely?”

“Hush. Pretend to be inspecting the engine. Pull out one of those hose thingys.”

“But...”

Ava shushed her friend again and flicked her hands in agitation towards the front of the car. A small trail of white smoke began to creep up from the engine bay startling Dan.

___

Jake slowed his pace as he approached the stopped car, taking in the beautifully sculpted masculine sight before him. The shirtless, mop topped brunette’s hands were firmly planted on the front of the car, supporting him as he peered over the engine. His well defined back muscles flexed slightly with each shifting movement as he inspected the disabled vehicle. Jake couldn’t help, but to admire the man’s broad shoulders that tapered to a trim waist with lower back dimples. Taylor had those as well and Jake was such a sucker for a man with them. He continued to drink in the gorgeous backside before him. Tight dark blue jeans situated low on the hips accentuating a cute, bubbled behind elicited a mild gasp as Jake’s jog shifted to a walk. He’s still not Taylor. As he approached, Jake placed both hands onto his hips as he took deep gulps of air in an effort to regulate and normalize his breathing. “Everything okay?”

From the side of the road, Ava watched as Jake strolled his slim, taut frame beside Dan. Now she just needed her friend to lull the fit recluse into a friendly conversation so that he’d let his guard down and she could have a much needed chat with him. Ava had hoped to talk to Jake the night before, but he was clearly giving off a vibe that said ‘Fuck Off’ to everyone. So Ava decided to go with Plan B: Shirtless Dan Pierce beside a ‘broken down’ car. And it seemed to be working.

___

Although Dan had seen Jake through the binoculars earlier, he hadn’t expected him to be as attractive as he was up close and personal. Dan couldn’t help his eyes wandering all over the jogger’s body. From his tantalizing and inviting blue eyes to the way his lopsided grin showcased his kissable lips; Jake was more man than Dan expected. “Not sure. It started to smoke and then just quit.” Dan’s eyes continued to wander down Jake’s body following his white lie, admiring the way the sun glinted off of his sweat laced chest and how his matted blue shorts hugged high and tight to his muscular thighs leaving almost nothing to the imagination.

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Not at all.” Dan stepped to the side allowing Jake to inspect the car’s motor to see what the problem might be. He glanced towards where Ava had been hiding, but she waved him off to pay attention to Jake. Dan returned his eyes to the man beside him, noticing the strength and definition in his body. “You’re hot,” he reflexively said; his eyes going wide the moment he realized that his comment was out loud and not in his head. “I mean, you look hot...like... hot like you need a drink. Do you want a water?”

Jake flashed a wry smile at the man’s moment of fluster. Still got it Jake. “Sure. A water would be nice.”

“K. I think we got some in the trunk.”

“We?”

Shit! Dan’s face immediately flushed with worry. He caught me. He knows. He fucking knows. “I. I’ve got some in the trunk. I have no idea why I said ‘we.’” Dan’s voice cracked as he nervously laughed. He made his way to the back of the car, hoping that Jake wouldn’t challenge his lie. Dan reached into the soft Coleman cooler and yanked a bottle of ice cold water from its depths. He closed the trunk and jumped back in surprise. The former pilot was standing near the driver’s side rear door with his arms folded across his chest. “Jesus Jake. You scared me. I didn’t hear you walk over.”

“How’d you know my name is Jake?”

___

Damn it Dan. Ava watched as her friend got flustered after Jake caught him in his faux pas. She couldn’t hide any longer. As much as Ava had hoped to get Jake to let his guard down before she broached the difficult subject of his lost love, she couldn’t let her friend Dan suffer Jake’s questioning on his own. “Wait Jake. I can explain everything,” Ava confessed as she made her way up the embankment towards the two shirtless gentlemen.

Jake took in the towering woman approaching him and the attractive stranger. She wore her hair in a beautifully braided style with several streaks of pink throughout. Her clothes looked like the latest in goth fashion from Hot Topic and no doubt many people lumped her into the goth chick category. But Jake knew better. He knew a witch when he saw one. “Who are you? Who is this guy? And what do you want?”

“My name is Ava Cunningham. That’s my friend Dan Pierce. And we both just want to help you, Jake.”

“You want to help me? You don’t even know me, Hermione. You think having some Handsome Guy chat me up means I’ll let you use your witchcraft to get into my head and poke around?” Jake saw the confusion on Ava’s face as she processed his words. “Yeah, I know you’re some kinda witch. Not the first one I’ve come upon in my life. You and Sexy Mop Top here can go back to Hogwarts and leave me alone.” Jake turned to leave the two young strangers, hoping he wouldn’t have to resort to other unpleasant means to get them to leave.

“How’d you know I was a witch?” Ava asked before Jake could even take two steps. She watched him pause in his tracks for a moment as if he was contemplating his thoughts.

Jake smiled to himself, his back facing Ava and Dan. So I was right. He loved when he read people correctly. Jake turned around, gesturing towards the front of the car as he did. “The engine. Nothing was loose or cracked. No obvious signs of damage, yet there was smoke coming from the bay. Growing up in Louisiana, you come to learn those parlor tricks. Also, there’s still a faint amount of smoke emanating from the palm of your right hand.” The instant Jake pointed out her tell, Ava looked down and clenched her fist extinguishing the last of the embers. “Next time Hermoine, just lead with the magic tricks. People love them.”

“But you’re not most people, Jake! I know what you’ve been through and...”

“You don’t know anything!” Jake whirled around to leave again; his face red with rage.

“Stuck in a time loop on a tropical island. Battling sea monsters and giant crabs. Fending off your old boss from Arachnid. But it wasn’t all bad. You helped protect a bunch of scared college kids. Reunited with your friend you thought was dead. Married the love of your life.” Ava watched Jake’s shoulders slowly rock up and down. She couldn’t tell if he was getting more agitated by her words or if she was getting through his gruff exterior and he was finally listening. “I know what Taylor means to you Jake. And I think I know a way to get him back.”

Jake took a few paces towards the front of the car. He dropped the prop rod and slammed the hood. “Screw the magic tricks. Next time lead with that.” Jake pointed to a smiling Ava and a confused Dan, “Get in the car. I’m driving.”

Rarely one to show genuine excitement, Ava giddily ran over to get into the front passenger seat beside Jake, while Dan remained glued in place behind the car. “So, can I put my shirt back on now?”

___

“So you’re telling me the Queen of Corona, some life-style blogger, and an editor are the most powerful witches in the world? And they don’t know it?” Jake plopped down onto the old couch in his living room, running a hand through his sweat dampened hair, before twisting open the water bottle Dan hand been intending to give him earlier. He gulped down about half of the refreshing liquid, letting out an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction when he was done.

“Cordonia,” Ava corrected, leaning against the door jamb that separated the kitchen from the living room. “And I know it sounds ridiculous...”

“It sounded like a joke when she told me. Which is crazy cuz I believed her when she told me about our friends battling moss creatures during the Homecoming dance senior year,” Dan interrupted. He pulled up a seat on the overstuffed leather chair across from Jake. The chair had seen better days, but damn was it comfortable. “An editor, a blogger, and a queen walk into a bar...” Dan chuckled softly, quite pleased with his humorous quip.

Ava rolled her eyes at her friend. “Weren’t you wanting to put your shirt back on Dan? I’m sure it’s still in the car if you wanna go get it and I’ll speak with Jake.”

“I’m good. It’s hotter in his house than it is outside.”

Jake flashed his award winning grin - Pearl River High School’s Mr. Bayou three years in a row. He swept the swimsuit and athletic events each time he won. Jake didn’t mind if Dan remained shirtless. He could appreciate the man’s appeal, but Jake’s heart belonged to Taylor and he was intrigued to know how Ava intended to bring him back. “He’s fine Hermoine. And I don’t think it sounds ridiculous at all. The things I’ve experienced on La Huerta; whatever Sexy Mop Top was talking about... I believe you.”

“Thanks Jake.”

“Hell, you could tell me that vampires roam New York and a robot is dating President Thompson and I’d believe you.” Jake finished the rest of his water and got up from the couch. He looked back and forth between Ava and Dan. “What I don’t believe is how you’ll be able to convince those sisters of who they really are, let alone get close enough to them to even try.”

Ava just stood silent. She didn’t have an answer for him as to how they would accomplish that feat. A few of her friends were in New York with her girlfriend, Stacy, working on a plan, but she hadn’t received an update on their progress. Ava watched as Jake excused himself from the room to finally go wash off the grime from his run. “Have you heard from Stacy, Lucas, or Cade yet?” Dan shook his head, giving Ava a brief moment of stress before she collected herself again. “Guess we’ll have to go New York and figure it out together.”

___

From within a living room mirror, Donovan Bailey observed Ava take a seat across from Dan. “The sisters are in New York,” he said turning to his friend, Shreya.

“I’ll tell the others and see if they can get a lock on their location.” Shreya quickly vanished leaving Donovan alone to continue keeping an eye on Ava Cunningham. While she wasn’t naturally attuned like Donovan and his friends, the magic world had become aware of her developing powers. After all, it wasn’t every day that a mortal human learned to harness powerful magic on her own.

***

End Note: Donovan Bailey is the name of my MC in The Elementalists. In regards to Endless Summer, I went with the third ending so this story takes place roughly a year after MC disappeared to save the others and free them from La Huerta.

[raynebowrayne]

New project I'm toying with. Whacha think, folks?

I'm tagging this with Reylo tags because that's the main focus of my blog and people there read my Ao3 Reylo Fanfic.

Here is an original story I'm working on.

***

He's like a male Molly Ringwald.

That was my first impression of Ben Johnson when he completed his first season on my favorite television show. In his rookie year as a celebrity his character had come on the show as the slightly odd and geeky but still charming and rather attractive in an unusual way that you could spend hours pondering without ever being able to explain the how or why of.

