#in a country where the legal drinking age is EIGHTEEN

[mumblesplash]

TRAGICALLY underappreciated bit i pulled back in australia was when one of the yard podcast guys was aimlessly yanking our entire group around sydney on foot and refusing to tell any of us where we were going so me and a couple others started lagging behind a bit looking grumpy and when joshman came over to play peacekeeper we had pulled up the wikihow page for “mutiny”

[queenofcandynsoda]

Sol Fertilis: Drinking Culture

Alcohol 

Wine and Beer are deeply ingrained into Sol Fertilis' cuisine and culture. As it came from the Ancient Roman Empire, wine is important with Sol Fertilis, mainly its clergy, held it in high regard as it symbolized a connection with the gods, natural instincts, and unity as every rank would drink it together. This also means unity between allies and peace with former adversities. The idiom “sharing the bottle” means a strong bond or a great measure to create an alliance. This comes from how the Unified Amendment Party and the Independent Labor Movement solidified their alliance to create the Progressive Natalist Party when, during the final negotiation, all of them drank from the same bottle of wine. 

Beer is also considered to be important as it represents nutrition, payment, friendships, and hydration. During the Great Economic Collapse, governments created a prohibition and created a high tax on beer since it was very common. When the PNP got elected, they took down the prohibition. As a reward, the PNP gave away beer to their security and workers after a long day of work or took them to beer gardens. This is why beer is often associated with Delta Minuses, Betas, and Gamma Minuses. For May 1st, many workers would celebrate in beer gardens, cider houses, and nightclubs. Once they graduated from the Centers, teenagers would celebrate with their friends with beer.

Alewives and Cup-bearers are important religious roles held by Gamma Minuses as they are a part of the production, transport, and sale of alcohol, primarily wine, and beer.

Legal Drinking Age

In Sol Fertilis, the legal drinking age varies based on which alcohol. For wine with an alcohol content of five percent or lower with a meal, it is ten years old. For a beer with a meal, it is twelve years old. For other fermented drinks with an alcohol content of ten percent and lower with a meal, it is fourteen years old. For wine with an alcohol content of eleven percent and higher or beer without a meal, it is sixteen years old. Distilled alcohol, such as vodka, spirits, gin, rum, and whiskey, is eighteen years old. 

Despite the low drinking age, alcoholism is very low in Sol Fertilis. 

Omegas and female Gammas are only given low and non-alcoholic beer and wine during their heat. They are not allowed to have distilled drinks as well. This is also the case for the Vestals as intoxication would interfere with their work.

For Alpha and Delta students aboard, along with Missionaries, they tend to do “Hello, Sir”. “Hello, Sir” is where a Sol Fertilian minor asked an adult of legal drinking in the host country to purchase alcohol for them. This occurs when the host country’s drinking age is at least 18 for all alcohols. This practice is heavily discouraged by the embassies, ambassadors, Cousins, Aunties, and Grannies. This would lead to criminal charges against the adult and disciplinary action against the minor. In order to combat this, embassies would have a bar for them to drink in as it applies only to Sol Fertilis laws once inside. 

Tourists are reminded of the legal drinking whenever they enter a drinking establishment so they would not be too surprised to see a ten-year-old there. At the same time, children and teenagers are told to never share alcohol with non-Sol Fertilian minors without direct permission.

[briamichellewrites]

39

Brian got his first tattoo. He talked with the artist about the idea he had in his head. What was his idea? He wanted a memorial tattoo for his parents, who died in a drunk driving accident. After pulling out the news report he found online, they looked over it together while coming up with a sketch. An angel wing that would start at his shoulder and go down to his elbow with a multicolored butterfly underneath. The artist would then finish with their names underneath.

It hurt like hell and it took hours to do because he took a couple breaks to keep his arm from getting numb. But it was worth it in the end because it looked so cool! He never met his parents? No, his mother was pregnant with him at the time. The accident caused her to go into labor. She died shortly thereafter from her injuries. His father died almost immediately.

Brad and Mike thought it was a great memorial to his parents. How was his arm? It was still sore. Brad gave him a couple Advil from the medicine cabinet. He took them with a glass of water.

“Don’t sleep on that side. It will cause it to hurt more.”

“I’ll try not to.”

Mike wasn’t interested in tattoos. He liked to look at them but he would never get them himself. Chester and Dave were covered in them and they had different meanings to them. Would he get more? Hell yeah but not for a while. He thought blackout tattoos were cool and he almost got one on his finger but the artist advised him against it because it was his first tattoo and he didn’t want him to regret it later. Maybe in the future.

Since breaking up, Mike and Brad were getting along great! They were putting their son first and he felt like they were a family again. Maybe Mike would move out in the future but for now, he was happy with the arrangement he had with Brad. He and Dave were dating, though they were taking their relationship slowly.

They were not calling each other their boyfriend quite yet because they weren’t ready for that. Brad was going to stay single for a while until he was ready to start dating again. He wanted to be there for Brian and work on his career. They were helping him find a house with the money he got from his inheritance and from the restitution paid to him by the driver who caused the accident.

It was a couple of million dollars. He didn’t want anything too expensive. Just something simple. That worked for them. The legal age to buy a house was eighteen, though he may need a co-singer because it was his first home. The following day, he was going into the studio with Mike. He and the band were going to be taking turns recording their songs. Brian wanted to be an alternative country artist. Why country? He wanted to tell stories like Bruce Springsteen and Johnny Cash.

There was a new country artist he was interested in. Her name was Taylor Swift. He heard her song, Tim McGraw on the radio and he liked her sound. For the past couple of years, he had been working on his album with Mike and Brad. Though progress was slow since he was going through his transition. That was fine. Country music was part of the American Top 40 charts.

He didn’t want to make music about riding in trucks and drinking beer. Instead, he wanted to make music about life and everything going on around him. Whether that was falling in love, finding out who he was and having fun. Typical themes for teenagers.

The band wanted to see his tattoo when he showed up with Mike. It looked so cool! Did it hurt? Fuck yeah! They laughed before he explained it. The butterfly represented heaven, even though he wasn’t religious. Thomas Mathews and Maggie Johnson. Was that where he got his middle name? Yeah. He named himself after his father. It was very well done. How long did it take? It took about eight hours just for the tattooing, with a couple of breaks.

He was at the shop though for about ten hours. They had a break for lunch. Then, he had another break to use the bathroom and to give his arm a rest. He went by himself, but he was keeping his father and Mike informed of where he was. While the artist was setting up, he texted them to let them know it would literally take all day.

“My next tattoo, I’m going to get something small for my wrist to complete the sleeve. Maybe an infinity symbol or something.”

“You have more patience than I do. How the hell did you sit still for that long”, Rob asked.

“I had my iPod and headphones, so I was listening to music.”

“Congratulations. You have proven you can sit still for hours at a time”, Brad joked.

“I was decaffeinated.”

They laughed. As they worked, he was his usual energetic self. Dave could see genuine happiness in him. He heard how upset he had been because of the fighting going on in the house. Mike told him that he had given them an ultimatum – stop fighting or he would be done with them forever. He then clarified that he meant until they got their shit together. Dave thought that was fair. They both agreed that he was more important than being angry at each other.

Selfishly, they didn’t notice how it was affecting him. Despite him telling them over and over to stop putting him in the middle. They thought he was just angry. What they didn’t know was how angry he was. Until they gave him the chance to speak. Yes, he was an adult but it still affected him. It also made them realize what they were teaching him. It was okay to cheat. No, it wasn’t.

They didn’t want him to cheat or be cheated on. Because of him, they apologized to each other for their behavior. He was their son and they were the only parents he knew. Mike had been in his life for about six years. That was long enough to form a father-son relationship. He wanted to have that relationship for the rest of his life. Someday, he would get married and his partner would be his stepparent. He hoped they would love him as much as he did.

“Jack Nicholson is a cool guy. He is one of those guys who can flip a switch and become fucking terrifying. It’s like he goes from a friendly ‘Hi, I’m Jack Nicholson’ to a terrifying ‘I’m going to fucking kill you and make it look like an accident.’”

“What happened between you and Mark Wahlberg”, Mike asked.

They laughed. He told them about playing basketball with him and how they were trash talking each other. It was a lot of fun. Mark was a lot better than he was. He had zero athletic ability. They laughed. Were they done shooting? No, his father was flying to Boston for a few months while he stayed with Mike.

He decided not to go with him because he wanted to work on his album. That was fine with them. Chester asked him if he wanted to hang out. Hell yeah! After working all day, he made plans with Mike before leaving with him. Mike and Dave got back to the house and started making dinner together. Dave was being his usual goofy self to make him laugh. It worked. He told him how adorable he was before they shared a kiss.

@zoeykaytesmom @feelingsofaithless @alina-dixon @fiickle-nia @boricuacherry-blog

[aelin-queen-of-terrasen]

𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝐓𝐰𝐨

full masterlist - fic masterlist

After her successful debut into the ton, Celaena Sardothein was much in demand.

The Hamel townhouse saw a constant stream of callers; many a gentlemen fawned over the charming, eligible heiress and many a visiting lady came with the intention of recruiting this new addition to their circles as a prospective bride to their own brothers and sons. Despite her determination to laugh off compliments and insults alike - or perhaps because of it - it was not long before she was declared at par with the most eligible debutantes of the season. How this distinction pleased the lady herself could not be discerned but regardless of whether or not she liked it, she was the talk of the season and invitations to exclusive events poured in. When she accepted an invite ti the Stanhope's dinner party, the rumor mill worked and it was not long before word reached Lord Fenrys Ashryver.

"This is all pointless," muttered James Galathynius to his cousin with a pinched expression on his face.

Lord Fenrys stared at him through the mirror, sprawled as he was on James' bed.

"Really, Fen," the incensed man tried, "I know how you miss my sister—we all do but I wish you would not raise your hopes again. It is simply not possible—"

"I know the last time we found a lead, it turned out to be a dead end," said Fenrys sharply, "but it's different now. I saw her. I am not so far gone in my grief that I won't recognise the girl whose portrait I see in your father's study every day, even if she has grown up quite a bit."

"She died in the fire."

"How do you know?" The familiar arguement from last week rose to the surface. "It could have been anyone! The anklet we retrieved from the little girl's body was the only evidence of her identity."

"The anklet, a man's body beside the girl's, the warehouse's distance from our estate, it was all too coincidental."

"I think our parents might have been wrong, Jem - it could have been a misunderstanding for all we know," he tried patiently, attempting to keep the frustration with his cousin out of his voice or expression. "There can be no harm in meeting her anyway, she still is the Hamel heir after all and I know you wanted an introduction; once you see her, you will know why I am so sure."

"If you insist, I will meet her," said James. "I fear you are setting yourself up for disappointment."

"I think you will be pleasantly surprised."

James regarded his cousin. "I hate to say this, Fen—"

"Then don't."

"—but it could be an impostor too. My sister had a significant inheritance, and father recently changed his will. Aelin's assets—"

"Aelin's assets, whatever they are, can be nothing compared to the Hamel fortune."

James frowned, knowing he was backed into a corner. "If we are, I should like to inquire into her background as evidence."

Evidence.

Fenrys wondered if he meant evidence against his claims or to support them but he readily agreed that it was the wisest course. Promptly, a note was sent to his solicitor to make discreet inquires about the Hamel business, the owner and his adoptive daughter. The solicitor, Mr Stone, was a competent man and it took less than two hours to provide the basic information: the Hamel's townhouse address, their rumoured income, her dowry and the stories around Miss Sardothein's 'adoption.'

"She isn't Arobynn's adoptive daughter like everyone assumed then?"

Mr Stone said, "Arobynn did adopt her, to be sure, but only on papers. Arobynn found her in the slums of London when she was but five, and persuaded the Rhunns—who have long been his dearest friends and loyal clients—to take her in. By all accounts, it looks like he took an active interest in her education but it was the Rhunns who raised her until Arobynn amassed for himself a big enough fortune, bought an estate or two in the countryside and took her in."

