#as a complete teetotaller

[jikangairodo]

hc + collection

nanami doesn't actively collect anything apart from books. he has been buying them for years now. mostly because someone recommended a title. sometimes because he has seen it advertised in bookstores or papers and it sounds interesting. e-books exist and would be far more suitable for his lifestyle but there's something very nostalgic and whimsical about a physical book. it's a tangible experience; flipping through pages, feeling the texture of paper in his hands, trying to smooth out the cracks of a spine on a novel that's well-read and loved.

he does have a few varieties of wine and whiskey in the liquor cabinet. when he visits a new place for a mission, he'll add another bottle or two to his burgeoning collection. but when these bottles are drained dry, he doesn't go out of his way to replace them. and he doesn't feel the need to have every single variety. its an ever evolving collection and sometimes, depending on how things are that week, its rather thin. he also has many, many varieties of spices in his kitchen cabinet from all over the world.

[amplexadversary]

Adding to the above, level 4 would also presumably cover the below situation described by tumblr user prokopetz:

This would apply to fandom's love for flipping the genres of works, ie.

How much information do we really have about how [minor horror character] would run a business? What about how [mom from a sitcom] would try to get out of Raccon City before the zombies catch up? You're going to have to make up some of the details out of whole cloth.

It would also cover extremely mundane things that simply never came up, like

What is the go-to drink order of [older brother of main character in a PG-13 show] at a bar?

it came to my realization that 99% of my fandom related headaches would be cured if everyone understood this

[delphi-shield]

instant connection .ᐟ.ᐟ

di!leon x reader - long-distance relationship - part 1

next part

leon's a liar.

he doesn't mean to be. he tells you he works in security because it's easier than explaining the shitshow that is the DSO. you'll ghost him in a few messages anyway - and if you don't, he'll do the honors.

leon. 6'0''. works in security at no. undecided on kids. doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, long-term relationship, open to short. his first picture is of him throwing a peace sign to the camera, hair immaculate. (he'd had to crop out the hideous monster, a writhing mass of flesh and teeth, and now bullets. leon had realized very quickly that most of his selfies were ones he sent to hunnigan and ranged from drowned cat couture, 'forgot my umbrella today' to 'i'll help you train if you want to be a field agent, you're missing out', encouragement in the same frame as his latest monstrosity.)

the only thing completely true on his profile is his name and his status as a non-smoker and newly minted teetotaler. (according to his sobriety chip, he hasn't touched a drink in eight months. he keeps it in the same pocket he used to stash his flask in.) he's probably six foot in his shoes, he figures. that's only a half lie. 'undecided' should be 'unlikely', but that hadn't been an option in the drop down menu. his therapist says he needs to keep himself open to happiness, not to hold his dreams under water and drown them the moment he dares to have hope. it sounds kind of like bullshit, but undecided is the closest he's letting himself get to optimism for the time being. it's the same deal with long-term, open to short - blind optimism undercut by what he knows life has in store for him.

companionship isn't in the cards for him, not in any meaningful way, and that's fine. you get used to it after a while. it dulls out, gets hazy, only really creeps in on lazy weekends when he leaves the window cracked, swept in on sweet-smelling spring breezes.

it's one of those days when he opens his dating app to review his scant few likes. he clears the cobwebs from his profile only often enough to keep it active (there's that hope again). activity was few and far between, usually saved up to have claire or hunnigan go through his options and point out red flags that he would gladly sail right past - but that day, a cavern had opened in his chest. he only knew how to fill it with validation.

you were half-way across the goddamn country. you'd probably liked him weeks ago when you were passing through. seemed like a safe enough bet. more than likely, you'd never respond. even if you did, this would never work out. the distance was crazy.

so of course he messages you.

all right, what's wrong with you?

kind of a weird thing to say to a stranger, but you take it in stride and turn the question back on him when you respond an hour and a half later, the notification so surprising to him that he has to reel back through your profile to see what he's actually dealing with.

the distance makes it safe. there's a buffer between you. unspoken, mutual understanding that this is impractical and a waste of time.

the messages get more frequent. the stilted conversation melted to daily updates, and he'd exchanged phone numbers with you out of convenience. the app was a pain in the ass. he didn't want to get guff for being on a dating app during work hours, but texts were easily hand-waved. daily pictures escalated to weekly calls, which mutated into scheduled movie nights. there were a host of classics he needed to show you. his contribution to society was making one more person culturally conscious of leon s. kennedy's greatest hits.

leon remembers exactly where he was when you'd sleepily confessed that you weren't talking to anyone else. posted up in a hotel in belgium, getting ready for his operation. it was the middle of the night for you. the day loomed ahead of him, loaded with hostility and viscera. you were half asleep. he could have told you anything and you would have hummed and forgot it, nestled into your pillow. he tells you the truth instead, that he'd deleted the app you'd met on, that you're the only one he's talking to as well. it's the closest to commitment he can do and you take that promise to your dreams.

since then, he warns you when he'll be away for a 'business conference', unlikely to respond.

(conference sucked, he messages you from his hospital bed. he's fresh off assignment chest wrapped tight in bandages. he'll be out in a few hours. nothing serious. part of him aches to reassure you about something you didn't even know you had to worry about. execs tried to eat me alive out there.)

leon realizes he's fucked when he pays more attention to you, pinned to the top right corner of his laptop, than the cheesy horror-comedy you'd picked out for movie night. one hand itches for the bottle and the other itches for you, imagining what it would feel like with your weight dipping the mattress next to him, how his hand might fit against the arc of your hip - the movie on the big screen, not his laptop, still ignored in favor of watching you.