The next year he finished the season by winning the heart of the beautiful Esmeralda Crain, the central "beautiful young focal character" of the ensemble driven primetime drama that I watch with an almost religious fervor.

The show, "Finding Me" is an hour every week from June to September of pure unadulterated drama about a dozen just out of college, young people finding their way in the world. It's shot like a 'reality' show, but it's fully scripted and jam packed with amazingly talented actors and actresses. I can't get enough of it.

By season three I was blogging about it on three different social media websites, spending every second of my free time obsessing over the show. In truth, I spent my unfree time obsessing quietly while I check bags and wave a metal detector wand around people at my local airport.

Season 7 has just wrapped up and somewhere along the way, I fell head over heels for the character Miles Adams. I tuned in every week after season three just to see Miles. The other 10 people on the show were great, but Miles and Esmeralda stole the show in season three… and for me, in my obsessive frenzy, they became the pair I loved the absolute most. They were perfect together.

The actors who played them - Ben Johnson and Emmy Star (no, that's really her birth name, I googled her) were superb. By season 4 they were each making four times more money per episode than anyone else in the cast.

Of course, when they flew to vegas during the season four finale and got married during the airing of Miles and Esmeralda's own vegas elopement the internet exploded with the impact of an atom bomb.

Some people were flat out convinced that it had been a sham, a publicity stunt, a way to make the show more money so that it could afford Season five's pay raises for the entire cast, including doubling Ben and Emmy's already impressive salaries.

I never believed that. No way. Ben and Emmy, or Bemmy as I call them, have waaaay too much chemistry onscreen and off to be faking it. No, the show making more money was a natural consequence of having the most talented young cast ever assembled in one show. Period. End of discussion. Fin. I will not hear another word about it.

Of course, in every fandom you find trolls… With six couples, a lot of cross-relationship sexual tension, and a highly diverse cast season seven Finding Me's social media following is a breeding ground for fandom trolls. We real fans call them "antis." They whine endlessly about the show but for some reason wont just stop watching it. I do not get those people. They annoy me.

So here I am, in my cheap polyester uniform with my shiney little badge and clunky black patton leather steal toed boots, daydreaming about Miles' gorgeous, fiery, brown-eyed smoulder while I wave through a pretty blond that towered over me by a good six inches.

Mile's eyes have the most intense quality about them. He can literally boil freezing water with a single stare. I'm not sure at exactly what point he went from "geeky" to "omfg I totally would trade my soul for just one night with him" but I think it might have been the season two smouldering hot ten second stare down while stalking toward Esmeralda with pure unfiltered, unbridaled lust rippling off of him like heat waves off desert sand. Yeah, I'm pretty sure that was the moment.

Just the thought of that moment is enough to make me blush as I blink away the image. I glance up at the guy who'd just set off the metal detector as I pass the wand across his chest. I freeze. My brain crashes against my skull and I stand there gaping like a fish out of water as Miles Adams stares back at me in annoyance.

I blink.

No, not Miles Adams.

Ben Johnson.

Ben "omfg" Johnson is scowling at me. In the flesh. At MY airport! In Real Life!

I watched in fascination as the annoyed look melted off his face and alarm flashed ahead of concern that gave way to amusement and finally turned to exasperation.

"Breathe." He rolled his eyes and said, half mockingly - half coaxingly with a slight grin on his lips.

In Dolby Digital his voice caresses you like tattered silk, in real life, it's more like a cat's tongue.

His eyes widen and he half reaches for me. "No, really, you need to breathe."

Oh, god. His voice... is talking to me!

"Shit!" He hissed as his face, that incredibly expressive face of his, swam before my eyes.

I blinked and found myself looking up into his frowning face.

"Dear god, not again." Came an annoyed female voice. "They're never going to stop doing that if you keep catching them."

Ben turned a quick scowl toward someone above my head then looked back and asked me, "Are you alright?"

That's when three things hit me at once.

One, I'm cradled in his arms, across his lap as he squats down in front of the metal detectors.

Two, his eyes are prismatic, a totally different shade, ranging from black to amber-yellow depending on how the light hits them.

Three, I'm making a total ass of myself by continuing to stare at him - dumbstruck and drooling.

Reality set in with the suddenness and force of a high speed mid-air collision.

I apologized profusely as I fought my way through 10 tons of humiliation and panic to get to my feet. My mortification could not have been more complete… until I chanced a glance upward and spotted a trickle of blood oozing down his chin.

I have never wanted to cry so badly in my life.

Without another word I took off at a dead run for the nearest ladies room where I immediately screamed "Fuck!" at the top of my lungs. That didn't help much so I did it a few more times before I began ugly-crying my eyes out.

It took me a good hour to get control of myself enough to clock out amidst pitying glances and some snickering from my fellow security guards. I kept my eyes straight ahead as I walked briskly out to my car.

I'd been at Bluegrass for five years. I'd seen celebrities before. Admittedly, not many… but some! Johnny Depp once came through my line! I was calm, cool and professional. No sweat. Under no circumstances have I ever lost my shit over anything or anyone like I did with Ben Johnson. Not even close.

I called in and talked my supervisor into arranging two weeks worth of my accrued vacation for the immediate future. It was too easy. He had obviously been appraised of my blunder.

I hung up and cried myself to sleep at four o'clock in the afternoon.

The next two weeks were more of the same. Log in to check my blogs, weep as soon as I see a picture of him, log out and cry myself to sleep. Wake up, go pee, see myself in the mirror and burst into tears. Pull a burrito out of the microwave, set it on a paper plate, burst into tears.

About midway through the second week I got rip roaring drunk... at home… alone… with a half gallon tub of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and a half gallon bottle of Smirnoff.

It tasted terrible when it made an encore appearance later on.

As I lay there next to the toilet, in the fetal position, my hair wet from both sweat and vomit, I pondered my life and it's recent trials and tribulations.

The most comforting thought came to me as the room spun like a drunken tilt-a-whirl. It doesn't actually matter what happened when Ben Johnson unexpectedly jumped out of my fantacy and into my reality… I'd never see him again.

Another highly comforting thought was that my co-workers will surely have moved back to their favorite gossip topic, Shirleen Dabney's love life, and forgotten all about me fainting and then splitting the lip of my favorite celebrity by now. Surely. It's not like they're blogging about it. Shirleen's love life is way more interesting than lil ole me.

Shirleen is a tall, leggy, redhead with surgically enhanced ta tas and an ass like a fetishist porn star. She's been picked up and dropped off to work by twelve different men in the three months she's been at Bluegrass. Twelve! Different! Men! That works out to one a week. The security room is abuzz with gossip about her every second that she's not in it… and dead silent when she is.

With two more Shir-boys to gossip about, no doubt my little incedent with a t.v. star is long forgotten.

[galathynius]

New Year’s Eve - Rowaelin Modern AU

Part 2 to Under the Mistletoe! It’s New Year’s Eve and Rowan and Aelin are spending it at Aedion and Lysandra’s party. This one is not based on a prompt; it’s just a follow-up to the Christmas one. I meant to have this done and posted yesterday but I was busy and didn’t get it finished, so here it is for New Year’s Day instead. Wishing everyone the best for 2018!

If Aelin had been told two weeks ago that for New Year’s Eve she’d finally have someone to kiss at midnight, she wouldn’t have believed it. She definitely wouldn’t have believed it if she had been told that person would be Rowan Whitethorn (not that she wouldn’t have wanted it to be; in fact, that was exactly what she’d wanted).

But it was now a week after the mistletoe incident, and she had been kissing Rowan Whitethorn a lot.

Two days after Christmas, they’d gone on their first date. Aelin, feeling guilty that she now had a boyfriend but no Christmas gift to give him, had made an emergency shopping trip before they’d gone out. She paced the aisles of Target, unsure of what he would want, before settling on some fancy peppermint hot chocolate mix and deciding to just bake some cookies. Rowan gave her a Christmas candle and a scarf, which made her secretly giddy; he had noticed that she loves wearing scarves in the winter. They spent a lot of time together over the week since they both had time off. They’d done stuff, of course—went out to lunch a couple of times, did some grocery shopping, and took a trip to the library, where Rowan had been content to watch Aelin fawn over her favorite books—but mostly they just stayed in one of their apartments, on the couch, their tongues in each other’s mouths.

Lysandra, of course, was thrilled that her matchmaking had worked and took every opportunity to remind Aelin that she probably wouldn’t be in this position without the meddling. New Year’s Eve was no exception. Lysandra teased Aelin about Rowan incessantly as they helped Aedion set up for yet another party. Aelin just rolled her eyes with a faint smile. At 5 p.m., an hour before the party was set to start, Rowan showed up with armfuls of food. Lysandra smirked at Aelin, who rose from her place on the couch with a smile and went to help him.

“You could feed an army with all this,” Aelin observed.

“That’s the idea,” Aedion grinned. “It’s not a party until it’s a big party.”

Rowan grimaced; he was more of a small gathering kind of guy. Aelin liked that about him. He valued the quality of the people around him, not the quantity. Aelin didn’t mind big parties too much. She’d always been social, and she couldn’t deny that she secretly wanted to flaunt her new relationship in front of everyone, even though she’d pretty much already done that a week ago at the Christmas Eve party. She watched Rowan set food on the table. A small smile pulled up the corners of her lips as a warm feeling curled in her stomach. He caught her looking at him and smiled. She blushed slightly, realizing that this was a feeling she wanted to hold on to forever.

A few hours into the party, Rowan found Aelin discussing a book with Dorian in the living room. He touched her arm gently. She turned to look at him, reading his expression. It was only 10, and he was getting tired of having to deal with so many people. Aelin excused herself and followed Rowan to a corner of the kitchen, where it was a little quieter.