"How old is she now, do you know?"

"The young lady is eighteen or around, sir, though no one can be sure."

Fenrys shot a look at his cousin.

"And what can you tell us about the Rhunns, Mr Stone?" asked James.

"Nothing good, sir."

The cousins shared a look.

"Thomas Rhunn was a country gentleman until he lost his estate in gambling and like. He has been the Hamel Corporations' prime investor since it was founded some twenty years ago—that's where his fortune comes from," said he. "You will be interested in the bank records, sir, I think—he, uh, he gets an yearly sum of five thousand pounds every year from an anonymous account since 1798."

"The year they adopted Miss Sardothein?"

Neither cousin mentioned it was also the year Aelin had 'died.'

Mr Stone went on. "It is my belief, sir, that the money was for raising the young lady - the timing certainly matches - but it is not one of Arobynn's shell accounts."

"So you think someone else is paying the Rhunns to raise her?"

"I am."

"Their financial situation," James wondered how he should broach this, "Do you think they might employ deceit to secure wealth or position?"

Fenrys gave him an annoyed look.

Mr Stone, thoughtfully said, "Thomas Rhunn is a clever sort of man, sir, but too lazy for something so devious and his wife—a more insipid, unintelligent creature doesn't exist. The daughter, though, she is an ambitious one like her godfather." He hesitated, but the gentlemen looked so interested, he continued. "But I—I think, from what I heard, she is devoted to her trade and quote adept at it. I could not believe her capable of deception to achieve that."

The gentlemen sincerely thanked him for the information and he departed.

Fenrys turned to him. "So?"

"So?"

"So did you see the many proofs?"

"I didn't see any proofs, Fen. So she's the same age as our Aelin and she was adopted."

"The same year as Aelin disappeared!"

James frowned. "That doesn't mean—"

"Yes, it does." Fenrys huffed, more hopeful than ever. "To quote your own words, 'tis too much of a coincidence.'"

He fell silent, eyes shut and took a deep breath. "It's too much. If she is—If she didn't die, you know what it means? Edward has been a shell of himself all these years, my father—he is, he is on his deathbed and Aedion joined the army—he is on the continent somewhere and we might never see him! All those years we lost grieving, and she might never have been dead. None of us even thought to look! If we had, If I had... perhaps she would have been found sooner? But no, I wish to see her first. I will not worry about all that until I am sure."

Fenrys placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I know it will be hard and I am sorry for the years you wasted," said he with a calm, reassuring smile, "but all is not lost. If tis really her, your father could see her and know she is alive before he passes, Edward could finally let go of his guilt and have his sister back—he might even die of happiness—and we will call Aedion back; he will come once he hears she is back. Tis not too late to fix everything and save the years we all still have left."

"If it is her."

"I hope, that is, I really hope that it's her."

"Indeed." James nodded. "I hope so too."

"You said she is here?" Lady Perrington looked faintly scandalized.

James rolled his eyes as the crowd turned to look at the doors where a tall, blonde woman stood on the arm of a red-haired man. The room broke into furious whispers.

Beside him, a lady—Mrs Evans, perhaps?—tittered with a companion. "My George said she is not even legally adopted, you know? You don't stand that close to your godfather." This was meant to be a whisper but her voice was too nasally, the words carried over the room and people shared alarmed looks as the object of this conversation walked towards them. The woman kept talking, entirely unaware, "I could never countenance the very thought that she is to inherit a trade empire. All of her dowry will not find her a suitor if she acts like a man."

Miss Sardothein stopped in front of them. "My dear Mrs Evans! I am so grateful for your concern for my marriage prospects." Both ladies tilted his head curiously. She pressed on. "You of all people will understand the importance of caution, I am certain." Her back was towards him but he heard the smile on her face as she spoke. "Is dear Mr Evans' gout any better now?"

James choked on his drink and sputtered. Fenrys winked at him from across the room.

Mrs Evans' face turned red.

Lady Perrington jumped to her friend's rescue. "Miss Sardothein, why, it is such a surprise to see you here! Lady Stanhope has certainly been," here, she pursed her lips and then, commented in a suggestive tone, "liberal in her choice of guests. Your godfather," she nodded towards that gentleman, "is in trade, I hear. Pray, what kind of trade, can you tell?" The guests had all abandoned their own conversations in favour of eavesdropping on this one. Lord Stanhope looked torn between amusement and alarm while his wife openly and unattractively gaped at the spectacle.

Miss Sardothein lifted a hand to dismiss the enquiry. "Oh, I can never talk business on social events but you may ask your husband at your leisure. Lord Perrington regularly invests in many of our ventures." Though the lady's back was turned to him, her voice was fierce.

"Such a devious creature," a familiar voice remarked.

Rowan greeted his cousin with a nod before fixing his eyes back on the drama unfolding in front of them.

Lady Perrington was looking around in search of allies among the onlookers but when no one stepped forward, she inclined her head, her face colored. "Indeed, I shall," she said and hastily excused herself.

Mrs Evans followed suit, eyes firmly on the floor and James almost felt sorry for them. Almost.

Before his apparent sister—how he scoffed at that notion—could turn, Rowan approached at her side. It was rare indeed that the dour man approached anyone first and never so readily. The novelty of that alone occupied his attention.

"Miss Sardothein." He bowed.

She curtsied with a smile. "Mr Whitethorn." Another man approached with a lady on his arm. "Lord Fenrys! I did not know you would be in attendance."

Lord Fenrys bowed over her hand. "I came as soon as I heard you were attending." She laughed at the gallantry—a sweet, tinkling laugh that caught his attention and he again ignored his heart's nagging— and he turned to introduce his companion. "Allow me to introduce my cousin, Mr Rowan Whitethorn of Harcomb, Doranelle and his wife, Mrs Lyria Whitethorn." Fenrys' dark eyes glinted and he smiled charmingly, letting a loose lock of hair fall on his forehead.

"I have already met Mr Whitethorn." Celaena smiled at the woman, then with a less pleasant expression towards the woman. "Mrs Whitethorn, it's a pleasure to meet you."

James had met Mrs Whitethorn barely once or twice in his life and only in passing. He had expected a genial creature, if perhaps a little reserved like her husband but she looked like a simpleton.

Though the fabric of her clothes was expensive and the stitching perfect, but the colour was dull and did no favours to her sallow complexion. Her neck remained unadorned and she wore no necklaces, bracelets or earrings, a fact made more pronounced by the tight modest bun she wore her dark hair in. By her appearance, she seemed more suited to a nunnery than to a fancy dinner party as the wife of a gentleman of rank. She exchanged curtsies and shared greetings but otherwise showed no inclination to converse and hastily excused herself as soon as was polite.

Rowan stood where he was, brooding, stiff as a board when the tradesman's daughter addressed him. "I thought you would be happy here, at least, for you detest balls but you are scowling still."

Rowan said stiffly, "I detest social events."

"Even when you don't have to dance?"

"Even then."

"I should like to hear why."

"I doubt you would understand."

"Come now, sir," said she smilingly, "Do not insult my intelligence by assuming that. Tell me and I might."

"It is not that. I—I do not—you will laugh but I hardly ever know what to say and often give offense where it is not intended." He turned to her. "You cannot have any such problem."

She arched an eyebrow in question.

He said, "You are too lively and charming, you could not possibly manage it."

"And people are too apt to forgive a pretty face in general," she agreed.

His lips twitched. "You claimed you were not a fan of convention earlier but I see you have no love for modesty either."

"For false modesty, I do not. I freely acknowledge vanity to be my chief sin." Then, she paused, "Your wife is, she is terribly shy, I think, but I hope you will not trouble yourself so much on her manner."

"I would say she is more unwilling than shy," said he with uncharacteristic openness. "I hope you were not offended."

"Oh, not at all—"

"Dear cousin," an enthusiastic voice cut through the din of polite conversation in the room, "You must stop monopolizing the lady's time. There is someone I should like to introduce her to—James. James, man, she's here, look. Allow me to present my favourite cousin, Mr James Galathynius of Graceview, Orynth."

James turned to them and bowed politely as she turned.

Then his face paled.

"Aelin." He forced a smile. "Forgive me, that is, you look exceedingly like—"

"Like five-year-old Miss Galathynius? So I've been told before," said she good humoredly.

James blinked disbelievingly. His vision blurred. Blonde hair. Ashryver eyes—that damning feature he thought Fenrys had been exaggerating about and the button nose that both, Aunt Evalin and his mother had shared. His cousin, noticing his preoccupation, engaged Miss Sardothein—nay, Aelin—into animated conversation as one thought after another crashed into his mind.

Thirteen years.

Thirteen years lost in grief and regret.

Thirteen years of seperation when they should have been searching for her.

Aelin grinned triumphantly from atop the maple tree down at her brothers, cousins and friends, dress torn and muddied. Her expression had the tiniest hint of pride as she placed herself on a sturdy branch.

"You shall fall down hurt yourself if you do not climb down, Aelin!" exclaimed Elide fretfully, twisting her muslin dress in evident distress. "And then what will we do?"

"No, no, I never shall," she insisted with a pout. "I can make this my home and you may visit me whenever you would like."

"But you cannot stay up there forever! You would feel hungry," reasoned the ever-responsible Chaol, biting his lip. Barely nine-years-old, he was the first to tattle on his friends when mishaps occured between children as they often do.

"James can bring me food," she declared haughtily, pushing one braid over her shoulder.

James grinned. "And whyever should I? You never do anything for me. I will let you starve a little perhaps. It may teach you a lesson."

"May the devil take you!"

Edward, ever the polite elder brother, reprimanded, "Aelin! That is not the language we may use." He was alarmed when her eyes teared up. "I am sorry, Aelin, love, will you not please come down?"

Aelin sniffed. "You are being mean and I will never talk to you."

"But will you not calm down before our father sees you? You would be punished." He frowned when the little rascal stuck her tongue out. He added, "If you come down, I will convince father to give Mrs Norris a leave for today."

"You promise?"

Edward nodded. "A gentleman's word."

She nodded uncertainly, then looked down and whimpered. "I can't."

Edward groaned, prompting the others to snicker at his expense. He extended his hands towards the tree.

"Climb down," he said, "James or I will catch you if you fall."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "How do I know he won't let me fall?"

"You are our little sister, Aelin," Edward said resolutely, extending his hands further as James did the same. "He will never let you hurt, I promise."

"A gentleman's word?" This time, her bright eye were trained on James.

He nodded. "A gentleman's word."

But had he not broken his promise? She ended up in a tradesman's family so far from home while everyone thought her dead. A five-year-old alone in the streets of London with no family whatsoever, thought he with growing unease. How terrified she must have been! He turned towards her now.

Her eyes had always been bright and her disposition lively but it was all tempered with a quiet dignified sort of grace. She looked beautiful now, the roundness in her face gone and her sharp features accentuating that inner fire.

His little sister.

As impulsive and easy to provoke as ever and every inch the little terror he remembered, down to the sneaky smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. He blinked the tears back into his eyes.

"You would not object, would you, James?" asked Fenrys.

He startled. "Huh?"

"Miss Sardothein here expressed her interest in chess and I thought to invite her for her a game tomorrow in your house." He raised an eyebroe. "Unless you have any prior obligations?"

He did have prior obligations but he would cancel them all. "I would be pleased to have you there."

Rowan frowned, looking between the three of them as if he was missing something. "Is that not... nevermind, but perhaps you should consider bringing your mother along, Miss Sardothein, for propriety's sake?" James cursed the man for his caution. A private visit would be an ideal time to reveal all to her but not if she brought someone along.