"are you even paying attention?" your voice crackles over the speaker, competing with the honking of a clown nose. he's lost the plot of the movie, doesn't quite understand where all the clowns came from (outer space, he thinks, but that would be ridiculous). he's too busy replaying your voice in his head, imagining it slower, sleepier, pressed into his shoulder.

"yeah, of course."

"uh-huh," you hum doubtfully.

you encourage him to pay attention to the next scene, pointing as if that will do anything when there's so many miles between you. something about the practical effects. he tries, honest to god, but his eyes keep drifting up to you.

he's not a monster. he waits til the movie is over to spring his stupid idea on you. leon respects the sanctity of film, the intimacy of showing your favorites with another person and the anxious hope that they'll understand the piece of you you're trying to share with them.

but he can't get the idea out of his head, and he'll make it up to you with a thorough analysis of the movie next time you have a movie date because if he doesn't say this now he's going to pussy out.

"listen, i was thinking," he ruminates, taking his time to chew his words. plenty of time to back out. leon's grown good at identifying what sort of anxiety is brewing in his gut - perks of the job - and he knows he'll kick himself if he back out now.

"that's rare."

"hilarious. i'm serious, i've been thinking. i've got some time off built up. if i don't use it by the end of the year, they don't pay it out. company's a bunch of cheap asses."

he's talking in circles and you've already reached the ending. he leans a little closer to the screen, hopes the look in your eye is glee and not fear.

"so..." leon trails off. plenty of room to back out. if you don't grasp this he'll just ask for travel tips and lick his wounds somewhere warm and tropical.

but you don't offer that. you sit up a little straighter. he swears that's a smile that you're fighting to keep down. "so...how soon are you thinking?"

casual. nice.

"as soon as possible." less casual. shit. "i was thinking a week. is that--?"

"that's great. can you let me know the dates?"

"yeah. yeah, of course."

this is going too well. too smoothly.

leon takes a breath, combs his fingers through his hair.

"we are talking about me coming to visit, right?"

you laugh at him. he's never been so happy to be laughed at.

"yeah, leon. you're coming to visit."

"just making sure."

it's impractical. it's unlikely. his therapist is going to have a field day next session. he still hasn't figured out what to do when you find out that 'security' had been a very misleading description of his work, or when you figure out that he's only 5'10'' on a good day. none of it is fair to you, he realizes, but booking his flight is his first step in trying to do right by you.

"i'll pick you up from the airport," you insist.

"i want a sign with my name on it."

"i'll put 'kennedy' on it and wear a suit and sunglasses so people think you're a big deal."

"i kind of am a big deal."

you roll your eyes. "oh, my mistake."

if only you knew that was the truth.

dividers from @/adornedwithlight

[lackadaisycats]

Does Rocky drink? I might be forgetting a moment from the comic, but I just realized I don’t think I’ve ever seen him have alcohol. Would the ensuing chaos simply be too much for the world (considering the effects of syrup) or is it a “if I take any of your hard-earned liquor it would be an act of betrayal” thing? Or does he drink and I’m just completely forgetting? This is such a trivial question but it’s been plaguing my mind all day help 😭

Despite his line of work, you could say he's a teetotaler. He wouldn't drink any of what he considers Mitzi's inventory even if he did partake, though. And he is pretty judgmental of Wick's frequent presence at the bar, but it's not exactly because he objects to drinking on principle (or he'd take issue with the entire band). He has sampled alcohol before, but it definitely doesn't give him the same kind of high that a syrup-filled morning coffee does.

His abstinence is mostly to do with past experience.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

Do you think Harry will ever recover his reputation - or at least what the palace created for him? It just seems such a stark contrast between real RF engagements and what they put out. William just carries himself like a serious and relatable person, which sends a very powerful message.

Nope.

The only ways Harry can get some aspect of his reputation back are to 1) leave Meghan, 2) complete rehab for addiction issues and become a teetotaler, and 3) actual, hard, real work - bread and butter engagements in the Princess Anne tradition. All three need to happen and *maybe* Harry can get his approval ratings up into the 50s or 60s in about 10ish years or so from leaving Meghan.

Harry is never going to get approval ratings back in the 90s again and he’s never going to have his pre-Meghan (or pre-Megxit) reputation back. The media will have a short memory and they’ll be the first to forgive Harry, but the general public has a much, much longer memory. They’ll remember what he did to The Queen, Prince Philip, and William long after the press has forgotten, and that’ll be reflected in his ratings and reputation.

But I’m skeptical that Harry can do those three things. I can see him leaving Meghan and I can see him doing rehab, especially if it’s a requirement to come back in on the family side, but I can’t see him picking up Anne’s kind of workload of exclusively bread-and-butter-engagements. He wants exactly what William has, which is military engagements, state visits, and signature/niche charity work that lets him travel abroad, look busy, take credit, and seem important. He doesn’t actually want to *be* busy and *do* work.

He didn’t in 2015/2016 before Meghan came along. He didn’t before Megxit (and in fact, the pre-Megxit era was when his desire to be equal to William really amped up). He didn’t after Megxit, and he won’t post-Meghan.