“Would it be awful of us to just get out of here?” He was only half joking.

Aelin smiled sympathetically. “We have to at least stay until midnight.”

Rowan sighed. “I know. I just need some space.”

“I’d suggest going out on the balcony, but it’s freezing and I didn’t bring a coat.”

“Right here is fine for now.” He pulled her close, savoring the brightness in her eyes that seemed to be reserved just for him. “I’d kiss you, but we’re not exactly alone and I don’t think I’d be able to stop in time to keep from making anyone uncomfortable,” Rowan murmured.

“Maybe we should get out of here, then,” Aelin said.

Rowan huffed a laugh. “You were the one who said we had to stay.”

“Well, if we’re obligated to stay, then we might as well enjoy ourselves.” She kissed him. Rowan made a sound in the back of his throat and tightened his arms around her. With every movement of her lips against his, he cared less and less about who saw them. All that mattered was Aelin.

Neither of them knew how long they’d been wrapped up in each other before Lysandra cleared her throat and they’d been forced to come up for air. Their heads were spinning and neither of them properly processed it when Lysandra started talking.

“I’m glad you guys are happy, but do you really have to do that where the food is? You’re making everyone want to gag.”

Aelin, blushing profusely, mumbled a sheepish apology. Rowan couldn’t help but stare at her, wanting nothing more than to kiss her again and never stop. Lysandra raised an eyebrow and walked away. Rowan cleared his throat. “Maybe, um… it’s probably a good idea if we separate for a while.” Aelin nodded, and stepped away, heading for the bathroom.

Rowan went to the door to the balcony. He opened it carefully so it wouldn’t let too much cold air in. He didn’t have a coat, and the freezing temperature hit him like a shock, cooling the boiling feeling in his veins. He took a deep breath, the frigid air making his lungs ache. It occurred to him that he was in a lot deeper than he originally thought.

Meanwhile, Aelin was splashing cold water on her face, wondering how she had let her self-control slip like that. She’d had a big crush on Rowan for a while, but now it seemed like more than that. She only hoped that she wasn’t the only one that felt this way.

There were ten minutes until midnight. Lysandra was going around refilling champagne glasses for the toast to the new year. Aelin had lost count of how many glasses she’d had. There isn’t that much alcohol in champagne, she reasoned. She suspected that she hadn’t had as much as she felt like she had and that, more than anything else, she was drunk on happiness.

On Rowan.

She felt him watching her from across the room. Since their rendezvous in the kitchen, they’d separated themselves so they wouldn’t get into any more trouble. When the clock turned to 11:59, he finally allowed himself to come near her again. Aedion cheerfully started a countdown as Rowan pulled Aelin into his arms. Aelin willed herself to find some self-control and not lose herself in Rowan again.

“5… 4… 3… 2… 1! Happy New Year!” The crowd cheered in unison, clinking champagne glasses and sharing kisses.

Rowan smiled. “Happy New Year, Aelin.”

She returned it. “Happy New Year, Rowan.” She managed to keep her composure when he kissed her, but her heart was hammering in her chest.

“This party is going to go on for at least three more hours,” Rowan said. “Why don’t we get out of here?”

Fifteen minutes later, they were able to make their escape. They got to Rowan’s apartment first. Aelin turned to say goodbye, finding that Rowan was wearing a sly grin.

“It’s late,” he said. “Lots of crazies out tonight. It’s probably not a good idea for you to walk home alone.”

Aelin raised her eyebrows. “It’s fifty feet down the hall.”

“You should probably spend the night at my place. You know, just to be safe.”

Aelin punched his arm. “If you want me to come in, all you have to do is ask.”

“Fine. Would you like to come in?”

Aelin pretended to ponder it. “Well, that depends. What are we going to do?”

Rowan pulled her close, brushing his nose against hers. “I have a few ideas.”

Aelin’s heart skipped a beat. Finally. “In that case, yes, I would.”

He smiled deviously and kissed her, pulling her into the apartment with him and closing the door.

[thecoroutfitters]

Written by Guest Contributor on The Prepper Journal.

Editors Note: A guest contribution from David Hoes to The Prepper Journal. I love this. Goes well as a supplement to the recent post on Prime Locations for Post Disaster Salvage. As always, if you have information for Preppers that you would like to share then enter the Prepper Writing Contest with a chance to win one of three Amazon Gift Cards  with the top prize being a $300 card to purchase your own prepping supplies, enter today.

Okay, I admit it. I am a scrounger. I don’t do it out of necessity; I do it because I enjoy getting a bargain and building my prepping stockpiles. Now, I need to clarify that I do not steal things. I do not take towels from hotels or silverware from restaurants. I do not find and keep items such as wallets, credit cards, or electronic devices that can be traced to an owner. I do not keep anything that someone is likely to try to reclaim. Such items I will turn in somewhere. If I see someone drop something, I will tell them.

I’m also not going to discuss using coupons or discounts. These are both good ideas, but have already been covered.

That said, I do take items that are unlikely to ever get back to their original owner, and things that I am allowed to take or that are come with something I have purchased. If in doubt – I ask. Here are some ideas:

Personal protective equipment: Most hospitals and some doctor’s offices now offer free respirators to visitors. I’ve picked-up several of these. Protective gloves are often available in the ER or in patient rooms, and some give-out small bottles of hand sanitizer. I have a little psoriasis on my hands, and they are happy to give them out. In the quantities a hospital purchases them, they are almost free.

Wipes and anti-bacterial solution: Doctor’s offices and medical facilities often have solutions or wipes available for free. They bill your insurance $150 for a few minutes with a doctor. They don’t sweat the little stuff. Heck, ask your doctor for appropriate medical samples while you are at it. You never know what you may get.

Gauze, wipes, Band-Aids, and surgical tape: I have asked if I could take a few gauze pads, alcohol wipes, and mostly used rolls of tape when I have gone to labs and imaging facilities. They are normally okay with it.

Salt, pepper, sugar, condiment packets, and straws: These all have survival and medical uses. Grab a few each time you go to a fast-food place. During the depression in the 1930’s, those down on their luck would go to a diner and order a cup of hot water for a few cents. They would then add ketchup and other condiments to make a sort-of tomato soup. There is actually enough vitamin C in a few packs of ketchup to prevent scurvy. Is this stealing? If taken in reasonable quantities, I do not believe so. If I order a cup of coffee, part of the price I pay goes to cream and sugar. My ex used to take her coffee with 4 creams and 4 sugars. I do not use either, so I do not think taking one or two of each is stealing. Now, taking a handful? Yes. That is stealing. Asking for salt and condiments at a drive through? Nope. What they put in the bag is yours.

Soaps and shampoos: Yes, in a motel I take what they put in my room. I do not consider it stealing; I believe that I have paid for it and can take it. When I or a loved one is in the hospital, I take whatever they give as well. Hospital staff has told me on numerous occasions that insurance paid for it and if I don’t take it they will throw it out. Also, many hotels provide courtesy tooth brushes, tooth paste, and combs upon request. If they give it to you, it isn’t stealing, even if you don’t really need it. But no, I don’t take towels or rolls of toilet paper.

Candles at church: Many churches toss-out candles after one or two uses, and may give-away the used ones for free if you ask. Although some now use propane or natural gas simulated candles, those that still use candles tend to use ones of very high quality. Small stubs can be melted down and used to create larger candles. My church had a Christmas Eve service where everyone was given a candle to hold. They were lit for about 10 minutes and not reused. Hundreds of good candles were thrown out.

Community events: Where I live, they have several free community disaster planning, home and garden, and wellness events each year. They give-out items such as samples of seeds, dental floss and toothbrushes, band aids, energy bars, bottled water, samples of vitamins, water bottles, and other swag. At one event, the first 50 people through the door got a bag with some very nice stuff.

Food banks: I have been fortunate enough to have survived without going to one. However, if you are looking to build a small emergency stockpile, why not go and pick-up a few cans of food? They will probably mostly have items near or past the expiration date, but canned food is generally safe to eat long after the expiration date. I have eaten MRE’s and canned foods that were 10 years past their expiration dates and suffered no ill effects. The exceptions are if the can is damaged, in poor condition, or if the can contains acidic products such as tomatoes. Is it wrong to take food from a food bank if you are not immediately facing hunger? I think the answer is, it depends. If you are sufficiently wealthy to purchase your food and have plenty of money to stock-up on prepping supplies, I would say that it is wrong. However, if you can buy all you now need but are unable to afford to purchase a enough for a 72 hour emergency supply of food to see you through a disaster, I would say not. I donate money to food banks, and I give so that people do not go hungry. As a donor, I am not bothered by those who use the food bank to prepare for future hard times.

Wooden Pallets: I live near a business that sells pools and hot tubs, and another that sells paving stones. They dispose of dozens of wooden pallets each week. I have used them to create raised garden beds, for firewood, and for woodworking projects including building a bed frame for a futon.

Road Debris: When I drive, I keep an eye on the shoulder and medians. I frequently find bandannas, bungee cords, tools and knives, Bic Lighters (still good), coolers, storage totes, thermoses, 5-gallon plastic buckets, gas cans, and a variety of other items. Bandanas are my favorite find; I have found 30 or more. Bikers lose bandannas like crazy. Wash and reuse them. They have lots of survival uses. One of my favorite finds took place a few weeks ago. I found a Camillus Titanium folding knife lying in the road. It was a bit scuffed-up and not very sharp, but I cleaned it up, sharpened it, and it has become my EDC knife.