Thankfully, she dismissed the idea herself. "I will see if I can get papa to come along but I am a tradesman's daughter, far too involved in the business myself. I am certain my reputation will not suffer for it, unless you mind." Both he and Fenrys assured her that they would not mind at all and James reiterated how sincerely pleased he would be to have her there.

"We will see how pleased you are when I make you eat your dust, Mr Galathynius," she teased with a grin.

James grinned back. "I wouldn't be so sure."

Dear Edward,

I know we are not in the habit of exchanging correspondence as brothers ought but I hope you will forgive me for the presumption. Certain events of note have taken place here recently, such that it necessitated that you be informed immediately. I have a shocking good news to impart:

Our dearest Aelin did not die in the warehouse fire. She is very much alive and well.

By some stroke of luck, cousin Fenrys came across her at a ball and you will be shocked to hear she is the sole heir to the Arobynn Hamel, currently known as Miss Sardothein. He insisted she was our cousin since his first meeting, though I refused to believe him but I met her today and there can be no doubt to her identity. Fenrys invited her to a chess match in the evening tomorrow, where we plan to disclose everything to her. Father has not been informed yet.

Make haste to London, brother.

Yours,

James

Edward Galathynius, the Viscount Milton sat in his armchair, stunned.

He had been the last person to see Aelin. He had stupidly left her alone on the estate grounds that awful day. He remembered his father's panic, his mother's disinterest and his little brother's distress. He had been thirteen years old, back home from Eton for the duration of the summer. He envied James who could look at their childhood—her childhood—with the rose-coloured veil of forgetfulness. James was four when she was born. He would not remember her first steps, her first words, the nights she spent in his bed when she escaped the nursery, her favourite haunts and mischiefs. James would be able to look at their time together without being wrecked with agony because of his grief, the guilt for his blunder, the irrational desire to have her back. James would not dream up variations of that cursed day repeatedly over the years.

"Aelin! Aelin, love, slow down, no, not there, yes, gods, Aelin!" Edward shouted behind her. "Your frock! You look wild—no, stop that, Mrs Norris will faint of horror if you are any more muddied."

Aelin stepped into one mud puddle after another. She sent dirt flying back at her proper, dignified elder brother who pinched his nose in distaste. "Now we are both muddied," said she, grinning over her shoulder. "You can tell her that we didn't see the mud and both slipped."

"And lie to her?" He looked horrified.

Aelin tilted her head, fussing over her hair matted with mud. "Is it a lie if we do it for the greater good?"

"The greater good?"

Aelin nodded, pleased with herself. "Of not letting her faint. She is so thin, I sometimes fear a strong gust of wind will blow her away."

She ran further, bursting into giggles every few minutes and by now, had both of them looking no less than two street urchins. He tried to be stern with her but it was awfully hard to remain angry at someone so determined not to pay attention to a word. He knew better than to scold her, lest she summon her tears. That never failed to make him comply with whatever she asked.

"Aelin, there's a hole there, be careful. Stop running, will you—Aelin!" It was too late.

Her right hand gripped her ankle while the other was on her mouth in a poor attempt to stifle her sob.

Edward frowned as she whimpered in pain. "I told you not to run, no, no, don't cry, darling, it will be fine. I shall call for someone." They had been out on the grounds for a while now and the manor house was far away. She was too heavy for him to carry so far and he did not want to hurt her further.

He patted her cheek affectionately. "There, now, you are a brave girl, and I need you to wait right here. I will run back to the manor and bring help, yes?"

She promised she would not and he hurried back to the house.

The rest of the day remained hazy in his memories. He had arrived back at the spot with his father, a growing sense of dread in the pit of his stomach to find her gone. Search parties were organised and the merchants, locals and servants were all on alert for the beloved little spitfire. Day faded into night, then night into dawn when an express rider came with a letter from the magistrate and his father left the house in haste. He had chanced a look at his father's letter, his concern for her too great to worry about the impropriety of reading another's letter without permission. The contents read:

Dear sir,

I am afraid I have sad tidings to depart. One of the warehouses outside the town had caught fire the previous night and two lives were lost as far as we can determine. The first—a grown man, in his thirties or forties, has been determined as a local thief—and the second, a little girl, perhaps five or six years old. Her identity has not been confirmed but we retrieved a silver anklet among the remains. I beg for your assistance in identifying the girl's family. Do come as soon as you can.

Yours

Sir Arthur Renard

His heart pounded too loud in his ears. He felt hot and cold at once. He knew why only one ankle was retrieved from the corpse, because he had the other. It had fallen off her leg earlier that day and he had retrieved it with the intention to fix the loose lock on it.

His knees buckled.

"What happened?" James asked.

Edward shook his head, about to tell him not to worry. His words choked up in his throat and he excused himself from company, pale and ashen, his head throbbing. He ran up the stairs to his room, dismissed his valet for the night and slumped onto bed. The same bed he had shared with her on nights when she was spooked by thunder or some horror story Fenrys had related to her earlier that day.

Edward had left her there alone.

He buried his face in the pillow and wept.

Rhoe withdrew into himself after the funeral. Edward found comfort back at university, where no one or nothing would remind him of his loss, where he could avoid his guilt and pain.

Then mother died.

The summer visits to family became rarer and rarer. Father never insisted, retiring into his library, the one place where her presence was most patent and he was all too happy to remain where he was. The distance increased after he left university. His father preferred James' company, who was lively and good-humored and as James preferred the society to be found in London, they made the townhouse their home while Edward ran their country estates.

But now,

She is very much alive and well. His heart would not be satisfied.

He ordered for his horse to be saddled and riding gear prepared. The best of the family suites were to be prepared and aired out. She was alive and well, and soon, she would be back home.

Feeling happier than he had in months, Edward Galathynius spurred his horse onwards, fast as he could, to London.

I know I was supposed to update Cinders first but my brain insisted on rebelling and this is what happened. I will update that one soon tho, and I think you'll like it. 💖

tags:

@thesirenwashere // @courtofjurdan //@little-crow-corvere // @the-dark-swan // @queenofgreenbriar // @clockworkgraystairs // @julemmaes // @mymultiversee // @queen-of-glass // @strangely-constructed-soul // @mijaldraws // @http-itsrebecca // @aesthetics-11 // @lord-douglas-the-third // @flowersinvegas // @aelinchocolatelover // @cool-ish-nerd // @faerie-queen-fireheart // @sad-book-whore // @hizqueen4life // @the-gods-killer // @booknerdproblems // @annejulianneh111 // @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln // @b00kworm // @mysweetvillain // @curlyredqueen06 // @moondancer-204 // @thesurielships // @witchling-leonor // @ladywitchling // @amren-courtofdreams // @ifinallygavein //@jlinez // @faequeenaelin // @df3ndyr // @in-love-with-caramel-macchiato // @superspiritfestival // @xx-fiona-xx // @stardelia // @maastrash // @miihlovesnoone // @sanakapoor // @abookishfreak // @ireallyshouldsleeprn // @morganofthewildfire // @bellamyblakru // @theilliumbluebell10 // @jesstargaryenqueen // @woollycat22

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged.

[thelittlebirdthattoldyou]

iwaoi & the 1 by Taylor swift folklore album, For the song request things if that’s still open!!

here you go, anon! i’ve written more iwaoi-as-exes content over the past week than i thought i ever would :’)

the 1 - taylor swift

pairing: iwaizumi hajime/oikawa tooru

content: angst with a hopeful ending (it’s actually not that angsty they’re just not together), magical realism, timeskip

wc: 921

-

Argentina brings with it a break from the past. The moment Oikawa steps out of the airport, backpack over his shoulder, suitcase in tow, he takes in the humid summer air, and something loosens in his chest. It still hurts - the ache of losing Iwaizumi is akin to that of amputating a limb - but it hurts less. And then Oikawa spots Jose Blanco standing in front of an electric blue sportscar, holding a handmade sign, and he smiles. He’ll be alright.

Oikawa settles into his spot on the team with ease. At eighteen, he’s the youngest, just past legal drinking age, and the other members make it their mission to show him the ropes. He’s subjected to affectionate nicknames and hair ruffles on the court, crushing hugs and rapidfire teasing Spanish outside it. Slowly, he starts to heal. Missing Iwaizumi takes a backseat.

Part of life in Argentina is the festivities. Oikawa has never been one to pass up a good party, but his teammates drag him into town a staggering amount of nights per month. If not for their strict training regimens, Oikawa would have no idea how they stay in shape.

This particular night is more sedate than usual. It finds the team occupying a table at a small garden restaurant a few blocks away from downtown San Juan. The place is called La Fuente, apparently because of an old fountain in the courtyard that no one thought to remove when it was built.

Oikawa passed it by on his way into the restaurant. It didn’t look like much; a central tier made of mottled brown stone standing in a shallow brick pool. Matteo and Isaias were jostling him, pushing him forward to get to their table faster, and Oikawa let it go.

But now he’s gotten his fill of Argentinian barbeque and Bonarda wine, and he decides to get some air. The captain, Aman Valdiviezo, stops him on his way. “Where you off to, Tooru?” he asks.

“I think I’ll head out to the fountain to clear my head,” Oikawa says, swaying slightly on his feet. His head is buzzing, and the excursion might help him sober up.

“Don’t fall in,” Aman says. His tone is jovial, but not without a note of warning. Oikawa frowns.

Aman just chuckles and pats him on the back, and Oikawa wishes him a good night and heads outside.

The night is dark and pleasant, and Oikawa takes a deep breath of the fresh air. The party is still audible, but it sounds distant, as if from another world. It feels a little more lonely out here, or maybe that’s just his imagination.

He takes a seat on the edge of the fountain, pressing his hand against the cool brick. A look into the clear water reveals that the bottom is speckled with coins of all shapes and sizes. Most are Argentinian, but there are a few that he recognizes as American or European, and others of more mysterious origin.

Fumbling for his wallet, Oikawa takes out one of the ten yen coins he keeps with him for good luck. He presses it to his lips before flipping it into the water; it lands with a small plop.

The water ripples, and Oikawa frowns, leaning closer to look. One coin shouldn’t be able to cause such a disturbance.

He sucks in a sharp inhale when his reflection fades in the water, replaced with a familiar face. Iwaizumi’s face.

Oikawa watches with wide eyes as the pool shows him a scene of Iwaizumi in line at the grocery store, the same endearing scrunch between his eyebrows as he picks out lettuce. Iwaizumi taking notes in his early morning lecture. Iwaizumi and some strange girl at a club. Iwaizumi taking her hand and whispering something in her ear and leading her off the dance floor back to his dorm.

The last one almost drives Oikawa to put his fist through the water. But before he can, the image changes, morphs into something more tender.

Oikawa’s breath hitches when he recognizes himself, body curled into Iwaizumi’s side on the couch in front of some action movie. It’s a memory from before they started dating, but Iwaizumi holds him like a lover, the arm around his shoulders tentative yet so sweet. Them kissing for the first time in the middle of winter, cold lips and warm breath. Them with Hanamaki and Matsukawa on the night before their graduation, passing around a stolen bottle of rosé.

Their time together plays out like a film reel, and when it ends, Oikawa finds that he’s unconsciously reached for it, fingers floating mere centimeters above the water’s surface.

Pulling his hand back, Oikawa presses it to his flushed cheek. It comes away wet with tears. Oikawa blinks. He doesn’t know when he started crying.

He’s happy here, even without Iwaizumi, but still he wonders… if he never left the country, would they have made it? If Iwaizumi had kissed him earlier, if they had more time to be in love, if they just fought harder to stay together -

With trembling fingers, Oikawa unlocks his phone and taps on Iwaizumi’s contact number. He knows the rule is to never call your ex when you’re drunk, but he doesn’t feel drunk. His head is clearer than it’s been in a long time.

Tossing one more coin into the water for good luck, Oikawa hits call, and he holds his breath for a few agonizing seconds while the ringtone plays.