But of course, William is the linchpin here. If William forgives Harry and William lends Harry his PR magic (which he did pre-Meghan in the Cambridge+Harry trio era), then Harry could probably get part of his reputation back. The public holds William’s actions and what William says in really high esteem, to where a great majority of them take their cues from him. If William takes Harry back, then the public will take Harry back.

And personally, I think there’s no chance there. William might allow Harry back, but he’s not letting Harry back fully in. That bridge is well and truly burned, and I think William’s reckoning with Kate’s health crisis, and Charles’s cancer, has made him totally reevaluate everything. I feel William is more fully aware of what is truly important to his family and his future and in the revised priorities of his future monarchy, what his brother wants (or needs) no longer has a part.

[shelyue99]

During my time at OCS one of the officer candidates caught my attention. Lewis Nixon was the son of privilege and wealth. Born September 30, 1918, Nixon was the grandson of the last man to design a battleship as an individual. Educated at Yale and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, "Nix" was far more educated than most of the members of the class. A world traveler, he returned to the family-run Nixon Nitration Works, a converted industry that manufactured cellulose nitrate to be used in tubing for pens, pencils, sheets for playing cards, and covers for eyeglass frames. Nixon entered military service at Fort Dix, New Jersey, and completed basic training at Camp Croft. Nixon was a hard drinker, a free spirit who enjoyed the wild life and partied with the best of them.

On the surface no two individuals were more diametrically opposed in temperament than Nixon and I. I was a confirmed teetotaler and never swore. I preferred a quiet evening in the barracks to the nightlife of Columbus, Georgia, or neighboring Phenix City, Alabama. Despite the differences in lifestyle, I sensed we shared mutual feelings and ways of looking at life. I could understand him and help him understand me, as well as understand himself. Our friendship evolved naturally, and he soon became my closest friend.

Lewis Nixon was the finest combat officer with whom I served under fire. He was utterly dependable and totally fearless.

/

My friend Nixon died in January 1995, and Grace asked me to give the eulogy at his funeral, which I did. Also in attendance were Clarence Hester and Bob Brewer. In my remarks, I made a point of quoting Grace, whose love and care had kept Nix alive for many years. In her many letters and Christmas cards, Grace's message was always the same: “Lewis is so brave; he never complains; he always has a smile for me whenever I come into his room—and that just makes it all worthwhile.”

Seven years later, Grace Nixon joined us in Los Angeles for the presentation of the Emmy for Best Documentary.

—How Dick Winters introduced Nix and described about the eulogy in his memoir Beyond Band of Brothers.

[luetta]

it's 2024. it's time to get rid of the completely unrealistic vampire stereotype of the elegant and regel lord or or lady, sulking in their gothic castle, seducing milfy widows with century old wine. it's a harmful image which just makes vampires feel bad about themselves for no reason. like, who tf is owning a mansion in this day and age?? most vampires i know still live with their parents and have crippling social anxiety. they are not picking nobody up from the local queer club. and what about teetotalers? aromantics? vampires who like brutalism architecture instead? the archaic and outdated dracula model needs to be thrown out and replaced what's actually representative. vampires in their pajamas leaping out from the shadows and ripping your throat with makeshift talons so that there's no awkward small talk before they starts gnawing and suckling on your lifeless wounds. on the night before their big uni exam.

[ugh-yoongi]

Can I request for the Yoongi drabble event a scenario like meeting an old high school crush at a reunion. Thank you and also wishing a happy birthday to Bee!

thank you so much for the request! not sure this is exactly what you had in mind, but i hope you enjoy it anyway!

also gonna plug one of my all-time favorite fics to further scratch your high school reunion min yoongi itch: a love that endures by @cinnaminsvga ♡

unsaid

pairing: yoongi x gn!reader genre: high school reunion au, estranged best friends to lovers, fluff warnings: reader has misanthrophic and illegal tendencies, mentions of alcohol, drug use (weed), swearing, yoongi has a thing against accountants, vague american setting just so the things i say make sense, unedited. rating: mature i guess? wordcount: 1k listen to: unsaid by flor

it's bee's birthday! send me yoongi requests and/or fic recs!

You’re too old for this kind of shit.

You’d known exactly what you’d signed up for. A ten-year high school reunion doesn’t leave much room for interpretation, so you’re not exactly surprised, you’re just tired. It’s been hours of playing politics, playing pretend. Smiling at people whose names you wouldn’t be able to remember with a gun to your head as they talk endlessly about their marriages, their kids, their cushy jobs.

The pictures are the worst part.

There’s only so many different ways you can ooh and ahh over a fucking goldendoodle.

And of course—of course you had to elect a complete teetotaler as your class president, so it’s the Prohibition Era all over again even though you’re twenty-eight years old and alcohol has been legal again since 1933.

Fuck, you really need to get out of here.

Someone’s at your side showing you another picture of a wrinkled newborn. Karma is real and this is it, you think. When you die and inevitably go to hell, it’s going to be full of people showing you pictures on cracked iPhone screens. Dogs with cloudy eyeballs, unfocused pictures taken on cruise ships, kids with chocolate smeared on their faces, golf trips. How much of this can a person conceivably take? Surely there’s a limit.

Wordlessly, you abandon the person to your right. Don’t bother excusing yourself, because you haven’t seen these people in ten years and you’re going to make it twenty with no issue, and push your way through the crowd. Sparser now than it had been an hour ago, because all the people with sense did their rounds and bailed as soon as they realized it was a non-alcoholic event.