Post-disaster giveaways: Here in Florida, following Hurricane Irma, the County and many different organizations gave-out a lot of food and water to anyone who came by. No questions were asked. A friend of mine got dozens of bags of cookies, boxes of Pringles chips, ten cases of Civilian MRE’s and ten cases of bottled water. It is unfortunate, but the ones who give and the ones who distribute often have very different goals. Churches, civic groups and charities may raise money for 1,000 meals. They want to see 1,000 different people get food. Those who distribute the aid may not care. If one person arrives with a truck that can carry 1,000 meals, they may let them have it all. They don’t want to carry it back at the end of the day. They will report back that the food was distributed and everyone will be happy. Don’t be a pig, but if you can put it to good use, do so.

Free bicycles: I am only speaking about Florida, but I think this is true for other areas. Law Enforcement departments recover a huge number of bicycles that have been abandoned, discarded or stolen and that are not claimed by owners. In some places jail inmates repair them as part of a work program. It is not widely advertised, but there may be periodic giveaways where serviceable bikes are distributed on first come basis. I once had two bikes stolen in a particular county. One of the two was recovered, but I had already replaced it, so I donated it to this program.

Why am I mentioning bicycles? Well, because I believe that in a TEOTWAWKI situation, they may become the most important method of transportation.

Complaining about lousy stuff: I wrote a negative review about a pair of gloves I bought on Amazon. I included a photo clearly showing the defect. They sent me a new pair without making me return the old pair. The old pair went into my preps box.

I have complained about the quality of canned or packaged foods. They sent me coupons for free products. I DO NOT invent complaints to get free stuff. In some cases, the original product was so nasty I did not want coupons for two free ones. That was the case where I bought a can of collard greens that contained a large cockroach. Still, if you pay for a product and you really get something nasty, complain. Then add it to your preps. If SHTF and you have nothing else, you may be willing to risk eating a cucaracha. Even sending a suggestion may earn you a coupon for a free product. I told a company that sells crackers and tuna snacks that the crackers crumbled too easily. They send me a coupon for a free package. I did not lie and I did not steal.

Garbage day: I’m not going to go into the finer points of dumpster diving, but the finds possible on garbage day are incredible. I have changed residences 18 times since leaving High School. Many were interstate moves. When your car and U-Haul are packed to the max and there is still more stuff, you put it on the curb. I once had a Saturn so overloaded it could barely make 50 mph on an Interstate. I left a lot of valuable stuff behind that could have really helped some prepper. If you see a big pile of stuff waiting for the garbage truck, most of it probably still works.

I realize that my suggestions may be distasteful to some. It is much more fun to purchase prepper items from Amazon or WalMart. In America, second-hand, discarded and used are bad words. Nevertheless, if SHTF, scrounging skills will become more valuable than shopping on-line with a credit card skills. And if you have some more ideas, I would appreciate hearing them.

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from The Prepper Journal Don't forget to visit the store and pick up some gear at The COR Outfitters. How prepared are you for emergencies? #SurvivalFirestarter #SurvivalBugOutBackpack #PrepperSurvivalPack #SHTFGear #SHTFBag

[musicallisto]

☠ Boy Meets Evil (Noah Marshall)

Still crying because of ILITW. Forever crying because of ILITW. Inspired by this BTS song (a bop, 10/10 would recommend).

word count: 4500+ words

summary: A sneak peek into Noah’s thoughts, feelings and memories throughout all of his life and the most important events he’s faced. An agonizing descent into the depths of a tortured, screaming mind, playing hide and seek with sanity and fragments of a destroyed yesteryear.

warnings: Used my F!MC Devon for this, but there’s no romance. Basically only angst, when will I write fluff; mentions of death, crying, depression, therapy, blood and mental health issues.

“Good morning, Noah. How are you?”

He doesn’t respond. Why would he? What can he say? How can he put into words the inflexible void that has taken the place of his heart in his chest, of his brain in his skull? How can he answer? How can he express all the poisonous tears, all the skipped meals, all the insomnias, all the ringing laughter echoing through the walls of his ears as if she were still here, right behind him?

The old man seems to notice his uneasiness and his reluctance to answer, and doesn’t insist. He observes the fragile-looking, worn out little boy, shyly swinging his legs back and forth on the padded chair too big for him and trying his best to avoid all eye contact with the doctor. There’s something dreadfully harrowing in seeing this brown-eyed ragdoll, with tear-stained cheeks and trembling fingers. He has no doubt Noah must have been a lively, cheerful little boy, now only reduced to a shell of his former self.

“You look a little thinner than the last time I saw you. Have you been eating? Do you want a cookie, perhaps?”

“No.”

The psychologist wistfully sighs, but reaches out to grab a cookie from the packet and delicately place it on the desk, almost creating an invisible barrier between him and his patient. Patient. The word itself seems so sad to the old man, and infuriating to Noah. Under all the layers of numbness, all the cotton filling up the great blankness of his chest, he knows he hates being called a patient, because that implies he is sick, and he knows he is not. He is fine. He just has to let the news sink in. He just has to understand his sister is not coming back and wait for time to do its healing. That’s what adults say, don’t they?

Then why does it sound so fake?

“Have you tried to write down your thoughts, as I advised you?” the doctor asks with a soft smile he wants to be as welcoming as possible.

“Yeah.”

“And what did you think of it?” he rebids, a twinkle of hopefulness buried deep under his professionalism.

“It sucks. Writing about how depressed I am only made me even more depressed.”

Noah’s tone is perfectly neutral, and he still isn’t looking directly at the psychologist, as if he wished nothing more than to be anyplace else than in that office.

“It is only one part of the process,” he calmly explains. “What matters most is not the thoughts. It’s what you choose to do with them. You can let them possess you. Have the last word. Overpower you. Or, you can overcome them. Burn the journal where you wrote them, for example. You could let the spiral blow you away. But wouldn’t it feel nicer to blow the spiral away?”

“Yeah. I guess. But that’s not gonna bring Jane back,” he spits in a murmur after a few seconds of silence.

“Nothing will ever bring Jane back, and we both know it. She has left this world, but she has not left your mind, nor your thoughts. She has not left your heart, and never will. Noah, I don’t want you to stop thinking about your sister, to forget her, to move on as if nothing happened. I want you to combine your sister with good memories instead of bad ones. You’re a clever boy, I know you underst-”

“You weren’t there,” he suddenly rises, his voice sharp and eyes sharper, terrifyingly sharp for an eight-year-old boy. “You weren’t there when she was lifted off the ground by that thing and when it broke her neck and she fell to the ground and wh-”

“Please, Noah, there was no thing, it was an accident, just a regrettable accid-”

“It wasn’t an accident! She was murdered! By that thing - whatever it is!”

“You’re still confused and it’s perfectly norm-”

“I KNOW WHAT I SAW!” he yells.

“Noah,” the old man gently states, barely above a whisper, contrasting with the furious, uneven breathing of the little boy in front of him. “Noah, I know you’re still scared, but-”

“I’m not scared,” the brown-haired kid hisses through gritted teeth.

The mere mention of those three little words are enough to provoke violent nausea in his stomach; he shakily grasps the cookie and takes a mouthful of it. If he closes his eyes and gnashes his teeth hard enough, he can imagine everything is under control and he is tearing apart the shadow murderer with his own teeth.

When he sees her approaching, frantically looking for a seat in the crowded gymnasium, he knows he can no longer run from her and turn his back on what has happened years before. He’s always known it would be inevitable, that he would have to deal with this dreaded conversation, the apprehended reminiscence he has feared for ten years. He thought it would be easier to avoid the memories, the false condolences and the pitiful, hypocritical gazes thrown at his direction, if he completely shut her out of his life, if he completely shut them all out of his life. It’s the hardest decision he has had to make, and not a day goes by that he doesn’t feel remorseful, that he doesn’t wish he could come up to her and talk to her about anything, anything stupid, really; about that amazing book he read last week and he’s sure she would love, or the dog he saw in that garden and reminded him of her adoration of canine furballs, or the ridiculous amount of homework Mr. Cooper has been giving them all throughout last year. But it’s impossible, and what ends up completely destroying him is how sorry she looks when she turns to him with a pleading look in her chocolate eyes. How sorry she looks to be begging to sit next to the broken, twisted weirdo that used to be her best friend, her partner in crime.

“Hey, Noah. Do you mind if I…?”

“Knock yourself out,” he exhales and she sits next to him.

He never would have imagined these would be the first words he would tell his childhood best friend after spending all of those years purposefully avoiding her.

She doesn’t seem to feel the excruciating tension between the two of them as she engages a simple conversation with him, as if they had been friends forever, as if they didn’t have to catch up years of silence. He lets out the most aching sigh of his life and continues the casual discussion with Devon, trying not to show the convulsion of his palms. She’s talking about Lucas, and he responds with one of his infamous sarcastic remarks; he’s well aware he’s biased, he shouldn’t be so bitter and especially not to those who have done nothing wrong, but when Lucas’s cheerful voice rings in his ears, his patched-up heart fills with disgust and resentfulness. Does he even remember? Does he even remember him? Does he even remember Jane? How can he look so popular, so untroubled, so carefree… happy?

And that’s when he hears it.

He hears it and by the looks of it, he’s not the only one.

The voice. The voice he has had nightmares of, the voice he’s heard every single night of his life, distorted and crooked, creaking like a rusty door struggling to open, barely audible, right in the crook of his ear and something that desperately feels like a frozen breathing on his neck. And deep down, deep, deep down, something oddly familiar, something strangely recognizable and almost… dear?

“Everyone… plays… together…”

His heart skips a beat and his breath hitches in his throat. He refuses to believe it. He must be hallucinating. He must be dreaming. He must have fallen asleep during Lucas’s speech. It must be some twisted joke, some immature prank pulled on him, a back-to-school thing. It can’t be. He can’t be. 

Unable to move any muscle, he looks at all his former best friends oh so slowly. And that’s how he knows he’s not hallucinating.