Iwaizumi picks up.

[wienerbarnes]

Hot Chocolate

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Cheek to Cheek)

Word Count: 1,543

Warnings: Mentions of murder and apple pie

A/N: a ha ha heres another lil one shot of these two! send in requests for this pairing if yall got ideas! 

MAIN MASTERLIST | CHEEK TO CHEEK MASTERLIST

“Excuse me, Miss? Someone ordered this for you, it seems like you’ve got yourself a secret admirer. Anyways, enjoy.”

The waiter places down a slice of delicious apple pie down in front of you with a smile, obviously thinking there was more to this dessert than Bucky finding out where you’ve been. You glance at the cinnamon-sugar syrup that pours out of the sides of the slice, the glazed apples smelling like heaven as they hit your nostrils. Without touching it, you slowly turn your body from the high stool you’re sitting on and scan the room, eyes passing over every head in the room before landing on a black hood.

Back facing you, the black hood takes a sip of whatever is in their mug before placing it back down on the saucer, a black glove gently letting go of the handle as it makes it’s landing. 

Now who’s the one guy I know that wears gloves like that in public?

Pie in hand, you make your way over to the small booth Bucky has for himself before taking a seat across from him.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Looks like a piece of pie to me, doll. Why, you find a hair in it or something?”

You roll your eyes to the back of your head and push a hand through greasy hair with a deep sigh. 

“How did you find me here?”

“You know I did this for, like, eighty years, right?”

Bucky slides the sunglasses off his face and places them on the table next to his tea in order to see you better. You’re a blonde now. And it seems you’ve gotten more piercings as you have a few extra studs on your ears than he remembers. A denim jacket hangs on your frame on top of the long sleeve shirt you got from his apartment the night he stitched you up. 

He won’t lie, Bucky’s definitely been looking for you. And you do a great job of hiding yourself. It took him about two months of extensive research, only to find you in this diner-slash-bookstore(?) on accident while he was taking a break.

Through his research, though, he did find out a lot more about you. Information besides what he learned from your criminal file.

You lived with your grandparents until the age of fourteen when they passed away. You lived with someone named Kathleen Grover, who was listed as a “family friend” on any legal documents concerning your guardianship. You dropped out of high school at age fifteen before applying for a pre-marine program. At age eighteen, you started your career as a marine before going missing in action after two years. There’s a large, blank time frame there, but Bucky can guess that’s when your Hydra career began. Probably not so different from him. Kidnapped, tortured to comply, committing crimes until you were eventually caught. With his math, you’re about twenty-eight now. 

Most twenty-eight-year-old’s are married. Planning for kids. Building their career. Buying houses. But instead you’re sitting across from him in his shop, looking very angry at the slice of pie he bought you.

This shop isn’t far from the fresh market he first saw you at after your escape. About two hours from his apartment, but about ten minutes from what used to be Kathleen Grover’s address. She’s since passed away, under mysterious circumstances, he might add, but it was a start to finding where you’d be. 

You’ve been away from society for almost a decade, so it’s only natural to try to go somewhere familiar. From what he read, he doesn’t imagine you did much traveling in your teen years.

“Anything else I can get for you two?” The waiter interrupts Bucky’s thoughts. 

“Hot chocolate for the lady, please.” Bucky orders without taking his eyes off you. The waiter gives a short nod and walks off to put in the drink.

“So, what is it you want?” You finally ask, after giving in the sweet scent of the pie in front of you and placing a spoonful into your mouth.

“Who says I want anything?”

“Why else would you have come all the way out here to find me?”

Why did he come all the way out here to find you? Absolutely no one at the tower nor the FBI are any closer to finding where you’ve hid yourself. They assumed the first thing you’d do was find a flight out here so they've been searching country after country to find you when you have been in their backyard the entire time. Smart on your part, but probably accidental seeing as you have no way to get out of here anyway. He’s not here to ask you any favors, he doesn’t need anything done for him, so why did he come all the way here?

“I-” 

“Hot chocolate?”

A young woman holding a steaming mug of hot chocolate awaits confirmation. You give a shy smile and hold out your hands to receive the drink. As soon as your fingertips reach the saucer the waitress is holding, a loud gasp escapes your body and you flinch harshly, causing the mug to fly out of both your hands and crash on the ground. 

“Oops! I’m so sorry about that! Let me clean this up and I’ll get another drink for you, on the house! Sorry again!” The waitress frantically rushes away to get a mop.

Bucky looks at you to see your eyes wide and lips turned into a frown. He glances down at your hands that are tucked towards the center of your chest to see them shaking. He listens closely and hears your heart beating a mile a minute.

“What just happened?” Bucky asks, voice low yet curious. His question seems to snap you out of your thoughts as you jump once more and meet his eyes.

“Nothing. Nothing just happened. In fact, I gotta go.” You push your hands through your hair once more, clearly stressed about the broken mug.

“Did you see something? Just now? When you touched the mug, you saw something.” Bucky concludes.

You don’t respond as the waitress returns and begins cleaning up the mess on the floor. 

“What did you see?” Bucky whispers, desperate to hear about what’s troubling you.

“That girl- she-she, uh,” You stutter. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” You quickly stand and make your way towards the door. 

Bucky stands as well and struggles to get his wallet out of his pocket. When he finally gets it out he throws a few bills on the table before rushing after you to catch up. After coming out through the door, he looks up and down the sidewalk to see no sign of you.

“Fuck.” Bucky mumbles to himself. 

Nowhere on the sidewalk. Not across the street. Where the fuck did you go? Bucky reaches his right hand up to rub the crease in his forehead between his eyes roughly before making his way back to where he parked his bike on the street.

Fucking idiot, you couldn’t just pay attention? God, it was thirty seconds that you took your eyes off her and now she’s gone for who knows how long this time. Now what are you-

A folded napkin tucked into the curve of his bike handle catches his attention. He takes it out of the crease and opens it to see an address with tomorrow’s date on it. 

Is your way of letting him in? On your own terms? Maybe you see he’s not a threat to you, but you probably don’t fully trust him yet. Bucky smiles and tucks the napkin into his front pocket and swings his leg over to mount the bike.

For someone who has such a fucked up past, this is a huge step. You’re a lot more forgiving than he was when he was getting back into having a life. Braver, too.

Bucky’s ride home is long, but not miserable with the warmth of that napkin in his pocket.

…

Later that night, Bucky gives loving scratches to Alpine who purrs on his chest. He flips through channels with his free hand when a familiar face catches his eye.

Bucky goes back to the channel to see the news and he sits up quickly with a gasp.

“Young Amy Stevens has been arrested this afternoon and is currently being held in custody for the string of murders we’ve seen these last couple of weeks. It is unknown whether or not she has a lawyer, but she has already confessed to police upon being detained that she is guilty for these deaths. If found guilty, Stevens will be going to prison for a very long time for her involvement in the murder of four young men. More information tomorrow, have a good night everyone.”

Bucky’s mouth hangs open at the sight of the waitress from the diner earlier today plastered on his television screen. A serial killer, a fucking serial killer.

That’s what you saw. You probably saw this girl killing random guys when you touched that mug.

A tired sigh escapes him as the channel switches from the news to some commercial and an angry kitten paws at his hand wondering why his dad stopped giving him scratches.

[writethehousedown]

Trust Fund, Gold Tongue 2/7 (Crygi) - Peridot

A/N: Thank you to everyone who showed the last chapter some love! I’m really enjoying writing this little universe, and I hope you’re enjoying it so far! My interpretation of this prompt is minuscule, but it’s there if you squint, I promise! As always my sideblog is @artificialperidot, and you can also check this fic out on ao3 if you’re feeling extra generous! Hope you enjoy!

Gigi wondered how she came to sit around a table with all four of her parents around one table at the same time. It was a modern day miracle, seeing they all hated each other in some way- even the couples couldn’t stand each other half of the time. But she supposed their family had an appearance to keep up, and she didn’t want to think about how the tabloids would document their secret family hatred if someone leaked the information that they were sitting at different tables in the dining hall. 

The tabloids would be absolutely correct, though.

As a little kid, Gigi wanted nothing more than for her families to come together. At seventeen, she realised that the adults sitting opposite from her were all idiots.

Gigi loved her mom, she really did, but her taste in men was appalling to say the least. Her newest man, James, had only been around for about a month, and Gigi was already anticipating the messy breakup, where she’d have to pick up the pieces on her mother’s behalf, holding her whilst she cried and convincing her to get her life together again. It was a cycle that was used to, and one that didn’t look like it would break any time soon. Her mom cycled through men like tracks on a really terrible CD, and Gigi had never liked a single one of them. The worst of all of them, though, was her dad.

She did not want to even think about him, let alone sit through a three course meal with him every evening. Or that 30 year old with bleach blonde hair hanging off of his arm who had asked Gigi to call her mom. As if.

The five of them sat around the restaurant table in the busy country club dining hall, and Gigi found herself in a world of her own, absentmindedly twirling her straw in her drink and ignoring the chatter of the others around the table. Her parents made painfully awkward small talk between them as they waited for their meals to arrive, something about business finances or their new cars or the stock market. Gigi zoned out - her parents never really seemed interested in including her in their conversations. Not that Gigi would’ve wanted to talk to them, anyway.

She found it funny, though, that none of them would want to be within 50 feet of each other if it wasn’t for her. She was the reason they all ended up at her dad’s country club every summer. She usually lived with her mom in their penthouse, and put up with whatever boyfriends she had, because although it wasn’t perfect, anything was better than her dad’s house. But, legally, her dad was supposed to see her at least a few weeks a year, and so she and her mom and whoever her mom was seeing were all dragged to this hellhole every summer. 

Three months she inwardly reminded herself. Three more months, and then she’d be eighteen, and her parents would finally let her buy a place of her own, and she would never have to set foot in a country club again. She’d been begging to buy a house of her own from the day she turned sixteen, but her parents would hear none of it, telling her that she was far too young to be trusted to spend that much money all at once. They didn’t seem to have an issue when she blew thousands on clothes or cars or house parties all at once, though. The hypocrites.

Her eyes scanned the restaurant around her, searching for a distraction, and she caught sight of the guy she had thrown her drink at earlier - her dad’s friend, David or Dave or something. She noted his change of shirt from the blue polo that had been drenched in pink lemonade, and smiled at the memory. He got what he deserved, she thought. Nothing made her more mad than people who were rude to the staff.

She was sad she had to run away without that girl though. Crystal. She was pretty adorable. 

She hoped she’d see her around again, soon.

Before long, a waiter came by their table and served their food, plates piled high with steak and grilled veg and some sort of fancy sauce on the side. Gigi’s mouth watered - as much as she hated having dinner with her family, the food was never a let down.

She was halfway through a mouthful of roast beef when her mom started talking again, but this time it was to her. 

“You know, Gigi, James’s nephew is going to be spending a few weeks at the country club this summer,” she said, taking a sip of her wine.

“Oh, cool,” Gigi replied, disinterested.

“His name’s Matthew. He’s around your age, too,” she said, nodding and sharing a knowing look with the others around the table. “We were all thinking…maybe the two of you could, you know, go on a date.”

Gigi almost choked on her mouthful.

Go on a what?!

“Um, thanks, but no thanks.” she replied, her voice a little shaky. She could feel her heart start pounding in her chest a little harder and a little faster than she would’ve liked. 

“Oh, Gigi, give him a chance! He’s a nice young man, isn’t he, James?” her mom said, nudging her boyfriend with her arm. James nodded dumbly, before shoving another mouthful of potato into his mouth.

Tension rose in Gigi’s body, her mom’s words ringing in her ears. “I’m sure he’s a nice guy, but I’m not really looking to date someone right now,” she said, doing her best to be polite and not get too emotional.