You’ve got to admit: even if your class president is a teetotaler, they picked a good venue.

From where you stand, the city sparkles below you. The summer breeze is cool on your skin, wraps around you like a safety blanket, and maybe you hadn’t had the good sense to leave earlier, but you’re nothing if not a pre-planner. So you rifle through your bag, let out a quiet hurrah of triumph when you spot your lighter and the joint you’d rolled, and it’s stuck between your lips and lit in a nanosecond.

“Feel like sharing?”

You startle. Swear as you fumble and drop your lighter. You’d know that voice anywhere, because it’s been ten years and it still sounds the same. A little rougher around the edges, but that’s to be expected with the passage of time. “It’s been ten years, Min Yoongi. I don’t know where you’ve been.”

“Is that a no?”

You shrug. Hand the joint over. Try to ignore how familiar this feels. “Can’t believe you showed up to this thing.”

“Me neither,” he retorts, words jumbled together. He flicks the lighter once, twice, and then there’s a spark and a flame. He takes a hit, holds it, blows the smoke into the night. “Thought maybe you’d show up, though. Looks like I was right.”

“That seems a bit drastic. You could’ve added me on Facebook like a normal person.”

He snorts. Rolls his eyes. “Do I seem like the Facebook type?” Takes another hit.

“You seem like the type to smoke all my fucking weed. I said I’d share, not do charity work.”

Yoongi’s laugh is a little condescending. Might even sound cruel if he were capable of it. “Wow. You haven’t changed a bit, huh?”

How would you know, you want to say, we haven’t spoken in ten years. But then Yoongi’s mean little laugh morphs into something softer. A smile. “Thank god. I thought you’d show up with a ring on your finger and three kids and be, like, a fuckin’ accountant or something.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” You take the joint when he hands it back. “What’s wrong with accountants?”

He ignores your question, just lets the two of you exist alongside one another. The city is always loud, but it’s peaceful from where you are, passing a joint back and forth with a person you used to know better than you knew yourself. A person who’d left at the first opportunity and never looked back.

A person you spent a lot of time mourning, both because you missed him and because there was so much left unsaid.

“I think I used to be in love with you back in high school,” you say, because you’re not sure if you’ll get another chance. Ten years ago you’d thought you had all the time in the world. “And then you left and I was kind of a mess for a while, so I think I have changed. I have trauma now.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah, you’re full of shit. You’ve always had trauma.”

“That’s not very nice.” You pout.

“I seem to recall more than one night out with you that nearly ended with both of us in the back of a cop car.”

You shrug. “Wasn’t much else to do around here. At least I got it out of my system early.”

“Mm, yeah. Think I was in love with you back then, too, though.”

A disbelieving laugh tumbles out of you. Figures. There’s a lot you’ve never managed to get right, so you aren’t surprised to have another to add to the list. Maybe the two of you would’ve been able to overcome a year or two, five at the most, but ten is… ten is a lot. Ten feels insurmountable. The Yoongi beside you is not the Yoongi you knew back then, has changed in all the same ways you have.

A spark: “You wanna get out of here?”

“And go where?” you ask.

And a flame: “Wherever you want.”

[tossacointoyourhotmess]

Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols: 26th August 1845 - 31st August 1888

Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols was born Mary Ann Walker in Soho on the 26th of August 1845. She was the second of three children born to Edward Walker and his wife Caroline. Few details remain of her childhood years but what is known is that by 1851, she had been christened.

At the age of 18, Mary married William Nichols, a machinist, on the 16th of January 1864 at Saint Bride's Parish Church. After their marriage the couple resided at 30-31 Bouverie Street before moving to live with Mary's father at 131 Trafalgar Street. The couple went on to have five children together: Edward John, born 1866, Percy George, born 1868, Alice Esther, born 1870, Eliza Sarah, born 1877, and Henry Alfred, born 1879.

On the 6th of September 1880, the family moved into their own home, 6 D-Block, Peabody Buildings, paying a rent of 5s. 9d. They lived there for only a short time before they separated under disputed circumstances. Nichol's father claimed that that William had left his daughter after having an affair with the nurse who helped in the delivery of their final child. William maintained that no such affair occurred, and the split was due to troubles caused by Mary's drinking. He and four of the children moved into an address near Old Kent Road. He sent her an allowance of five shillings a week until 1882 when he was informed that she was working as a prostitute. When authorities attempted to collect the money on her behalf, William informed them that she was earning her own money through prostitution, that she had deserted him and her children, and that she was living with another man. Law stated that if a woman was making money from 'illicit means,' Mary no longer received maintenance from her estranged husband.

Many of Mary's movements during the intervening years are unknown. We know she resided at Lambeth Workhouse in 1881 and left on 31st May that same year, and that she returned on 24th April 1882. It is also known that she lived for some months with her father until an argument caused her to leave in 1883. After this point she was in and out of workhouses, attempting to earn a living on the streets, and frequently spent this money on alcohol. In 1887 she had begun a relationship with Thomas Dew, but this had fallen apart by October. In December 1887, she was homeless and began sleeping on the streets near Trafalgar Square though through a clearance of this area, she found herself back at Lambeth Workhouse where she stayed for only two weeks.

Her movements in 1888 are more documented. The matron of Lambeth Workhouse found employment for Mary as a domestic servant in the home of Mr. and Mrs. Cowdry in Wandsworth.