Devon’s dilated pupils, staring at the door but not seeing anything, ghostly tears stuck in her eyes; Ava’s trembling chin and lips, as if she were on the verge of tears; Stacy’s white knuckles, her unnatural shivering and gripping her pompoms; Lily’s parted lips, achromic cheeks, wide-open eyes, a drop of sweat running down her temple; Andy’s too rapid blinking and his nervous glances all around, especially behind him as if he were afraid of something over his shoulder; Lucas’s clamming hands and his unusual gulping.

They have all heard it.

They all know what it means.

And before Noah can even breathe properly again, before he can even swallow down the nervous ball of saliva caught on his tongue, his very own voice rings in his ears as if he were talking to himself.

Are you scared now, Noah?

For the first time, his habitual reflex, his automatic response - I’m not scared! - sounds fake, because he’s not telling anyone. He’s telling himself.

The streets are remarkably cold, or maybe it’s his sick mind playing yet another trick on him, altering his perception of reality. It wouldn’t be the first time, and he’s getting pretty tired of it. Ten years with a tangled mind is starting to get on his last nerve.

He can’t believe his mother. How can she tell him those things every day of his life, repeatedly without ever growing tired of mentally abusing him, of destroying the very last remainings of his psychological stability? Does she even believe them? Why does she always apologize, bow her head in silence and look up at him with pleading eyes, a deer in the headlights, begging his pardon as if he weren’t her biggest mistake? As if he weren’t nothing but a waste of space? Why does he believe her every time, hopes she will change for the best, that it is the last time that same old argument will break out, that he will finally be able to take a walk with her and buy her this necklace she’s been discreetly eyeing for a while - why does he keep on longing for a chimera, a cloudy fool’s paradise?

He can’t believe his friends either. He can’t believe their selfishness, their egocentrism, their lack of consideration for him. Do they only talk to him because they pity him, because he’s that lonely, brooding and grieving teenager, cloistered and mistreated? Even Devon! He thought- he thought that out of all of them, he at least really meant something to Devon.

And of course, he hates being alone and the streets are so empty without a true friend to walk them down with, it’s probably the reason why he suddenly feels colder and lonelier than ever.

He’s starting to regret storming off and leaving his mother on his own so abruptly, but he’d be damned if he admitted it out loud. He’s starting to regret storming off and leaving his friends on their own so abruptly at Britney’s party, but his hubris is one of the few things he treasures and can’t crack. He wishes he could stop being hostile at his friends for having progressed in ten years, but he’s so stuck in his own grief, his mother’s endless screaming and insulting, his own venenous spiral of thoughts that he can’t help expecting all the others to mourn Jane with him. How could they play that stupid game in front of him, how could they not be outraged after Britney’s proposal, how could Devon, out of them all, accept to condescend to do such childish idiocy? Especially given how harmful she knows it is for him, for her, for all of them? It feels as if they have spat on his little sister’s grave, so many years later, and their perjury is a hard pill to swallow for Noah.

Especially Devon’s.

Devon. The most egotistical of them all, and the one he cares about most.

He doesn’t realize his absent-minded footsteps are leading him to the gray road and gray sky crossing through the woods.

“Sick of this...,” he mumbles angrily, kicking a pebble out of his way, watching it with some sort of immature triumph when it disappears in the shrubs. “It wasn’t my fault... It wasn’t! Stupid b-”

A twig snaps somewhere behind him. He freezes, heart racing. If he were in his normal state, he would not be anxious and would have ignored the noise, especially in the middle of a forest, but a bizarre and disagreeable impression of being observed won’t leave him alone since he’s entered the forest by mistake. Like a pair of predator eyes are staring at him from behind, piercing his neck just like the destructive fangs of a snake...

“It’s just a squirrel, Noah. Just a squirrel...,” he half-heartedly whispers to himself, trying to stabilize the furious galloping of his heart.

What can it be, if it’s not a squirrel in the middle of the woods? It can only be a squirrel, right?

His heart a shriveled animal cradled in his throat, he uneasily turns towards the source of the sound... and comes face to face to the unmistakable ghostly silhouette of the charcoal creature, standing at the edge of the trees.

“Noah.”

Its whisper is solemn yet jittery, as if the thing were uncertain of what to say, of how to approach the teenager. He, on the other hand, knows exactly what reaction to adopt. He yells and runs. Runs as fast as he can, his heart a pounding drum, a roaring thunder, and when he looks over his shoulder... Redfield has barely moved. Noah comes to a dead stop.

“...wait...”

And suddenly, Noah is not scared. His fear vanishes as soon as the spectral voice reaches his ears, and he firmly marches forward, blood boiling in anger. His fright has been replaced by pure hatred, indignation, and his insatiable thirst for vengeance. All his life, he’s been running away, and he’s tired of it.

“What... What do you want? Huh? What do you want?!”

“Noah... Don’t be sad...”

“What the hell?! Are... are you comforting me?!”

“... not your fault...”

His ire doesn’t die down. It can’t dry up anymore. He’s been bottling it up for far too much time. His words come out harsh, breathless, raw, bloody, lethal. He can’t control anything anymore; he’s done controlling, he’s done biting back his distress.

“Yeah, no kidding! It’s YOURS! All of this is YOUR FAULT! You killed my sister! Or don’t you remember?! JANE! Her name was Jane, you bastard! And you MURDERED her!”

And when Redfield, looking almost sorry, shakes his head and points at his chest, murmuring a barely audible “no... Jane is here...”, Noah swears his heart skips a beat, but he’s so used to being lied to that he will surely not accept any glint of hope, especially not from his sister’s murderer.

“What... what are you talking about? What do you mean, ‘Jane is here’? Here where?!”

As Redfield is about to answer, a ray of sun cuts through the canopy and burns his shadowy figure, making him wince and withdraw more profoundly into the woods. Noah stretches his arm, motioning him to stop, almost wanting to grab him, to learn something, anything. Now that the monster has mentioned Jane, he can’t leave without his crucial knowledge.

Or maybe he’s just going full crazy.

“Hey, no! Stop! What does that mean? Where is Jane?!”

His voice is uncontrollably trembling at this point and he does nothing to master it. He’s never felt so cold in his entire life, not even when his eyes fell on Jane’s dead body, twisted in a terrifying angle in that cave, so many years ago. He’s waiting for an answer, a secret, a gesture, not even a word, just a reaction.

He never gets it. Redfield vanishes from view, disappearing into the penumbra of the woods, leaving him shaking and alone in the middle of the road.

“What the hell? What the hell?!”

He knows it could be one of the hallucinations - he’s gotten quite a few when he was younger, immediately after Jane’s death, and although they completely left him when he was twelve, it’s still more plausible than what he thinks he understood from Redfield’s halting speech.

And yet...

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, for the first time in a decade, Noah feels something he had forgotten. Something that oddly enough doesn’t feel bittersweet on his tongue. Something that he hates, something that he’s taught himself to manipulate with the utmost precaution, for it is the most dangerous of feelings.

Hope.

And for the first time in a decade, deep down, very deep down, way deeper than he can reach, Noah is not scared.

The tip of the knife quivers against the small of Devon’s back, thrusting inside the folds of her dress. She’s shaking; he can feel her trembling right next to her, very well aware that if she makes the tiniest of brusque moves, he will not hesitate to assure his grasp on her, even if it means making blood run.

Actually, he will hesitate, but she doesn’t have to know that.

He doesn’t pay attention to the carving in the stone, just at his feet, to the new words that have replaced the name he’s known for so long. The wrong name he’s been using for the entity. He doesn’t pay attention to her name chiseled on the floor, fearing it could make his determination burst... he leads Devon downstairs, where he’s made sure all of the others are sat and waiting for him. It’s the last step, the very last step for the only solution there is... hopefully, the very last step before he can meet with his sister again.

“Noah, I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?!”

“Trust me, everything will make sense in a minute.”

“How can I trust you when you’re pointing a knife at me?!”

“Devon, please. Just walk.”

She doesn’t even sound as outraged as she was a few seconds before, as she should be, as he would be in her place, just terrified. And he’s never felt so guilty, an indestructible, nauseous blade ready to slit his throat if he dares to get sentimental. He doesn’t understand why she doesn’t hate him, or at least doesn’t act like it, and it’s probably because of the ferocious-looking cutlass pointed at her ribs anyway, but just for a moment, it’s enough for him to give him courage.

The dim lighting of the cavern quickly comes into view, and Noah shudders. Despite having been there many times since Jane’s death, there’s still something mystic and untouchable about this place, something he’s afraid of profaning. And when all the people he was happy to call his friends look up to him, invisibly tied to the glacial chairs, eyes burning with rage, incomprehension, and disgust, he knows - he knows there’s no turning back. Not anymore. He can’t back down because things will never be the same, however he exits the cavern.

Everything that follows up goes down in a blur. He can’t quite remember what happens in all details, maybe because of the darkness of the room or of his mind, but the burns against Stacy’s skin, the spiders crawling up Andy’s torso, Jane’s twisted smile and spectral claws tearing Dan’s last remainings of sanity, Devon’s screams, filled with fright, sobs and violence are forever branded on the blank canvas inside his mind. And he’s convulsing on his electric chair, and he’s cantillating the same spell over and over under his breath as if it could change anything as if it could change the situation. “Only way... It’s the only way... Only way... Only way...” And everything is a chaos of yelling, of crying and of laughter, the laughter of a ten-year-old ghost, eight-year-old child and a thousand-year-old animosity, until all of his friends are engulfed by the thousands of shining eyes in the dark of the cave.

Next thing he knows, he’s right before Devon’s pleading, terrified eyes, a knife above her head, ready to strike, ready to immolate his poor little lamb to the terrific laughter of a kid.

And she’s talking but he can’t hear her; the weight on his chest and the weight in his hand are far too much and far too loud. Her words come out muffled, as if she were captive underwater, unable to reach his heart, to cross through his reinforced concrete chest.