“Come on Gigi, you’re almost eighteen. It’s about time you got a boyfriend,” her dad butted in, his tone seeming too aggressive for the conversation. She was surprised that her mom and dad had actually agreed on something for once, even if it was for entirely different reasons. Her mom, deep down, wanted to protect her, for her to be happy - her dad wanted her to be someone else’s responsibility.

And Gigi wanted anything but a boyfriend.

Now would seem like a good time for Gigi to remind her parents that she was a lesbian, but she didn’t particularly want to have another screaming match in a public dining hall. She had tried to have that conversation before, and it didn’t end well. She pictured the way her mom had looked so scared when her dad had yelled and rampaged through their house. How she had told her afterwards to not bring it up in front of her father again. How guilty she had felt for causing her dad to explode like that, and for making her mom so scared. 

Her parents had broken up not long after that. And Gigi never brought it up again.

She had kept her love life completely private from then on, sharing secret rendezvous with girls at parties that she would never see again, and playing the role of the straight girl in front of her family. And, her family put a bandage on the stab wounds and acted as if nothing had ever happened.

But, pretending to be straight and actually dating a boy were completely different things, and there was no way she was going to let her family force her into a relationship. No way.

“Sorry, but I’m not interested. End of story,” she said firmly, her tone cutting, and it seemed to shut them up.

The five of them ate the rest of their meals in relative silence, the tension so thick it could’ve been cut with a knife. Gigi was suddenly thankful for the old saying that it was rude to talk with your mouth full. Gigi kept her mouth full as often as possible.

Dinner came and went, and desserts were ordered, Gigi opting for a raspberry sorbet that was new to the menu this year. Her parents ordered more drinks to go alongside their desserts, and Gigi wished she was a couple of years older so that she could have a few shots to make sitting through dinner more bearable.

Minutes ticked by like hours as she waited for her dessert to arrive, to give her something sweet to distract from the sour atmosphere. When it did though, she was met by an even sweeter surprise.

“One raspberry sorbet?” a voice asked from behind her. 

She looked up to see a familiar face placing the pink dessert down on their table and her heart skipped a beat. 

Crystal. The girl that had infatuated Gigi to the point of provoking her to throw her drink in a grown man’s face. She wasn’t too easy to forget.

Her red curls were tucked behind her ears, and she looked as though a faint blush was creeping over her cheeks. She smiled, giving Gigi a knowing look and a small nod, before walking away from their table, bouncing a little as she walked.

God she was cute.

Gigi was suddenly far less interested in her dessert.

“Uh, excuse me for a moment,” she said, and before her parents could protest, she abruptly stood up from the table and left, set on going after Crystal. She wasn’t exactly sure what she intended to say to her, but just seeing her had flipped her mood on its head entirely, and God knows Gigi needed some serotonin.

Plus, flirting with a member of staff would make her summer a little more bearable. Because what her parents didn’t see was none of their business, right?

It didn’t take her long to catch up to Crystal, and just before she made her way back into the staff kitchen area, Gigi grabbed her wrist and tugged her out of the restaurant, around a corner in the porch where they couldn’t be seen.

Crystal looked a little surprised, and took a second to catch her breath, tucking her hands into the front pocket on her apron. “A hello would’ve been nice,” she said in a slightly hushed tone. “You scared me.”

“Nice to see you again too, Crystal,” Gigi replied, and Crystal giggled softly, her nose scrunching up causing Gigi’s stone heart to melt, just a little. From this close together, Gigi could make out the freckles that speckled the girl’s face, and she thought they made her even more beautiful.

Crystal bit her lip. “Um, I never got a chance to thank you, for, ya know… helping me out earlier today,” she said, scratching the side of her temple slightly.

Gigi smirked, thinking about the way the man looked with his wet hair matted to his forehead like dripping curtains. “It was nothing, really. That guy deserved it.”

“His shirt will be sticky forever now,” Crystal said, putting on the voice of a maniacal evil scientist. “The perfect revenge.”

Gigi chuckled, shaking her head in disbelief at how adorably goofy this girl was. But, she wouldn’t be Gigi Goode if she didn’t take an opportunity to mess with her a little when she saw the chance.

“His shirt is not the only thing I can make wet and sticky,” she said, with a cocky wink and a shit-eating grin, before dissolving into laughter.

Crystal’s mouth fell open in a fake gasp as she pretended to clutch her pearls and scolded Gigi, telling her to wash her mouth out with soap, but Gigi couldn’t help but notice the tiniest blush that had appeared on her cheeks, and the way her eyes had widened for just a second.

Adorable.

“So, uh, who were you eating dinner with? Is that your family?” Crystal asked, looking for a way to change the subject.

“Sadly, yes,” Gigi said with a roll of her eyes.

“Which ones are your parents?”

“All of them.”

“Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t -”

“It’s okay,” Gigi said with a small chuckle. “Technically only three of them are, because my mom hasn’t married her boyfriend. Like she ever will,” Gigi laughed.

“Your dad owns this place, right?”

Gigi sighed. “Uh-huh,” she said, her voice monotonous.

“Which one is your dad?” Crystal asked, peering her head around the corner to glance at her table.

“The one in the grey blazer.” Gigi gestured towards him slightly, making sure they were still hidden from sight. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t wanna get fired. I need to make sure no one throws a lemonade in his face on my behalf.”

Gigi burst out laughing at that, trying her best to keep her volume to a minimum but not doing a very good job. “Oh believe me, if I could throw a drink in his face, I would.”

Crystal grinned back at her, and Gigi noticed the perfect dimples in each of her cheeks, which somehow made her even more adorable. She found herself drawn to her chocolate eyes, gazing at the twinkle behind her pupils and her long eyelashes that framed them, like they were priceless works of art, which, of course, they were.

They fell into a comfortable silence, and in any other situation, Gigi would’ve made a move. She was never one to wait patiently for the right moment - she was someone that always knew what she wanted, and right now, she wanted nothing more than to cup Crystal’s cheeks and plant a kiss on her lips.

But, she had to remind herself that she was in the middle of a country club, where anyone could see the two of them. And she had a reputation to uphold. She’d need to wait until they were somewhere more private.

Plus, she didn’t want to frighten Crystal. The girl already looked like she was in a constant state of panic as it was, and Gigi thought a kiss would probably tip her anxiety over the edge.

She also wasn’t positive that Crystal liked girls, either, but judging from her messy, curly bob of hair, dyed red, and her nails, short and painted with black nail polish, it seemed a likely possibility.

“I, uh, I should get back to work,” Crystal said, looking away awkwardly.

“Yeah, you probably should,” Gigi replied. Crystal flashed her a pitiful smile, as if to say sorry, that she didn’t want to cut their interaction short, and Gigi couldn’t help but wonder how this girl, this ordinary girl who technically worked for her dad, managed to make her heart flutter with just a simple smile.

But Gigi didn’t want to say goodbye just yet. Not unless she knew she’d see Crystal again soon.

“Hey, are you working again tomorrow?” she asked, an idea popping into her head.

“Yup. 10 hour shift.” Crystal replied, practically groaning.

Gigi smirked. “When’s your break? I need someone to play tennis with.”

Crystal looked taken aback at her proposition. “Uh, I think I have a break at 3ish -”

“Perfect. Then I’ll meet you on the west tennis courts at three,” Gigi smiled, certainty in her tone.

“Uh, cool! I should warn you though, I haven’t played tennis since summer camp when I was like thirteen,” Crystal giggled, looking a little nervous despite the smile plastered on her face.

Gigi raised her eyebrows. “Then I guess I’ll just have to show you the ropes again,” she said, fully aware of the confidence she exuded, and gave Crystal a sly wink, so small that if Crystal had broken eye contact for a second, she would’ve missed it. Judging by the flush of pink on her cheeks, though, she had definitely not missed it.

Crystal grinned. “I look forward to it,” she said with a nod, before slipping back around the corner and going back to her work.

Gigi waited a couple seconds after Crystal left before walking back to her table, making sure to not look too suspicious despite the smile tattooed on her face. When she sat back down again, she was met by the scowl of her father.

“What took you so long?” he grumbled.

“Girl things,” she replied without missing a beat, because she knew that it would shut him up. And, it wasn’t entirely untrue, either.

When she looked down at her plate, though, she discovered that her raspberry sorbet had melted, and was no more than a pink puddle. 

Gigi didn’t mind at all.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Pioneers may be picturesque figures, but they are often rather lonely ones.

- Nancy Astor, the Viscountess Astor

Nancy Astor was an American-born British politician who was the first female MP to take her seat in the House of Common. Viscountess Astor had won the constituency of Plymouth Sutton in 1919, and after Irish Sinn Féin’s Constance Markievicz had refused to take her seat the previous year, became the first woman to sit in the House. So in effect Astor became the second female Member of Parliament but the first to take her seat, serving from 1919 to 1945.

Nancy Witcher Langhorne was born in 1879 in Virginia to a prosperous  railroad businessmen.

Following the American Civil War, prosperous Southerners who had relied on slavery fell on hard times. Such was the fate of her father, Chiswell Dabney Langhorne, who had been a successful railroad businessman before the war. So when Nancy, his eighth child was born on May 19th, 1879 he was still struggling to recover. However by the time that daughter, who had been christened Nancy, was thirteen, he had re-established his fortune.

Nancy Langhorne had four sisters and three brothers who survived childhood. All of the sisters were known for their beauty; Nancy and her sister Irene both attended a finishing school in New York City.  She finished successfully and in 1897.

In New York Nancy met her first husband, a wealthy socialite Robert Gould Shaw II, a first cousin of Colonel Robert Gould Shaw, who commanded the 54th Massachusetts Regiment, the first unit in the Union Army to be composed of African Americans. They married in New York City on 27 October 1897, when she was 18.

The marriage was an unhappy one. For Nancy it was not such a success, since she left her husband for the first time during their honeymoon and after a turbulent and troubled four years and a son, they separated permanently.

Nancy Shaw took a tour of England and fell in love with the country. Since she had been so happy there, her father suggested that she move to England. Seeing she was reluctant, her father said this was also her mother's wish; he suggested she take her younger sister Phyllis. Nancy and Phyllis moved together to England in 1905. Their older sister Irene had married the artist Charles Dana Gibson and became a model for his Gibson Girls.

Nancy Shaw had already become known in English society as an interesting and witty American, at a time when numerous wealthy young American women had married into the British aristocracy. Her tendency to be saucy in conversation, yet religiously devout and almost prudish in behavior, confused many of the English men but pleased some of the older socialites.

She did marry an Englishman, albeit one born in the United States, Waldorf Astor - 2nd Viscount Astor, an American-born English politician and newspaper proprietor.

While crossing the Atlantic to Britain, Nancy had met Waldorf Astor, the son of the American magnate William Waldorf Astor. Waldorf had been born in New York on the same day as Nancy, but when he was ten years old his father had moved the family to Britain to raise his children as English aristocrats. Waldorf had been educated at Eton College and Oxford University.   In May of 1906 Nancy and Waldorf were married and moved into their wedding gift – the 375 acre Cliveden Estate and its 400-foot-long mansion in Buckinghamshire, which Nancy modernised and had electrified.

The Astors moved into Cliveden, a lavish estate in Buckinghamshire on the River Thames that was a wedding gift from Astor's father. Nancy Astor developed as a prominent hostess for the British social elite.

The Astors also owned a grand London house, No. 4 St. James's Square, now the premises of the Naval & Military Club. A blue plaque unveiled in 1987 commemorates Astor at St. James's Square. Through her many social connections, Lady Astor became involved in a political circle called 'Milner's Kindergarten’. Considered liberal in their age (but in reality very conservative), the group advocated unity and equality among English-speaking people and a continuance or expansion of the British Empire inspired by the vision of Cecil Rhodes. 