Nichols wrote a letter to her father shortly after taking this position in which she wrote the following:

"I just write to say you will be glad to know that I am settled in my new place and going on all right up to now. My people went out yesterday, and have not returned, so I am in charge. It's a grand place inside, with trees and gardens back and front. All has been newly done up. They are teetotalers, and religious, so I ought to get on. They are very nice people, and I have not too much to do. I hope you are all right and the boy has work. So goodbye for the present. From yours truly, Polly."

When Edward attempted to respond to this communique, he received word that Mary had absconded from the premises, taking with her clothing that amounted to £3 10s. By that summer, she was staying at a common lodging house at 18 Thrawl Street before relocating to 56 Flower and Dean Street on 24th August.

We come, then, to the 30th of August and the last instances Mary was seen alive. She was seen at 11pm walking along Whitechapel Road before visiting the Frying Pan public house, complete with a new black velvet bonnet that she was rather proud of. She stayed there until just after midnight and after leaving, had returned to her lodging house at Flower and Dean Street by 1:20am, August 31st. She was informed by the deputy housekeeper that she needed the 4d for her bed and upon response that she didn't have the money, she was ordered from the house, with an unconcerned Nichols responding quite proudly that "I'll soon get my doss money. See what a jolly bonnet I've got now." She left to work the streets, confident that her bonnet would attract clients with ease.

Emily Holland saw Nichols at 2:30am and saw that the woman was noticeably drunk and slumped against a nearby wall. Holland, concerned for the woman, attempted to convince her to return to the lodging house but Nichols refused. It seems her hopes that the bonnet would attract clients were met as she responded that she'd "had my lodging money three times today, and I have spent it." The two women parted ways, with Nichols heading off towards Whitechapel Road with the intention of securing her lodging house money. She would be found dead an hour later, the first victim of Jack the Ripper.

(Excerpt from Chapter 4: The Autumn Begins from Bloody Autumn: The Reign of Jack the Ripper by Victoria Strachan)

Learn more

[stephofromcabin12]

What are your thoughts on a Dionysus kid who’s opposite or slightly opposite of a stereotypical Dionysus kid? Don’t get me wrong, they’re cool, and I like it, but imagine the dynamic it would be.

One who hates alcohol, parties, and loud noises who prefers literature, plays, and being alone.

My OC… wouldn’t hate alcohol(except she’s underage anyway) and parties, but definitely loves literature and plays and likes to be alone sometimes. But when she gets excited over something, she’s all in. All energy, and it’s hard to keep up with her. But she also has a temper, which usually includes shouting and pure rage that scares the crap out of people. She’ll act calm for a second, then go off.

But I do like the opposite traits thing, but I’m not sure how to put more of that into my character. Ideas? Please? if you don’t want to it’s okay:D

I have a whole thing with demigods who don’t fit their cabin’s stereotypes, bc statistically it’s bound to happen that a cabin 7 camper rocks up and is completely tone deaf, or a great musician but has zero aim (literally someone make a blind apollo kid who’s like freaking Beethoven but for obvious reasons cant be an archer)

Similarly we have (and I promise I’ll get to cabin 12)

- Hades kid who’s terrified of death. Absolutely horrified of the idea of skeletons and dark spaces and hates coldness. Best of luck with the existential crisis. Also just Hades kids who don’t dress in black, don’t avoid the sun and generally don’t subscribe to the whole “child of death” thing — cause they’re not dead. Heck. Their dad isn’t dead— he’s like the ceo of death. It would be like if their dad ran nasa and they walked around in merch 24/7.

- Ares kid with zero strength. Also refuses to gain strength, absolutely not. Coaches don’t play. Except they dont even want to coach, they just wanna do other stuff. Also Ares kid who used to have anger issues but got therapy and now don’t really respond to the adrenaline rush of it all. Even better; somehow was raised in a pacifist household and finds their brawling, jock siblings repulsive and barbaric.

- Demeter kid who loves meat and processed snacks and doesn’t like vegetables. It’s bound to happen. Also can’t keep a houseplant alive if they were paid a million drachmas. Pollen allergies.

- Aphrodite kid who wears the same clothes constantly. Allergic to make-up/has sensory issues around it. Same with perfume (since the cabin canonically smells perfumed which is my personal nightmare but nevermind that). Also aro/ace cabin 10 kids. Cabin 10 kids that take after the spartan Aphrodite Areia, who everyone assumed were Ares kids until they were claimed.

- Hephaestus kid that’s clumsy and has hand tremors. Hephaestus kid that cannot sit still long enough to make stuff. Hephaestus kid with the inability to imagine things, which makes ideating difficult.

- Hermes kids who are lawful goods. Hermes kids who are homebodies. Hermes kids who are also clumsy and can’t be stealthy. Hermes kids who only use their sleight of hand to do magic tricks. No not the cool kind. They can do the quarter thing and some card tricks. That’s it.

And finally:

- Dionysus kids who are teetotalers. No, they didn’t “overdo it” and reform. They just never liked alcohol. Dionysus kids who can’t tolerate alcohol even if they wanted to. Dionysus kids who are not social, and shy. Dionysus kids who don’t like to eat. Worst nightmares include social gatherings and festive get-togethers. The words “mixed seating arrangements” gives them cold shivers. Dionysus kids who are dog people. Dionysus kids who don’t like grape flavored stuff. Health nuts. Hates movies and doesn’t really watch tv. They’ve never set foot in a theatre. Couldn’t name a play if someone held a gun to their head. “Who’s Josh Groban?”