Until she cries out.

“Noah, please! There’s nothing left to save! You’re stronger than that... stronger than her!”

And that’s when the reinforced concrete chest cracks. That’s when his mouth dries and his eyes light up, finally watching Devon aghast in front of him instead of just seeing her, finally seeing the bloody knife prepared to cut through her stomach rather than just feeling it, seeing it’s a monster licking its lips in anticipation for the delicious meal it’s about to have instead of an inanimate object.

He is about to cause everything he’s been reproaching his friends for ten years. He is about to become a murderer for the second time, thinking he can kill his former crime with a new one.

And his heart bursts and his eyes are frozen and his mouth ajar when he drops the knife to his side, its jingling bouncing on the cold walls of the cavern.

“D-Devon... I’m... Oh my god... I’m so-so sorry... I’m...”

He can’t find the words. Suddenly, he is a traumatized eight-year-old sitting uncomfortably in front of an indiscreet therapist, forgetting his emotions and the words that come with them, unable to discern the difference in the explosion of colors, smells and tastes in the blazing fury that just escaped his heart.

He reaches out to her, hands and heart empty, to graze her, make sure she is here, she is real, that it is not one of the countless nightmares he’s had. She withdraws, of course, shriveling like a wounded prey, her eyes wandering back and forth between the knife and Noah’s horrified expression. And Noah’s never hated himself more than he does in this moment, with Devon practically hysterical in front of him, cradled against the cold side of the grotto and trying her best to disappear from his view.

“Devon... I didn’t mean to...”

His voice cracks. He knows very well no words could ever mend things, no words could ever stitch the injuries he’s unjustly caused to his best friend, in the cavern and every day of the past ten years.

No words can, but maybe one last gesture, one final move before turning off the lights and being put to sleep might.

“Devon, I’m so sorry... I must... I must redeem myself... All of this was my fault... I-”

“No,” she pleads, and his heart aches when he realizes she would still be willing to prevent him from sacrificing his life in spite of everything he has ever done to her, everything he has ever done to all of them and himself in the first place. “No, you- you can’t do that. I won’t let you...”

“I have to,” Noah assures, oddly calmer than he expected, as if he had accepted his fate, as if he had already relinquished. “It’s only fair. I have caused all of this...”

He turns to face Jane’s curious eyes, her head tilted to one side just like a cat who doesn’t understand what’s going on. He turns to his sister, or at least the shell of what she was and everything that’s left of her, turning his back to Devon and takes a deep breath. He wishes he could smile at the ghost, tell her everything is going to be okay, that he will take her place and repair all the bad he’s done, that she will finally be free and she will reunite with her mother again, but something inside of him doesn’t believe it.

“I have caused all of this and I will fix it,” he completes, his voice sharp and determined.

“No!” Devon screams; he hears her trying to get up, but she’s still weak and trembling, and he won’t let her intervene anyways. “No, I won’t let you take her place. I should be the one doing it, I sh-”

“You’ve already done more than enough. All this time...”

His voice is soft, silky - certainly not the one you would expect from an eighteen-year-old giving himself to the games of a demon.

“All this time, I blamed you for being the reason why everything fell apart in the first place. I should’ve realized sooner that you were the one who was keeping everything together.”

He steps forward. Devon doesn’t say anything; he hears her suffocating through her sobs, and he tries his best not to think about it, not to let the shrill cries weaken his determination. Even Jane is silent, her mouth slightly open, her devilish blue eyes piercing right through Noah’s soul. Is that it? Will she trade her place with her brother’s? Will they ever both know peace?

Noah carefully kneels in front of the monster. Suddenly, they are not a terrorized teenager and an ancestral demon anymore; they are a brother and sister that fate, time and pride have torn apart.

“Hey, kiddo.”

“Noah, I’m scared,” is everything Jane’s ghost-like form is able to murmur, contrasting with all the horrors she has said and done in the past weeks.

“I know. I’m scared, too.”

It feels good not to lie, for once.

And Jane breaks down into sobs, and Noah engulfs her in her arms and it feels almost agreeable to be holding the mere concept of darkness in the vague silhouette of his sister for the first time in a decade. 

“Shh. It’s okay. Why don’t you rest now?” 

It’s not long until his own tears wet his cheeks too.

“Let me take over for a while.”

His words die out in the shadows that collapse against his whole body, swallowing him entirely.

And as the cave shakes and the rocks fall down, blocking the only pathway that leads to the exit and Devon and her friends shakily flee out of the crime scene, the secret is sealed with the entrance of the cave.

Behind the rocks lies the secret of the boy who met evil.

[mjsmum]

Does a beautiful birth experience even exist?

It might seem as if I've opened the blogging flood gates, but I'm very aware that baby challenges change as quickly as the direction of the wind, and I want to get my feelings in order about some of the early topics before they fade to make way for new parenting dilemmas.

Matilda will be two weeks old tomorrow, and I feel like I'm finally ready to talk about my labour experience. In fact, I may have left it a little too late, as I would contemplate having another baby now - whereas at the time I strongly declared to Jim that we were getting a cat next time! 

The naivety of going natural 

Like many women, I had a strong desire for a natural, holistic birth experience. I'd like to consider myself a tough cookie when it comes to pain management, and I told myself that the discomfort would only be temporary, and that I could feel empowered by the act of bringing new life into the world with minimal medical assistance.

To support this goal, I started arming myself with tools to help me prepare for a painkiller-free birth. I attended prenatal yoga classes to learn controlled breaths; I consulted a herbalist to learn about natural remedies; I rented a tens machine, and wrote a birthing plan that was all about a water birth and absolutely no pethidine or epidural under any circumstance. 

When reality starts getting in the way 

The first sign that my birth experience wouldn't be all it was cracked up to be came in week 28 of pregnancy, when I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. After struggling to control it with dietary changes I was put onto metformin tablets with my evening meal, and nightly insulin injections. This meant two things:

1 - I would be induced around my due date if baby didn't make an early appearance

2 - the likelihood of needing extra monitoring was such that a water birth would be highly unlikely 

I could write a whole separate blog post on the impact of GD on my pregnancy experience, but the overwhelming effect on my labour plan was one of panic . That my choices were being taken away from me. And it's hard to remain empowered when the things you wanted for your birth experience are being taken off the table one by one.

However, as my due date drew nearer and Matilda's weight and measurements began to shoot off the chart, I was secretly glad not to be enduring the agonising two-week countdown of being overdue, and one day before her due date we decamped to hospital to be induced.

The long wait for labour to begin

In the middle of my labour, my midwife (who was incredible - more on that later) declared that unless it's for medical reasons, she doesn't know why anyone has an induction, and I can understand why. Turns out it involves a whole lot of waiting around - two days in my case - for something to happen. 

You're stuck in a side room while women in natural labour filter past you to the delivery suite, with someone poking their head round the door every few hours to take your blood pressure or shove a finger up your hoo-ha just in case anything has kicked off.

The best thing I did during this time was send Jim home for some proper sleep, as we had no idea how gruelling the first few days of parenthood would be. The worst thing I did was to let my mixture of fear and excitement keep me awake at night, as I could've used the energy for labour when it finally happened. However, it did give me the chance to binge watch my way through series 6 of ER on DVD!

Eventually, after a pessary, two gels and a sweep, I began to feel period-like pains in my stomach, and requested some light pain relief from the midwife. A dose of paracetamol and codeine later I got back into bed, and felt something start to trickle down my leg. By the time I got to the bathroom my waters gave way fully, and after a dramatic gush all over the floor I realised I was standing there with soaking wet pyjama bottoms. Things were finally kicking off!

Thank god for a hot shower

I don't actually remember much about early labour - it lasted around 5.5 hours, and Jim came back to the hospital as soon as my waters went - other than the fact I felt very alone. I was only checked by medical staff once or twice during this time, and it was hours before they would internally examine me to see how I was progressing.

It was a LOT more painful than I had imagined, and my yoga breathing went straight out of the window. My cries for more codeine were never answered, but one kind midwife did run me a bath. The water helped but I felt trapped in the restrictive porcelain tub, so got out after a handful of minutes.

Not being able to get comfortable basically summed up the early part of my labour. Standing was too much; sitting on the ball only worked between contractions; hanging off jim's shoulders worked temporarily, but didn't anchor me the way I needed. In the end, my absolute saviour was the en suite shower in my room. I turned it to maximum heat, grabbed hold of the hand rails in the cubicle and swayed from side to side for literally two and a half hours until someone came to check on my progress.

Everything...and then nothing 

The good news on examination was that I was 9cm dilated and ready to go to the delivery suite. I'd lost the will to put clothes on by that point, so the midwife wheeled me up there in a towel and blanket with soaking wet hair - oh the glamour! 

For me, the first hour in the delivery suite was the only moment of clarity and control in the whole labour experience. My midwife, Toni, was very calm, soothing and experienced. My contractions slowed to a manageable level, and I felt happy enough to proceed with my plan of as natural birth as possible, with just gas and air to see me through.

Had I known what was about to come, I would have taken the epidural offered to me at that point, but for some reason I was still hell bent on this badge of honour of pushing a baby out with minimal pain relief. Next time, I'm taking the drugs!

What should've been the beginning of the end was actually the start of 6 of the most tiring, painful and frustrating hours I've ever experienced in my life. And by the time Matilda arrived, I was so delusional and exhausted I felt like I was having some kind of out of body experience.

The slowing down of my contractions was the first of many things that started to go awry in those last few hours. They had to put me on a hormone drip to artificially stimulate me to contract three times every 10 minutes, and they also gave me IV fluid as Matilda was showing signs of dehydration. 

I still wasn't dilated enough to push, so had to put up with a couple more hours of intense pain before being given the green light to start trying to pop my baby out.