Nancy encouraged Waldorf to enter politics and he became a Member of Parliament in 1910 for the Conservative Party, although he broke ranks with his party and tended to vote for social reforms. When his Liberal friend David Lloyd George became Prime Minister of the wartime Coalition government in 1916, Waldorf became his parliamentary private secretary and part of his circle of advisors. In 1916 his father William was made a peer - Viscount Astor. When William died in 1919, Waldorf tried unsuccessfully to avoid taking the title, but was forced to surrender his seat in Parliament and enter the House of Lords as the 2nd Viscount Astor.

This triggered a by-election for his Plymouth seat, which Nancy contested and won. Women had only recent been granted the right to vote. Her American informal style was new to the British and seems to have charmed them in an age where campaigning was very much about personality.

Nancy Astor was a very remarkable woman: determined, witty and accomplished. She was also the beneficiary of considerable privilege, through birth and marriage - none of which is generally looked on with forgiveness in our age.

Her sharp wit hid a cold, aggressive, paranoid and illiberal personality.

She also clashed with her contemporary, Sir Winston Churchill and there’s a famous exchange between the two that goes along these lines “Winston, if I were married to you I’d put poison in your coffee”….”Nancy, if I were married to you I’d drink it.” This supposedly occurred during a weekend house party at Blenheim Palace in the early 1930s.

Nancy Astor's accomplishments in the House of Commons were relatively minor. She never held a position with much influence, and never any post of ministerial rank, although her time in Commons saw four Conservative Prime Ministers in office. The Duchess of Atholl (elected to Parliament in 1923, four years after Lady Astor) rose to higher levels in the Conservative Party before Astor did. Astor felt if she had more position in the party, she would be less free to criticise her party's government. She did gain passage of a bill to increase the legal drinking age to eighteen unless the minor has parental approval.

During this period Nancy Astor continued to be active outside government, supporting the development and expansion of nursery schools for children's education. She was introduced to the issue by socialist  Margaret McMillan, who believed that her late sister helped guide her in life. Lady Astor was initially skeptical of this aspect, but later the two women became close; Astor used her wealth to aid their social efforts.

Left out of the boy’s club within the all male atmosphere of Parliament, She worked hard instead to use her wealth and influence to recruit women into the civil service, the police force, education reform, and the House of Lords.

Lady Astor chaired the first ever International Conference of Women In Science, Industry and Commerce, a three-day event held London in July 1925, organised by Caroline Haslett for the Women's Engineering Society in co-operation with other leading women's groups. Astor hosted a large gathering at her home in St James's to enable networking amongst the international delegates, and spoke strongly of her support of and the need for women to work in the fields of science, engineering and technology.

Her legacy though remains very controversial as she was intimately bound to the upper-class appeasement movement of the 1930s. She was a fierce anti-Communist and like many others saw the rise of Germany as a bulwark to thwart the Bolshevik menace.

Astor was critical of the Nazis for devaluing the position of women and opposed the idea of another war. But as Harold Nicholson (among others) noted in his diaries, she was perfectly willing to indulge in the kind of ugly, reflexive anti-Semitism that was thought to be “clever” in aristocratic circles in those days. She exchanged anti-Semitic letters with the then American ambassador to Britain, Joseph P. Kennedy Sr. and entertained prominent members of the Nazi government. She herself asserted she was not an anti-Semite; she said in 1947, "I'm not anti-Jewish but gangsterism isn't going to solve the Palestine problem".

When World War Two did break-out Nancy Astor admitted that she had made mistakes and supported the war effort, although still causing controversy by, for example, opposing the entry into Britain of Communist refugees at a time when Russia was an ally in the war.

As her views became more extreme and eccentric she became an embarrassment to the Conservative Party and with them facing defeat by the Labour Party in the 1945 election, Waldorf Astor was persuaded to force her to step down. She did, but with anger and bitterness which she continued to express for many years.

She and Waldorf drifted apart and his movement to the political left did not help their marriage. They began to live separate lives and travel apart, although there was a reconciliation before his death in 1952.

During the 1950’s she added racism to her other views and became notorious for, among other statements, proudly announcing to the white minority Rhodesian government that she was the daughter of a slave owner and telling a group of Afro-American students that they should be more like the servants of her southern childhood. As her brothers and sisters died and she became estranged from her children, loneliness took over.

Nancy Astor died in 1964.

A statue commemorating her life was unveiled in Plymouth in November 2019 by Prime Minister Theresa May - and her future successor Boris Johnson also posed by the statue of the former Tory MP. The unveiling was one way to commemorate the centenary of women being involved in Parliamentary politics in the UK.

Theresa May said at the unveiling: “For two years Nancy Astor was the only woman in a House which was not designed for women. A place of Honourable Gentlemen, somking rooms and no ladies’ loos. She ignored the jeering, the patronising and the bawdy jokes, and began to make the Commons an easier place for the many –but all to few – women who have followed her.”

The statue was the culmination of a popular public campaign started by Labour MP for Plymouth and Sutton and Devonport, Mr Luke Pollard. The campaign enjoyed cross political party support. All of Plymouth’s living former MPs were present at the unveiling  - Alison Seabeck (now Raynsford), Linda Gilroy, Baroness Janet Fookes and Liberal peer Lord David Owen.

Prime Minister Theresa May said the whole country should be “proud of the great strides Nancy Astor made for equality and representation”. The inscription on the statue’s plinth reads: “Real education should educate us out of self into something far finer - into a selflessness which links us all with humanity.

In June 2020, her statue was placed on a target list of Black Lives Matter movement and other activist groups to campaign for its removal.

[cagestark]

Would love a vengeful Tony - those who ignore, insult or hurt Peter in any way find that texts intended for mistresses are sent to wives, their names go missing off guest lists for important events, shady business deals are exposed, etc. Those who are kind and thoughtful to Pete reap rewards, their businesses thrive, their children gain scholarships, etc. Everything is done quietly, discreetly. Nothing can be connected to Tony, but Peter is a genius too - he knows and loves Tony all the more. 😍

Read on AO3 here. 

Hope this is okay

Warnings: dark!Tony who will do anything for his precious boy. Explicit sexual content. Peter is 18+ though. Violence. Dark stuffs. But it’s still pretty soft IMO

-

Alternate universes are infinite. That means that there are an infinite number of worlds out there where Tony Stark does not own Peter Parker. In those worlds, Tony’s must be soft-bellied, burden with consciences that bow their backs over things like right and wrong. Maybe the attraction is there still, the lust for a boy with curls and eyes like liquid cedarwood. He probably jerks off in the dead of night for a kid less than half his age and then cries about it afterwards.

Tony feels sorry for those poor sons of bitches.

He has no such qualms. When Peter applies for the Stark Industries internship, freshly eighteen years old, Tony sees, wants, and takes. Finding out that his boy is also a super hero feels like kismet. Peter adores him. Its visible in the wide wet eyes, the flush that still blooms on his cheeks when he sees Tony naked even months after the first time. And maybe a little begrudgingly, Tony begins to feel the same way about him. His worth to Tony grows exponentially until he can no longer ignore that the boy is the most important thing in his life. Peter is precious. He is kind-hearted (foolish as kindness is), thoughtful, and intelligent.

And he is damaged.

It is months into their growing relationship when Peter finally confides in him, but Tony is no fool: he knows the signs of a bruised apple when he sees one. Peter is shy to the point of insecurity, apologizing for his enthusiasm, for the way his body looks naked, for using the wrong size coffee grounds in the French press. Tony himself has never felt the need to apologize for his own existence, so the habit in his young lover is particularly unfathomable.

Then they get drunk. Peter isn’t legal to drink—not in this country—but if he’s responsible enough to fuck who he wants to, he should be responsible enough to partake. Tony drinks scotch, but Peter coughs his face red when he takes a sip. Instead, he prefers the softer, sweeter or sour liquors and mixed drinks. They have a full bar, so Tony spends the evening making one of every kind of drink he knows just so Peter can take little sips of each, flushing with alcohol, eyes shy as he proclaims it’s good, if he like it and it’s alright, if he doesn’t.

They end up on the couch together, Peter reclined between his legs. It’s there in a soft, trembling voice that Peter begins to cry in his drunkenness and admits the love he had before, the one who bruised him.

“Tell me his name,” demands Tony.

Peter shakes his head.

“He never like, hit me,” Peter says. “But he did slap me sometimes. It didn’t really hurt, but it was so embarrassing. Like I was a, a child. Or a dog.”

Tony just hums, waiting. On the back of the couch, his hand in clenched into a fist, but still he waits. A sniper holds his breath when he needs to steady the scope.

“We went to school together—” yes, yes, go on, Tony thinks. “—he bullied me for a while. Innocent stuff. Then one day we had a heart to heart and he admitted that his animosity towards me was because he was gay. He didn’t know how to express himself, I guess. Or maybe he resented me, because I was out and he wasn’t. I don’t know. We started dating in secret, and I thought—god, I’m such an idiot. It sounds so stupid now—I thought that it was cute. We were like, enemies to lovers. Like the stories. But it wasn’t a story. Not a good one.

“Even after he came out, it felt like no matter what I did, he wasn’t happy with me. Sometimes, it seemed like he enjoyed being unhappy with me. My body was always too scrawny—this was before the bite—and I was always doing things wrong. He said that I embarrassed him. Maybe I did. I don’t know. He’d invite his friends over, the ones who used to bully me with him. They would make fun of me and he, he never stopped them. They’d say the m-most humiliating things to me. Why didn’t he stop them, Tony?” Peter asked, voice cracking, weeping into Tony’s chest.

“A name, darling. Be brave for me. Give me names.”

Peter turns to look at him, eyes red and glazed from alcohol, cheeks wet. He is painfully beautiful. “What will you do to them?”

“Nothing, my sweet,” lies Tony. Some lies are necessary things. “Nothing, unless you tell me to.”

He gives names. A whole list of them, and Tony doesn’t need his artificial intelligence recording to remember them. He doesn’t need an eidetic memory to remember them. They are burned into his brain along with the image of Peter now only thinner, cheeks wet and red because he was slapped like a dog.

Peter cries himself to sleep. Tony carries him to bed, undresses him with glazed over eyes. His mind is miles away. Once the covers are pulled up snugly against Peter’s chin, a wastebasket beside the bed should he wake and feel sick, Tony goes down to his lab, still buzzed, wearing nothing but his pajama pants. The air is cold, but he doesn’t feel it.

“FRIDAY, baby?”

“Yes, boss.”

“We’ve got work to do.”  

-

Peter is naked in his bed, artfully covered by a sheet still damp from their lovemaking. Belly down, he props himself up on his elbows with a Stark tablet in front of him, scrolling through news stories, filling Tony in on news articles involving him.

“This article says you’re trying to create a new world order,” Peter says. This is like after-play for Tony. Besides his cock, his next favorite thing to have stroked is his ego. When he hears Tony snort, the younger man glances over, lips still swollen from the tender abuse they suffered between Tony’s teeth. Peter smiles. With a flick of his finger, the tablet goes dark. He nudges it onto the end table and rolls so that he can spoon his naked body against Tony’s side. When he speak next, he sounds sleepy. “Can you imagine that, Tony? You ruling the world?”

He hums. He can imagine that. He does. Sees it in his dreams, knees bending in supplication to him, wills bending to his way. “Can’t you, Pete?”

The boy presses a hot kiss to one of Tony’s pecks. It’s amazing how little water can help a blossom to bloom, and for Peter, he would bring down a veritable rainstorm. Look how far he has come from days when he would hesitate to brush their fingers as they watched a movie together or were in the back of the car together. He is becoming a diamond, Tony’s crown jewel. “I can see you as a king,” Peter says.

Tony grins. “And where are you, my sweet?”