The rest of cabin 12 and a few cabin 7 kids, in unison: “‘Who’s Josh Groban?’ Kill yourself!”

(That’s from glee, clarifying bc glee is now an old show and I’m not sure how many younger people have seen it/remember it)

I think it’s a good idea! I think there’s a million ways a person could turn out in each cabin, and Dionysus’ cabin is no exception. Sky’s the limit when you’re writing, esp with fanfic; do whatever you feel is cool!

[historia-vitae-magistras]

🎮 🎻 🚫 🍔 for my north american trio

🎮 VIDEO GAME CONTROLLER — what are three of your OC's favourite hobbies?

Mari - I've always had a very enlightenment-era baby intellectual bent to her. So, reading and participating in literary culture and criticism over time returned to Juana Inés de la Cruz. There's a mix of her old-school education and folk culture in her love and talent for art. She's got a real knack for beekeeping, too.

Alfred - Lives and dies by his love of math and engineering; he was getting twitchy with the lack of Calculus right before Isaac Newton got on that shit finally, so he became an eternal tinkerer. He loves a good drive and a sky-watching session.

Matt - Woodworking, gardening, hiking.

🎻 VIOLIN — does your oc play any instruments? What is their skill level (beginner/intermediate/advanced/virtuoso/etc)?

In childhood, Maria played the vihuela and baroque guitar and later picked up the bajo de uña and the resulting base guitar. I don't know why I associate her with a drumset, but I like that mental image for some reason, too. She's excellent on all of them.

Alfred is one of those types who skipped from hobby to hobby to hobby as a child and has picked up practically every instrument at some point or another. He played the fucking church organ sometimes, especially when he was feeling weird about religion.

Matt - He's pretty goddamn good on a fiddle, and he can hold a tune, but most of his music is meant for some type of work and the folk scenes are pretty disparate so it's kind of hard to nail down a specifically Canadian musical instrument that hasn't been by and large surpassed by the US.

🚫 PROHIBITED — does your oc drink/smoke? Do they do it regularly, or is it more on occasion or for special events?

Mari - She does mostly beer with some harder alcohol, I think. Not very high consumption; she strikes me as more of a social drinker on special occasions. She can party, but I think she has some pretty hard limits on anything more than the very mainstream.

Alfred - He flies between teetotaller and binge drinker, like that with most things. He can go years with just drinking, but my man likes his stimulants, alas. But the very functional kind. He can

Matt - He would rather not be sober in general.

🍔 HAMBURGER — is your oc good at cooking? are they good at baking? Which one do they prefer?

Mari is pretty good at both but doesn't do it as much as people might think. She's been a very urbanized society for a very long time and various kinds of communal cooking. She knows the best places for Pescado a la talla or who makes the best tlacoyos in the tianguis nearest her primary home but all over the place. I don't know if she'd prefer one or the other. A thought I had is that some of her best cooking exploits are for herself. She participates in a communal culture where cooking and baking are the realm of women in many ways, so being alone in the kitchen and experimenting with her own arroz con leche or barbacoa varieties is an almost self-care ritual she holds.

Alfred - Def more of a cook than a baker. He can bake when he wants to; it's just following the steps of a recipe, but he could be more motivated by domestic things for their own sake. He will cook and bake when people are over, and people are often surprised at the quality of what makes it onto the table. He can eat seven-layer salad and jello monstrosities at a Southern or Midwest table or pull out a Napa Valley salad and wine pairing much to the ire of the old world. Food is one of the few things his hyper-individualism has yet to completely destroy.

Matt - Surprisingly good baker and cook, but not really anything anyone would write home about. Except maybe bread, he bakes a lot of bread and has had a freakishly high consumption of it since the 18th century, so archeologists can tell the bones from the New Englanders who ate a lot more corn. Not exactly internationally renowned for anything except poutine and weed scones, though, rest in pieces. If you've ever eaten anything you thought was pretty good at the time but will never ever think about again, that's Matt in the kitchen, except when he busts out the rye bread but even then no one will really believe he made it.

Character Details Ask Game

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in 1916 – Easter Rising | Irish patriots, Michael Mallin, Eamonn Ceannt, Cornelius “Con” Colbert and Sean Heuston are shot dead in Kilmainham Gaol.

Executions of Easter Rising Leaders continue by a British regime in Stonebreakers’ Yard at Kilmainham Gaol, completely insensitive to the fact it was creating numerous martyrs and generating an emotional calling cry for Irish rebellion that would culminate in the War of Independence. Shot dead on this day: Michael Mallin | Born in Co Dublin, he was a music teacher, devout Catholic and teetotaler.…

[mthollowell-writes]

Tag: OC in 15

I'm still catching up on tags and two people tagged me for this one too! Thanks so much to @rmgrey-author and @duckingwriting! You can find their posts here and here!

Gently tagging: @pb-dot, @axl-ul, @hyba, @coffeewritesfiction, @wintherlywords, @astras-rambles, @asterhaze, @imbrisvastatio, and an open tag for those who would like to participate!

I'm breaking the rules a little and will provide 8 lines each for 2 of my OCs. An OC(s) in 16, if you will (dang, ruined the flow). I'll choose the two I've written for so that means Mariela and September take center stage again.

Fun Fact: Two of these lines are in conversation with each other. I put them under the same number in the lists below.

Mariela:

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“My reputation speaks for itself.”