Throughout those couple of hours I pleaded and begged to start pushing, but had I known what real pushing meant, I would've shut up and made the most of the gas and air! The physical effort involved with each push was so intense that I was physically sweating, and I definitely shit myself on more than one occasion, but by that point I no longer cared.

Time for intervention 

What started to become apparent at the pushing stage was that Matilda just wasn't coming out. As much as I pushed her forward, she started to slip back, and after 90 minutes of body-wrenching squeezes, the midwife made the decision to call a doctor for assistance. 

What I didn't know at the time was that doctor intervention had been discussed more than once during those final hours because of my 'failure to progress', but that my midwife fought tooth and nail at every stage to buy me more time. It was this determination that meant I didn't end up having a c-section, and I will be eternally grateful to her for being so persistent. 

I don't think I'd really thought about what the end of my labour would be like in advance, but I never got that glorious moment of doing a final push to feel a slippery baby slide into the midwife's arms with a triumphant first cry. Matilda's heart rate began to drop, so the decision was taken to use forceps, and suddenly the room was filled with a team of doctors and nurses.

By this point I was basically hallucinating with adrenaline, pain and tiredness, so the final part felt slightly disembodied. I saw what I could only describe as a giant pair of salad tongs on the side, not realising that they were what was about to help deliver my baby, and then I was being dropped down and tilted backwards on the bed ready for the big moment.

The midwife explained to me that I needed to push hard with the next contraction, as the forceps were there to assist - they couldn't do the job for me. It was this next contraction where I basically had a total meltdown; the pain and discomfort of the forceps was like nothing I'd ever experienced, and instead of pushing I started screaming and begging for them to make it stop.

Here, the midwife stepped in with a bit of tough love and shouted at me to pull it together for the sake of my baby. It obviously did the trick as I gave it one final push and heard the staff telling me excitedly that my baby had arrived!

The eye of the storm - and the calm that followed 

Because of the way Matilda was dragged into the world, we didn't get that idyllic moment where she went straight onto my bare chest for skin to skin. I didn't know at the time but her shoulders had got stuck so they'd had to rotate her to get her out. The cord was wrapped around her neck, and her apgar score was only 5, so they rushed her over to the side of the room to give her some inflationary breaths. 

I remember everyone being calm but not hearing my baby crying, and repeatedly asking Jim and the staff if everything was ok. Then she let out the first of many wails we have since heard, and they briefly put her on a towel on my stomach to say hello.

At this point I was still lying flat on my back, legs akimbo in stirrups, unaware that I'd suffered a third degree tear and lost 800ml of blood. They explained to me that I needed to go straight into theatre for repair, so no sooner had I met my baby I was wheeled away, given a spinal block, and laid back down for repair.

Strangely, that moment in theatre was the beginning of the post-birth calm. I was so tired and overstimulated that I couldn't really think about the baby I'd left behind in the delivery suite - it almost felt as if it hadn't happened - and I zonked out into a deep sleep during the hour it took them to stitch me back together.

The next thing I remember is being transferred onto a different trolley and wheeled back to the now cleaned-up delivery room. I felt nothing but tingles from the waist down, and waiting for me was a plate of pie and mash and a peacefully sleeping baby, who was placed onto my bare chest. It still didn't quite feel real at that moment, but I wasn't in pain; all I felt was complete contentment. 

Processing the reality of giving birth 

The first couple of nights after Matilda was born I couldn't close my eyes without getting forcep flashbacks. To be honest, I felt haunted by the whole labour experience, but gradually the horror moments started to fade. 

Over the next few days I began to fully process MJ’s birth, and realised that while it had been far from the holistic experience I had imagined, it had taught me some important lessons:

- Why do we put so much pressure on ourselves to make life even harder and have a natural birth? Real empowerment comes from making the best decision for you personally, and if we ever decide to go through it again, I will confidently ask for an epidural and feel no sense of shame

- Any woman who delivers a baby is a fucking superhero. Whether you deliver naturally in water or have an elective caesarean, you birthed a baby. That deserves a massive amount of respect 

- Nothing that hurts that much can ever be empowering at the time, but you can definitely give yourself a massive pat on the back afterwards for getting through it. You are a female warrior! 

- Never underestimate the power of a good birthing partner. I crushed every bone in Jim's hands during my contractions, and yelled at him every time our birthing soundtrack came to an end and needed rebooting, but he will never fully realise how just being there with that support in those moments got me through

- It's OK to come away from hospital with the opinion that labour sucks, and lament the gruelling process your body has been through, and continues to go though afterwards. Because when you're having a 'woe is me' moment you can pick up your perfect, tiny little baby and give her a tight cuddle, and realise all that pain and fear was completely and totally worth it

[liliannorman]

New success in treating allergies to peanuts and other foods

Ten years ago at a kindergarten party, Isaac Judy took a bite of a peanut-butter cookie. It tasted weird to him, so he spit it out. Hives soon appeared on his face. His lips also began to swell. When his dad came to pick him up, Isaac was coughing and wheezing. Riding in the car to the other side of St. Louis, Mo., where they lived, Isaac fell asleep — or so it seemed.

When Isaac’s mother saw what was happening, she suspected something more serious. “He hadn’t fallen asleep. He lost consciousness,” Jaelithe Judy explains. After a trip to the emergency room, her five-year-old recovered. But doctors confirmed her hunch: Isaac has a peanut allergy.

Just a few generations ago, hardly anyone talked about food allergies. But over the past two decades, childhood food allergies in the United States have more than doubled. A little more than a year ago, a study in Pediatrics reported that 7.6 percent of U.S. kids under age 18 have food allergies. That’s almost 8 million youth — about two students per classroom. And it’s much more than a childhood issue. Surprisingly, a study last year in JAMA Network Open found that nearly 11 percent of adults have food allergies, too. More than one in every four of them said they had not been allergic to foods as children.

There has been a sharp increase in the share of U.S. children with food allergies in the past two decades.Data from R.S. Gupta et al/2018 and the CDC

These days nearly everyone has “come across a family member or person who has been touched by food allergies, or has one themselves,” says Tamara Hubbard. She works in the suburbs of Chicago, Ill., as a licensed counselor. Hubbard and a growing number of counselors are helping families through the stress of managing food allergies.

For years, doctors have told families there’s nothing they can do but avoid the trigger food — or inject a fast-acting medication called epinephrine (Ep-ih-NEF-rinn) to stop a severe reaction. But researchers are learning more about why some people overreact to certain foods. And new treatments are emerging. Late last month, the first treatment for peanut allergy earned approval from the U.S. Food and Drug Administration. Another could do so within a year or so. Scientists also are continuing to develop and test other ways to treat food allergies. 

Immunity run amok

Allergic reactions occur when the immune system overreacts. Normally immune cells help fight bacteria, viruses and other pathogens. Yet some people’s immune systems also react to harmless stuff like pollen or mold — or peanuts, milk or other foods. 

Such run-ins trigger a release of histamine (HIS-tuh-meen) and other chemicals. These molecules “get the ball rolling for an allergic reaction,” explains Tina Sindher. She works as an allergist at Stanford University School of Medicine in Palo Alto, Calif.

During an allergic reaction, someone may get itchy and develop hives. If the reaction worsens, the person might cough, wheeze and suffer a whole-body reaction known as anaphylaxis (An-uh-fuh-LAX-iss). That’s what happened to Isaac — and to Shea Tritt’s son, Gaines, in Abingdon, Va.

Gaines’ peanut allergy surfaced in the fall of 2012. At the time, he was a baby and his diagnosis put the whole family on edge. For the next few years “he never trick-or-treated. He never went to a birthday party. I was scared to put him in preschool,” says Tritt. “My husband and I had a lot of stress because he could tell I wasn’t letting Gaines do normal things. So we would argue.”

Even Gaines’ older sister got nervous. If she went to a party, she worried about bringing back traces of peanut-containing treats that might sicken her brother, Tritt recalls. Living in such constant vigilance can be emotionally draining for families with food allergies.

Anxious and desperate, Tritt wondered if her son would outgrow his allergies, and how she could ever find out. “I became obsessed with information — anything I could do to get us out of this situation,” she says.

When a kiss can make you sick

Silly greeting cards often depict a kiss on the cheek of a cartoon figure as a big red imprint of lips. For people with a serious food allergy, real kisses sometimes leave the same mark. But it’s not funny. That red wheal signals an allergic hypersensitivity to food residues on the smoocher’s mouth.

One renowned study at the University of California, Davis School of Medicine surveyed 379 people with especially severe allergies to peanuts, tree nuts or seeds. Twenty had experienced hives or other symptoms after a kiss. In all but one case, the kisser had eaten nuts up to 6 hours earlier; at least four had first brushed their teeth.

Most reactions proved mild. But five people developed wheezing or flushing with light-headedness — potentially dangerous signs. And one three-year old was rushed to the hospital to treat respiratory distress after his mother pecked him on the cheek. — Janet Raloff

One day, Tritt saw a TV interview with David Stukus. He’s an allergist at Nationwide Children’s Hospital in Columbus, Ohio. Stukus saw that many patients with food allergy are fearful. They often are confused because they’re not getting the facts they need. So Stukus opened a Twitter account to spread evidence-based information. Tritt took note.

Looking at her son’s blood-test results, year after year, Tritt suspected his immune response to peanuts was lessening. However, blood tests cannot give a clear “yes” or “no.” These tests detect specialized immune proteins. They are called IgE antibodies. These molecules trigger allergic reactions. But IgE levels only indicate that someone is sensitive to a certain food. They cannot predict whether that person will react if they eat it. Proving Gaines had outgrown his peanut allergy would require an oral food challenge. And that would require that the patient eat increasing amounts of the food while a doctor watches for allergic reactions. 