Peter hums. His hand drags across Tony’s flat stomach, gently scraping blunt fingernails against where stomach becomes pelvis, feeling the muscles beneath it twitch to his whims. The boy has come twice in the last hour, but he is already hard against Tony’s leg. “I don’t know,” he says, voice low. The hand drifts lower and brushes his soft cock, which makes a valiant stir. “Maybe I’ll be your—paramour. Your willing slave. At your feet to take care of all your needs.”

Tony frowns. He leans away, loathing even the brief look of anxiety on Peter’s face at his withdrawal, the cheeks flushing with anxiety, wondering did I do something wrong, did I sound stupid? Taking the softly pointed chin in his hand, he brings them so close their noses almost brush. “You are no servant, and I don’t intend for you to be anywhere near my feet. You will be my queen.”

And like that, his blossom blooms a little more, leaning forward to press their mouths together, soft and sensual as rose petals.

-

The galas are a treat since he’s starting dating Peter. They make games of them, usually delightfully sexual ones that have them tugging their dress pants down in the limo on the way home so Peter can sit on his cock—though there was that one lovely night that Tony took him into the bathroom during the speeches, locked the door behind them so he could bend his boy over the sink and rim him within an inch of his life. For the rest of the night, Peter hadn’t been able to look away from his mouth, blushing and adjusting himself.

Tonight, Peter is wearing a plug. Watching him shift restlessly at dinner has had Tony half-hard for the better part of the evening. Desperate for a reprieve to clear his head, he stalks to the bar to order them drinks: a glass of champagne for Peter and a scotch on the rocks for himself. If they know he is giving his underage date alcohol, they don’t dare say anything.

It’s there leaning up against the polished bar that he overhears Peter’s name spoken from a group nearby. His hearing is excellent, and it takes little effort to block out the white noise of the room to listen in to the conversation taking place among three heads ducked together. He recognizes them: the man is CFO of a private security franchise in upstate New York that made several attempts to offer Stark Industries security services. Tony had humored him for far too long, asking detailed questions about the company’s capabilities before turning him down—and why shouldn’t he know what techniques the little guys are using? It’s smart strategy. Hacking into the man’s private servers to read his emails had been purely for entertainment. All work and no play would make Tony a very dull boy indeed.

Beside him are two women, most likely a wife and a secretary, probably interchangeable.

“—look ridiculous together. Like father and son. If he wanted to feel twenty years younger, a prostitute could have done the same thing for him and with half the work.”

“He’s a cute kid,” the secretary or wife says.

The CFO snorts. “Have some taste, Margot.”  

Tony doesn’t see red. His hands don’t turn into fists, his teeth don’t gnash. He doesn’t get angry, he gets even, wracking his brain for the most insignificant details, anything that he could use to his advantage here—and then he remembers, something about a food allergy, berating the PA who went out to the local bakery for breakfast and brought pastries back to the office.

“Three more glasses of champagne,” says Tony, leaning against the bar. “And tell me. Do you have strawberries?”

When Tony appears behind them, drinks in hand, CFO’s soul nearly leaves his body. All the blood leaves his face. Even the secretary wives look anxious. One of them can’t even meet his eyes. There are probably rumors about the kind of man that Tony is and the kind of business he conducts. When his reputation does half the work of intimidating scum like this, then he considers himself thankful for it.

“Drinks?” Tony says, passing around flutes. “It’s an open bar. Please make sure to partake.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stark,” Margot says. Sensible woman. If only she kept better company.

When Tony returns to the table with Peter’s champagne and his own scotch, the ice hasn’t even begun melt. “That was fast,” Peter says. This is his second glass, and he is already looking more relaxed, eyes a little lidded. Whether it is from the alcohol or the plug inside his ass, Tony doesn’t know. What he does know is that he himself is unbearably hard, has been since the strawberry idea came to him.

“Let’s get out of here,” he suggests.

It’s as they’re leaving that the other shoe drops. It must have started as a tickle in his throat, maybe the buzz of numb lips. By the time CFO realizes he’s having a severe allergic reaction, his throat has swelled and his face is turning purple. A crowd gathers, and he and Peter are part of it, the boy pressed against him back to Tony’s front. From what he can gather, the man has an epi-pen that his secretary carries, but she has left it in the Rolls Royce. By the time the valet finds her car among the sea in the parking lot, the man is unconscious.

“Is there anything we can do?” Peter asks, watching as the paramedics administer an emergency shot of epinephrine.

“I’ve done quite enough already,” purrs Tony. His hips give a tiny aborted thrust, cock aching. Peter’s chest begins to rise and fall more rapidly. It’s a warm enough night for them to shed their jackets, holding them over their arms and in front of their erections like the gentlemen they are.

But nothing they do in the limousine on the way home is gentlemanly, and that’s the way Tony likes it.

-

There are three names Peter gives him. By the time FRIDAY is done working her magic, Tony has entire life histories, not just for the three boys who graduated alongside Peter at Midtown High School, but for their families. Their ancestries. Tony doesn’t know where inspiration will strike, so he has FRIDAY compile everything. He reads the files leisurely in the evenings when Peter is lounging between his legs watching television or even in bed when the boy slumbers next to him.

Of the three, he knows that Flash will receive the worst of it. Tony will be the old testament God, cursing Flash and four generations of his descendants. That is where he puts his true energy, drawing from that dark well inside of him where is wrath pools. It makes him giddy, wondering how far he is willing to go.

The inspiration is endless, with Flash’s life laid out in front of him. After graduation, he went to a second-rate technical school in New Jersey after a series of rejected applications to MIT. Had he been trying to follow Peter?

Afterwards, he moved north to Maine where he works for the Gulf of Maine Research Institute, probably spending his days smelling of salt water, working on electric monitoring systems meant to replace human observers on commercial fishing boats.

Digging into his criminal record is where it gets personal. Because there is very little. One domestic violence charge, the plaintiff being the State of New York, but it takes only a little elbow grease to see that it is Peter. Flash had pled no contest. He served no time in jail, just faced parole for 18 months and a required anger management class.

Besides that, there is nothing. No more charges. Tony tells himself that the vast majority of such personal crimes go unreported—and really, would it make Peter feel any better? To know that it hadn’t been personal, it hadn’t been just him that Flash had abused?

Tony has never been a victim of abuse. While he usually doesn’t have difficulty imagining how people will feel, even in such instances of heightened emotion, Peter is an enigma. The consequences of being wrong, of hurting his boy. It’s too much to bear.

Still, he digs deeper. Flash is married to a native Maine woman. FRIDAY has social media photographs included in the file, and they look—like a couple. He won’t say a nice couple, because he desperately wants them dead. But they would probably look lovely in side by side burial plots. The smiles look genuine, arms wrapped around each other. Pictures of them together on the beach looking out at the bleak Atlantic Ocean. But he knows the kind of masks people put on for the public. He’s more interested in knowing about Flash’s relationship when the camera is off, pointed elsewhere.

“Get me their phone conversations, FRIDAY, baby.”

But whatever he expected; it wasn’t this. The tenderness between them. The loving messages sent in the middle of the day. The largest argument they have is over what they will have for dinner after Flash comes home from work, and the boy apologizes for his terse messages within twenty minutes of sending them. He sounds contrite. He sounds genuine. He sounds in love.

Why does that make it worse? Why does that make Tony angrier? Tenderness existed inside this Flash the whole time—why wouldn’t he give it to Peter?  Tony logs off, turns off his systems, shuts down the lab for a while. Sometimes the wrath he keeps deep in that well inside him swells up like the tide, swells up like a spring after rain. It no longer feels like the well is inside him, but that he is in the well, looking up through a haze of fury towards a sky he can’t see.

He doesn’t want to act in anger.

The kind of justice Peter deserves is cool and calculated.

-

His boy is in his lap, confident enough to crawl there while the movie they were watching draws on behind them, their kissing a sensual soundtrack. Peter is so beautiful like this, when the slightest arousal melts away his inhibitions. It is animalistic, the way they lick into each other’s mouths, the biting of lips and gnashing of teeth. There is a restlessness though, a rising fever that isn’t being quenched quickly enough. More is needed. His boy needs more.

“You’re going to top tonight,” says Tony lowly, dragging his teeth across Peter’s hairless, cut jaw. He’s close enough to hear the boy’s breathy gasp. He clams up, going tense, drawing away. When they meet eyes, Peter is already anxious, unsure.

“Why would you want that?” he asks.

Tony frowns. “Why do you like having someone in your ass?”

Peter flushes. “I just—I guess I always thought that the person who. You know. Received—it’s, like, a power thing. People top because they’re stronger.”

“Are you not strong? Do you not want power, Pete?”

“I—I’ve never. I was always the one who. You know.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Tony assures. He presses his palm flat against the boy’s clothed chest, feeling his heart hammering away. When his thumb brushes the pebbled nipple, Peter shudders, eyes fluttering. “But you have power here. I’d like to show you.”

Peter swallows. “I’ll try.”

Tony blows him first, just to take the edge off. Peter’s stamina, while better than it once was, isn’t legendary. With the taste of cum in his mouth, he kisses his lover, legs spread and Peter propped between them. The amount of lube he slathers on his fingers is overkill, but it makes Tony warm: the innocence, the desire not to hurt his partner. How someone could hurt this sweet creature, Tony will never understand.

The first finger Peter presses inside him, the boy groans like he’s fingering his own ass. It’s been a while for Tony, but Peter’s pace is slow bordering agonizing, thrusting in carefully, catching softly on the rim as he pulls free. Two fingers feel fuller and Tony groans. Could he convince the boy to take him like this, half-prepared so that it might sting? But half the joy is the look on Peter’s face, eyes squeezed shut, mouth slack as he crooks his fingers to rub so gently against Tony’s prostate. When Tony moans, Peter’s entire body shakes, his cock hard and leaking, giving aborted little thrusts against the bed.

“Take me, Pete,” he asks. “I’m ready. How do you want me?”

“I—I don’t know,” Peter whimpers. He’s already gripping the base of his cock, knuckles white, wincing at the ache. Tony strokes his back to let him recover giving him the time he needs. Maybe he should suck him off again—but now he’s getting desperate himself. Let the boy come quickly. That in itself is a turn on.  

Desiring to watch, Tony just presses a pillow underneath his hips to improve the angle, holds his cock and balls in one hand, and lets Peter press forward, the head of his cock nudging Tony’s rim.

“Jesus,” Peter gasps, even though he hasn’t even pressed in. “I can’t do it Tony, I can’t—”

“You can,” Tony says, low and dark. “Fucking look at yourself Peter. So goddamn strong. So powerful. You could pin me to this bed and fuck me half to death if you wanted to, and god do I want you to. You could snap me in half, couldn’t you sweet boy? Take me. Overpower me. You’re strong enough.”

Peter keens. Wet and warmth hits Tony’s hole as the boy’s hand flies down, too late to stop himself and instead wrapping around his shaft to jerk himself off, strings of cum spurting onto Tony’s cock. He watches, half-amused and more than half-aroused. Wiping a hand through the cum, Tony wraps it around himself and fucks into his fist to spill onto his own abs.

“What did I say?” he says afterwards, pressing a kiss to Peter’s embarrassed face. “So powerful. God that was hot.”

“I didn’t even get inside,” mutters Peter.

“We can try again. If you want.”

He feels the boy smile against his chest. “I—think I’d like that.”

-

Justice starts closer to home than Tony thought it might, because on the first page of FRIDAY’s report about Flash Thompson, Tony discovers that Flash’s father works for Stark Industries and has for years. With thousands of employees, it isn’t difficult to fathom that a well-off man growing up in New York city, but it still irks Tony to know that at any time coming and going, Peter might have crossed this man, might have had to remember. Harrison Thompson is a consumer relation’s specialist working in their marketing department. The man looks trepidatious when he enters Tony’s office bright on Monday morning.