“Are they worried you’re giving up a lucrative marketing career to become a hack journalist in a small town newspaper? [...] “Dang. Still just me then.”

“I’m going to assume that was the carbon monoxide talking and let you try again, September.”

“This here is the Sisyphean task you inflicted on our poor intern that drove him to hopelessness and despair."

“I know you did not call me out here to move some twigs around,” Mariela said in disbelief.

“We tell the news, as completely as we can, and let our readers decide for themselves. We shouldn’t pick and choose what we report based on personal feelings.”

“Because the victims’ families deserve to know what happened that night. Because everyone needs to know if it could happen again."

September:

“I’m always needed somewhere." September pinched his nose before dropping his hand again. “This beast never sleeps.”

“Well, you’re laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think,” he said with a chuckle as he perused the messages again in good humor. “Is this what people call ‘trolling’ nowadays.”

“The truth isn’t that simple, Mariela. It just shows you how dirty the water is and the true depth of it may be forever out of reach."

“And why’s that, sweetheart? Should I put up the schnapps so I don’t offend the teetotalers as well?”

“Why don’t you lower the gun, Barney, and we’ll both forget this happened.”

“I don’t need your help,” September broke in acidly. “I did you the favor, remember?

“Your secrets are safe with me.”

“I need a smoke."

For those who read to the end, the number is 4. Just reverse the order presented.

[gentil-minou]

Xiantober Day 5 - Innkeeper!Xian

Red Ribbon Tavern was known for two things:

Its attractive flirty owner with a grin that drew customers in and a hand that kept the drinks flowing.

And also said innkeeper who kept his patrons entertained with magical feats.

When Wei Wuxian initially inherited the inn from his adoptive sister, now living with her (unworthy) husband a few villages over, he'd been skeptical.

After all, Jiang Yanli was known throughout the area as one of the best cooks in the land. And Wei Wuxian, well...

His food was known to give you food poisoning.

He'd lucked out when he hired Wen Ning and Wen Qing to help him run the business. Wen Ning, despite his tendency to hide like a turtle when someone so much as looks at him, thrives in the kitchen where he can cook in peace.

Meanwhile, Wen Qing understands the less fun parts of owning an inn, like logistics and bookeeping. Their guests only flinch a little bit when she glares at them (it's not her fault; she's trying! she even smiles now! with the glare but still) because they know her rooms are tidy.

So where does this leave Wei Wuxian? Well, he of course heads the bar in front and draws patrons in. He has a winning smile for just that reason and could flirt with a tree if he tries hard enough.

Except, like his cooking, Wei Wuxian cannot make a drink to save his life.

Pouring ale straight from a keg? Easy. Joke around with customers and make them feel welcome? Heck, it's what he was born to do. But make a tasty drink that will have folks sing his praises far and wide? Well. Nope.

So, as much as he and the Wens are trying, it's not enough.

They're deep in the red, and they need to make enough to take care of Granny Wen and send little A-Yuan off to school soon. They need something, fast.

That's when Wei Wuxian realized: magic tricks. Perfect.

And sure, TECHNICALLY magic is illegal, but who's gonna tell?

Someone does, apparently. Even though Wei Wuxian was able to pass his magically conjured bunny off as a pet he totally didn't create from nothing and he sparkles as tricks of light, someone apparently wised up enough to contact the authorities. Probably that sniveling Su guy. Ugh.

He doesn't get a heads up when one of the Lans, famous for upholding the king's justice, to appear at Wei Wuxian's tavern.

They're not hard to spot after all, those pristine white robes impossibly clean even after what must have been hours of travel.

Wei Wuxian groans into his hands, picturing the disappointment on Jie's face when she hears he'd lost her inn. He glares at the teetotaler Lan's back, wondering how much trouble he'd get in if he beat him up instead.

Except then the Lan turns around, and Wei Wuxian is speechless

The Lan inspector is breathtaking, unfairly gorgeous, hair flowing straight down his back and cheekbones Wei Wuxian could cut himself on. He wants to try, frankly. He kind of wants to bite them.

But it's the eyes that get him, lit like the sun. Impossible. And maybe magical.

There aren't many folks around who practice magic these days, but like recognizes like. This is not an ordinary Lan. This is someone with magic blood.

The (incredible, gorgeous, so sexy like how) man stares at him, expression completely neutral, flat like a brick wall.

Wei Wuxian wants to see him break. He wants to crack him like an egg and see the runny yolk of his insides, or something. He's not making sense anymore, but can anyone blame him?? Have they seen this guy????

Wei Wuxian straightens up, adds a little something extra to his grin, turning up the charm as high as it goes as he saunters over to the man. He slinks around tables, twisting in a way he knows will show off the flare of his hips. From the way this guy's eyes catch on the movement, looking down right where Wei Wuxian wants him before he drags his eyes back up, Wei Wuxian is successful.

"Well, hello there. What's a guy like you doing in a place like this?" he says, flirting like his rent's due. He leans over one of the high tables, resting his chin in his hands and fluttering his lashes as he bites his lip.

The guy's expression doesn't change at all, but Wei Wuxian catches the way his eyes flash for just a second. Yep, there's magic in him, even if he has no idea.

He feels giddy. He wants to make this guy come alive. He wants to take him apart. He wants a lot of nonsensical things.

"Lan Wangji, Lieutenant of the King's Special Forces." The way he speaks sends a shiver down Wei Wuxian's spines. He thinks he likes a man in uniform.