Trouble is, Tritt could not find a local allergist to perform the food challenge. This procedure needs extra time and staff. It also runs a risk of triggering anaphylaxis. So, many clinics won’t offer it unless a patient’s blood results are low — low enough to suggest they would tolerate the food. Gaines’ numbers had steadily dropped over the years but were still a tad too high.

Peanuts: Becoming bite-proof

For about half of people with peanut allergies, “a bite or two of the wrong food typically contains enough peanut protein to trigger a reaction,” notes Brian Vickery. He is a pediatric allergist at Emory University in Atlanta, Ga. For these people, he says, 100 milligrams (0.004 ounce) of peanut protein, or about one-third of a peanut kernel, can set off such a reaction.

Vickery used to work at Aimmune Therapeutics. This California company is developing a treatment for peanut allergy. It is called oral immunotherapy, or OIT for short. The procedure involves each day eating a wee bit of peanut protein — pre-measured into capsules. The capsule dose goes up every few weeks over a period of months. If the treatment works, it can raise the immune system’s threshold for the food. That means it would take more of the food to trigger an allergic reaction. In other words, it’s possible for the person to become “bite-proof.”

Aimmune tested its capsules — or a dummy version called a placebo — in 551 children and teens with peanut allergies. The starting dose was half a milligram (0.00002 ounce) of peanut protein. (One peanut contains 600 times that much.) Over a six-month period, the daily dose went up to 300 milligrams (0.01 ounce), or about one peanut’s worth. And each day for six more months, participants had to continue eating that much.

During the study, many participants experienced allergic reactions to the peanut pills. Forty-five quit because of these unpleasant symptoms. But among those who finished the study, two-thirds of the treated group became bite-proof. After about a year, they could safely eat roughly two peanuts. “They’re still careful about avoiding peanuts,” says Vickery. “But it provides that additional margin of safety.”

Those results appeared in the November 2018 New England Journal of Medicine. 

Based on these and other findings, the FDA approved those peanut capsules on January 31.

Similar work underway

Over the past decade and prior to the FDA approval, a small number of allergists had already started offering OIT using store-bought foods. Tritt found one such clinic several hours away. However, that clinic was not willing to give her son a peanut challenge to confirm whether he still was allergic.

Tritt didn’t want to sign her son up for a long, costly treatment if he might in fact be outgrowing his allergy. But they couldn’t know for sure without the gold-standard test, that oral food challenge.

Blood tests can indicate if someone has specialized proteins that sensitize their immune system to a given food. However, these tests cannot predict if someone will actually develop an allergic reaction to that food.jarun011/iStock/Getty Images Plus

She discussed her dilemma with Stukus on Twitter. Reviewing Gaines’ blood-test results, Stukus agreed to conduct the food challenge. Just before Gaines started kindergarten, his family travelled from Virginia to the doctor’s clinic in Ohio. It was a nine-hour drive.

Gaines started the challenge with a “small, laughable amount” of peanut butter, Tritt recalls. Fifteen minutes later, he ate a bit more. Then some more. Over several hours he chomped a dozen Reese’s peanut butter cups. And he never reacted. 

The test proved Gaines had outgrown his allergy. That makes him one of the lucky few. Many children outgrow some food allergies by the time they enter school. But eight out of every 10 kids with allergies to peanuts or tree nuts will remain allergic.

Freedom and failure

Gian Lagemann, a high school senior in Saratoga, Calif., is allergic to 11 kinds of nuts, including peanuts (which actually is not a nut; it’s a legume). When he started kindergarten, his mother brought “no nuts allowed” signs to the classroom. She asked other parents to tell her whenever they brought in food — so she could make sure it was safe for Gian. Every day Gian ate his lunch at a designated peanut-free table.

Several years ago, Gian’s mom told her son about a peanut OIT trial. The study was starting nearby at Stanford University. “For most of my life, I haven’t been able to eat things where the ingredient labels say ‘may contain peanuts’ or ‘processed in a facility with peanuts,’” Gian says. “Once she explained that [after the trial] I’d be able to eat those foods, I was pretty happy. I was sold.”

Thanks to an experimental peanut-allergy treatment called oral immunotherapy, high-school student Gian Lagemann can now dig into M&Ms. It’s something he previously had to avoid because its label notes that it “may contain peanuts.”Luci Lagemann

At the start of the trial, his family bought a bag of peanut flour. For about six months, Gian took his dose each day after dinner. He doesn’t like the taste of peanuts. So he often mixed his dose into a spoonful of chocolate ice cream. The dose started at 1.3 milligrams of peanut protein (about 1/200th the amount in a peanut). Over the six-month trial it went up to 240 milligrams (0.008 ounce, or a little less than one peanut’s worth).

More broadly, some 8,000 U.S. patients have tried such an oral therapy. Typically, about one in five will withdraw because of side effects or anxiety. Completing such a trial takes focus and discipline — like playing sports. But, Gian recalls, “They told us with every dose we took, our body was just going to get stronger.”

Participants also learned to expect some allergic reactions. “If you’re going to build your immune muscle against a food allergy, you know you’re going to have a little ‘ache’ during the process,” says Kari Nadeau. This Stanford allergist was a leader of the trial. 

Gian felt a few such responses during the study. “My throat would feel a little tight for 15 minutes,” he says. “But after that, it was fine.” So he persevered. And it paid off. When the trial ended, he could eat a full peanut without having an allergic reaction. That means Gian now can safely eat candy with labels warning they’re made in facilities that process nuts. “I was able to try Kit Kats for the first time, and Milky Ways,” Gian says. 

Two years ago, Isaac also tried this oral peanut therapy. At the time, he was 13. But his experiences were quite different. During the treatment he suffered sinus and gastrointestinal troubles. He also had an anaphylactic reaction. Six months in, Isaac dropped out. He quit because he had developed an immune condition called eosinophilic esophagitis (Ee-oh-sin-oh-FILL-ick Ee-SOF-uh-JY-tis). The oral therapy triggers it in a small share of people.

And there’s something else to keep in mind: People could lose their desensitization to peanut once they end the oral therapy. That finding was confirmed in a 2019 study by Nadeau’s team. For many people, effective treatment might have to continue long-term.

Other treatments

Some people have taken part in research trials testing a different treatment for peanut allergy — a skin patch. Instead of eating bits of peanut by mouth, patients every day stick a coin-sized disc onto their back or upper arm. Each disc contains a quarter-milligram of peanut protein. That’s about a thousandth as much as what’s in a peanut. (By comparison, Aimmune’s capsules start with twice that much. Over months, patients then take doses that increase to 1, 10, 20, 100 and 300 milligrams.) From the patch, peanut proteins seep through the skin but do not enter the blood. Peanut patches are therefore less likely to cause anaphylaxis than is the oral therapy.

DBV Technologies in France makes the patch. This company conducted a year-long trial of its product in 356 children with peanut allergies. Nine in every 10 participants finished the trial. The most common side effect was a skin rash at the patch site. However, this trial didn’t work as well as the company had hoped. By the end of the study, only a little more than one in every three patients treated could safely eat the “exit dose” of one to three peanuts. The study leaders reported their findings in the March 12, 2019 Journal of the American Medical Association. 

Still, the patch has worked wonders for some. In 2012, Sharon Wong was desperate. Her son’s allergies to peanuts and tree nuts had intensified to an alarming degree. Once during a shopping trip, he went into a coughing fit while walking past a batch of freshly baked walnut cookies. At a restaurant buffet, he started vomiting after merely looking at a steamy tray of pesto pasta. (Pesto is made with pine nuts.)

“It was really awful,” recalls Wong. “We cannot control the air he breathes. But we didn’t want to keep him confined at home. We wanted him to be able to go shopping, to go down the street, to go to friends’ homes and not stress about his allergies.”

That year she enrolled her son, then nine years old, in an earlier-stage peanut patch trial in the San Francisco Bay area of California. At first, it took just 1/240th of a peanut to trigger an allergic reaction. After two years on the patch, he could tolerate about six peanuts.

Egg is one of the most common food allergies in children. Research shows that more than two-thirds of kids will outgrow their egg allergy by age 16.denizya/iStock/Getty Images Plus

“We feel more comfortable about traveling longer distances and dining in restaurants with precautions in place,” Wong wrote in a blog about the patch trial. “Each mini-success gives us confidence and improves our quality of life. My son is happier and healthier.”

In August, the FDA plans to review data on the peanut patch and recommend if it should be approved. DBV Technologies is also researching and developing patches to treat milk and egg allergies. And as for oral therapies, Aimmune recently started a new trial for its egg-allergy treatment. The company is also developing an oral therapy for walnut allergy.

Scientists are studying other related approaches, too. One is an immune therapy that uses liquid droplets containing allergens. These are placed under the tongue rather than swallowed directly. Edwin Kim, an allergist at the University of North Carolina School of Medicine, in Chapel Hill, led one study of children treated for three to five years with this sublingual therapy. All had peanut allergies. Of the 37 kids who completed the study, two in every three could now consume 750 milligrams (0.03 ounce) or more of the peanut allergen. Kim, whose center has helped conduct studies for DBV and Aimmune (among other companies), reported the findings last November in the Journal of Allergy and Clinical Immunology.

Additional experimental treatments block other parts of the immune response to allergens. Some act together with oral therapy, allowing fewer allergic reactions during therapy. Others supply helpful gut microbes that seem to guard against food allergies. And one company is developing a toothpaste to treat peanut allergy.

In the end, each family must decide whether to seek an emerging treatment or stick with just avoiding exposure to the sensitizing foods. Treatments require diligence. They’re not yet widely available. And they don’t always work. But if the allergy is unbearable, trying a new treatment might prove worth the time and risk. Clearly, concludes Stukus, the Ohio doctor, “food-allergy management is not one-size-fits-all.”

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