"Ooh, such a distinguished patron in my humble little inn? How may this one service you?" His lips curl into a smirk as he says the last few words.

The barest hint of movement, a twitch in Lan Wangji's jaw. Success. "I am here to inspect a claim."

"A claim for what? I've been told many things. I'd be happy to show you, privately, if you'd like. As much as you want to hear." Wei Wuxian slides a hand across the table, ready to trail his fingers up that toned arm to dance on Lan Wangji's shoulders, except the man stiffens and steps back, widening the distance between them. He catches a glimpse of the panic in his expression before the mask slides over him again, and Wei Wuxian can't tell what he's thinking at all.

He blinks, taken aback, and lifts his hands in front of him like he's trying to calm a scared animal. "Whoa sorry, about that. I just meant, I'm happy to help you with your investigation."

The man seems to relax, shoulders dropping, and he says,

"There were reports about the unauthorized used of magic in this establishment. According to Rule 482, magic use outside of medical and military use is prohibited unless under a permit."

In all honesty, Wei Wuxian only paid attention to half that. This guy sounds so sexy.

"Ah but you see, sir, I am nothing but an innocent bartender! I haven't got a clue how to do magic at all!"

Lan Wangji's eyes narrow at him, and he points behind him. Wei Wuxian follows his finger…and shit…

See, Wei Wuxian has magic, like really powerful magic, but he's not the best at controlling it. Especially when his emotions are involved.

So really, he shouldn't be surprised he's somehow managed to conjure a thousand heart shaped butterflies behind him…in front of Lan Wangji

He turns back to Lan Wangji, looking sheepish. "Eheh… I can explain?"

Lan Wangji arches his brow, and waits.

(TBC on Day 14: Bartender)

threadfic here

[girls-band-headcanons]

once while drunk, chisato dyed her whole hair blue and for a whole week, hina called her a third hikawa

Mod Fusion: For that reason, Chisato became a complete teetotaler, much to the dismay of Hina, who found drunk Chisato to be the funniest thing she's seen all month.

[blackbutler-readerinsertsandjunk]

Could you make headcanons for Cheslock in modern times, please? Like, what he usually does after school (or uni), how will he flirt with the person he likes or something like that. I really want to see what he's like in modern times. Thank you 💖🥹

of course, modern AU is always fun! <3

Definitely much more openly punk in the modern era because he doesn’t have to hold himself back. (Not that he isn’t nonconformist in the Victorian era, but.) He’s got several more piercings, a couple more tattoos (in addition to the music note on his ankle, he also has one on his wrist which reads, I can. I will. end of story. and a skull with roses on the opposite forearm), and wears more revealing clothing. It’s all tank tops, jeans, and shorts and he isn’t the least bit ashamed about it. His hairstyle hasn’t much changed, though!

He tends to just hang out in the dorms after he’s done with classes or in between classes. His home is about an hour away from uni, so he’s not usually up for the drive unless it’s a holiday or he really wants to see his mum and sister. Not to mention, his father’s an abusive arse, so there’s no way Cheslock is going to risk that daddy dearest is going to be home when he visits unless he has to. He rooms with other creative types, like upperclassman Gregory Violet, so his flatmates don’t really mind him practicing the violin or other instruments in the dorm.

More than once he’s just decided that, fuck it, he’s learning the material fine in one class that happens to be fairly early in the morning. He’s got notes. He gets all his assignments done, and he can get notes from one of his classmates who’s a morning person if he needs to. And then that day he sleeps till noon and regrets nothing… especially if he happens to have a S/O who slept over so he gets cuddles and possibly morning sex as long as his flatmates aren’t home.

He loves flirting with people, even if he’s not expecting anything serious — if it turns that way, great, but sometimes it’s just fun to flirt without any strings. How he does it varies on what kind of person he’s trying to flirt with, honestly. A fellow music enthusiast will be treated to him playing an upbeat, fun, romantic pop song from his phone in the hopes that they can talk about it. Someone shy will get him making a joke about something nearby, crossing his fingers that he’ll get a laugh out of them. He does tend to be quite cheeky and playful with the way he flirts, regardless. His end goal is always to make someone smile or laugh, so that they associate him with a positive feeling.

… Secretly, or not-so-secretly if he knows someone well, nerds out over video game soundtracks. To prove that fact, he wrote one of his papers on the music of Undertale, complete with him performing a medley of songs on his violin for one of his graded performances. And brought several people who were also familiar with the game to tears during the end where the leitmotifs from “SAVE the World” and “His Theme” came in. Video games are his second passion, so applying his foremost passion of music to them is a winning combination. He can’t just be normal about a good video game soundtrack… even if his friends literally beg him to SHUT UP about it already!!

Not as much of a drinker as one would think. He’s not a teetotaler, he definitely does drink, but throughout his entire university experience, he got drunk maybe three or four times. Something about the feeling of being hammered just doesn’t appeal to him, even though he likes to drink and is fine being a little tipsy. Mainly it’s probably that he doesn’t enjoy the feeling that he’s not in control of himself, so he tries to avoid getting outright drunk. Of course, when he does get drunk… well. Gregory has a video on his phone of an intoxicated Cheslock loudly and publicly singing a stupid love song in the common room, sloppily kissing his S/O and declaring that he “fuckin’ loves ‘em”. And another video of him passed out snoring in his S/O’s lap. Yeah, he’s never living that down.