Tony can see the resemblance between father and son. He knows a lot about this man too. His record is not nearly as clear of domestic violence charges as his son’s. Abuse is a vicious cycle in which the offended can become the offenders. The seed of violence in Flash was probably cultivated for years before he met Peter—then again, after remembering the graphic images of a battered Mrs. Thompson, Tony can’t deny that Flash’s DNA probably came from the seed of violence.

The man sits, looking like he’s ready for his own execution. “Mr. Stark.”

“Harrison,” Tony greets. “Have we met? Tell me, in all the years that you’ve worked here, have I ever bothered to meet a little pissant like you?”

“Once, sir,” Thompson says, slow. He’s sweating. “We spoke on the phone.”

Tony coos. Inside his top desk drawer is a stack of papers, which he draws out onto his desk. Forging them took no time at all. He must look unhinged, eyes glittering like hellfire is just behind the pupils, grinning the way he is. “What a shame then, that we’ve had to meet under these circumstances.”

-

Everybody is talking about it, Peter texts. Tony is in a meeting when he sees it, but he has no qualms about answering his boy when he should be listening to shareholders complain about the way the media is spinning Stark Industry’s image.

Talking about what, baby?

An employee you fired yesterday.

From 5th floor.

Caught him stealing from me, baby.

Firing him was just the start.

Wait until the police get their hands on him ;)

Tony. You must know.

Know what, my sweet?

Peter doesn’t answer. If he is worried that the boy will be cold to him when he returns to the penthouse for the evening, his worries were for nothing. There is dinner on the table, with candles. Dinner is only half eaten when they end up in the bedroom, and after undressing him, Tony finds that Peter has shaved. Everywhere.

“Wanted to do something nice for you, daddy,” he gasps while Tony rims him, shifts to mouth at his tight balls.

The sweetest boy.

-

Flash himself, Tony never even meets. Tony has maids to take out the trash in his penthouse, custodians to take out trash from Stark Tower, and Bucky to handle the more personal refuse that Tony would rather not dirty his hands with. He has a thing about his hands.

It is handled all through phone calls from his untraceable line. Bucky is one of the only men in the world besides Peter that Tony would admit he likes: the man listens twice as often as he speaks, has incredible loyalty, and also takes initiative. “How bad do you want him?” Bucky asks.

“Use your discretion,” Tony says, feet braced up on his desk. That’s code for let him live, but not easily. Through the glass walls of his office, he sees Peter getting off the elevator, waving cheerfully to the secretary. When they spot each other, the boy blushes softly, and Tony winks. “But I’m sending you a little extra compensation. There’s an additional detail that’s very important to me, and I want to see it come to fruition.”

The others are child’s play. Via anonymous tips, he alerts the IRS about one of the boys’ fraudulent tax returns. The other keeps his nose cleaner, but that is no problem for a man who doesn’t mind playing dirty: Tony empties his bank accounts, trashes his credit score, and sends several fake incriminating messages to his wife. It barely scrapes the surface of what they are owed, but he figures that there will always be time to expand on a solid foundation of misery.

The pictures arrive one after the other an hour after the sun sets on the East Coast. The boy is barely recognizable: face swollen nearly to bursting from the shattered cheekbone and orbital fracture. Bucky’s gloved hand is visible in the last picture, clutching a head of dark hair to pull the boy’s head back so his throat is visible, wreathed in livid bruises. But the dog collar looks good.

Pet Supply, Bucky says. $4.99.

Tony sends him five grand. Then he saves the pictures on a private server that FRIDAY is under orders to destroy should it be breached or should Tony die. He’d delete them altogether but…one day, Peter might want them.

And he would give Peter anything he wanted.

-

“Boss, you’ve received a text from Peter.”

“Read it to me, baby,” says Tony, welding mask on, sweating. FRIDAY’s voice is barely audible over the sound of the blowtorch.

“It’s a news article, sir, from Portland Press Herald, dated this morning. The headline article is titled GMRI Employee Left Paralyzed After Overnight Attack.” Tony turns off the blowtorch. He takes off the mask to reveal his smile. Peter knows how much Tony loves to hear news about himself. “Shall I keep reading, boss?”

“Please do.”  

-

Peter never mentions it, but sometimes Tony catches him staring. The look on his face is one that isn’t easily read. On anyone else, he would expect to see fear, but this boy is finally starting to grow into his own. He is finally starting to see how he should be treated, and the ramifications he—and Tony—can rain down on those who treat him poorly. Instead, Peter looks hungry for him. So, fucking, grateful to him.

“Do you want to try topping again tonight, my sweet?” Tony asks in bed. “Do you want the power?”

Peter plants a hand on his chest and pushes him back into the mattress. Eyes heavy, he is sure the boy will finger him open, thrust desperately inside him to completion. Maybe he won’t even pull out, just rest his cock there until it hardens, and then Peter will take him again. Until he is strong and satisfied.

Instead, Peter throws a leg over Tony’s hips and sinks down on his cock. The look he gives is positively devilish, resting his hands on his thighs while he begins a brutal, perfect rhythm. He smiles, impish, delighted. Bruised apples are soft, riper and all the sweeter in spite of it.

Peter says: “I already have it.”

[saintshen]

“So --- what rules apply here for alcohol consumption? Surely not American ones. Twenty-one is absolutely ridiculous.” Saint is going to be quite put out if he has to spend the next however long not drinking; in fact, he’ll throw a tantrum about it, which he’s rather good at thanks very much. The legal drinking age in his home country of Germany is sixteen, and that’s what he’s used to even more so than the English one of eighteen. Leaning back where he’s lounging beside the pool, he lifts his face to the sun and allows his eyes to slip shut. “And I would be forced to let everyone know just how ridiculous I think it is, of course.”

[iscariotsdeputy]

@whitetail-wheaty​ liked the starter call for Rookie Staci!

    It was tough being the Rookie. It was tough having a lot of work. It was tough spending his days in an office or out dealing with some drunk driver speeding down the country roads of Hope County. It was even worse when the aforementioned drunks would taunt and tease him about his age, or lack thereof. Sure, okay, yeah, he was eighteen. Whatever. He couldn’t even legally drink yet and here he was, having to scold people who drank too much.

    But, y’know, there were good days. There were good duties. Like watching after the kid from the Whitetail Mountains. Wheaty. Sometimes the people living in the Whitetails had their things to do. Talk with cops, talk with rangers, talk with the Seeds, talk with whoever followed them. Shit was harmless, most of the time. Yet, when things were more serious, Staci often found himself over at the humble task of babysitting Wheaty. Yeah. The Probie was stuck with babysitting a kid. And today, they weren’t stuck in a bunker! Staci got permission to let the kid just run wild, wherever they wanted to go in the county, just as long as they were back by sundown. And, well, Eli was very serious about them not getting hurt, so that was another stipulation.

    “Alright, buckaroo! You're gonna be my honorable Deputy for the day! ” Staci knelt down and gently patted his hand on Wheaty’s shoulder. “The world’s our oyster today! We can go anywhere, it’s...just gotta be safe first! We could go to a lake, a camp, a diner, a mountain, a farm, the jail, a cabin, a...well, it’d be a heck of a lot easier to say where we couldn’t go. What’s got your interest?”

[darisu-chan]

Through Your Eyes

Here I got y’all a treat for Ichigo’s birthday. A day late but what else is new.

You can also read it here.

Please enjoy!

Summary: “You really don’t see how you two look at each other?”

It was a typical day with his friends. That is to say that it wasn’t typical. Not at all. In fact, it was pandemonium. His human friends weren’t all that normal to begin with ─ and not only because half of them had some type of supernatural power he hadn’t yet grasped how they came to get, but since he, himself, was a weird combination of several beings that weren’t supposed to exist, long ago he had decided to drop the subject ─ but paired up with his Shinigami friends, it was as if an asteroid had collided straight into a house party filled with drunk, drugged and hormonal teenagers shooting fireworks up from their asses. Wow. Studying literature had truly made him more hyperbolic.

In reality, what was happening was that word got out in Soul Society that Ichigo had just turned twenty (he blamed Renji for that one), which meant that he had reached the official legal drinking age, aka he was old enough now to get plastered with the lot of them. Not that Rangiku-san hadn’t tried to get him drunk at some point. He still remembered that roughly a few days after turning eighteen, the older woman had spiked his otherwise non-assuming tea with sake. One sip and his face had become flustered as he stuttered and yelled bloody murder. The others thought it was funny. Ichigo was sure the situation would have escalated hadn’t it been for a very pissed off Toshirou who had crashed their little reunion with the express intent of collecting his lieutenant. The whole place froze over faster than on the coldest of winter days.

But, now, Ichigo wasn’t protected by neither the country’s rules and regulations nor Toshirou’s aid. (“Well it seems you’re finally an adult, Kurosaki. Take care of Matsumoto for me.” The young captain had told him briefly after congratulating him for his birthday. Ichigo didn’t have the heart to point out he had been an adult for two years already, and that he had always looked older than Toshirou himself, even when he was only fifteen.) Rangiku, sanctioned by the Captain Commander, had taken advantage of this and had dragged her drunk buddies plus Rukia to Karakura, where she had basically trespassed into his room. The rambunctious group had asked him for the best bar in town. Ichigo had no idea where that could be and here’s where he made the first mistake of the night.

He called Mizuiro.

His friend was older than him by about two months, and had been hitting the bars ever since. It’s the best way to meet ladies, he had explained. Though Ichigo was pretty sure he had been drinking since before his twentieth birthday. Now, though, Mizuiro, to his credit, did recommend them a nice place. It certainly didn’t look as shady as the places the Shinigami tended to frequent. The problem in itself was that after giving him directions to get to the place, he had added a cryptic “See you in 20.” And truth to his word, twenty minutes later, Mizuiro was at the bar… with the whole gang.

There was Keigo, who frankly already looked tipsy, Chad, as silent and calm as always, Tatsuki, who had just turned twenty as well two days before, Inoue and Ishida. Now, most of his friends were already twenty, except for Inoue and Ishida, who were the youngest ones, and weren’t going to be twenty for a few more months. That didn’t seem to matter to Mizuiro or the owners of the bar. Not that his friends were drinking alcohol or anything. Ishida was sipping what looked like a grey earl and Inoue was happy with her glass of lemonade. Tatsuki and Chad seemed happy with their beer pint. And Keigo and Mizuiro had gone all out, ordering two bottles of sake before they even could arrive. Rangiku-san’s eyes sparkled after noticing this fact and declared Mizuiro was the best human in the world. The other Shinigami cheered in return and from then on things took a wild turn.

First of all, even though Keigo had had his eyes on Rangiku-san ever since he saw her about five years before, the flirty woman seemed enraptured in whatever tale Mizuiro was spinning. His friend was still very much attracted to older women, and who better than a woman that was more than a hundred years old and that didn’t look a day past twenty five. That, of course, made Keigo insanely unhappy and had started to retell his woes to Hisagi-san, who was also not fairing any better at seeing a mere human flirt with the girl he had been after for decades. Needless to say, after a couple of sake shots, the two of them soon burst into tears and drunkenly sang their laments out loud. On the other side of the table, Ikkaku had become hell-bent on getting Chad drunk. He still couldn’t believe the gentle giant hadn’t once been drunk in his entire life, an outstanding feat for someone who got hammered almost daily right after work. He had, then, dared Chad to drink shot after shot of sake in the hopes he’d get more than a little tipsy. Tatsuki immediately jumped at the chance to defend her friend, her competitive streak appearing as she claimed Chad would never lose. This spiked Renji’s interest, who immediately backed Ikkaku up on his dare. As for Yumichika, although he had declared early on that betting on alcohol was ugly, he still seemed pretty interested in the outcome. And so it began the worst competition ever, in which the rest managed to get wasted before the challenger could even complete his shots. Even Inoue and Ishida, who legally weren’t allowed to drink anything, had somehow gotten roped into the whole affair. He had certainly never heard Ishida laugh so loud ever. Inoue was also a sleepy drunk, who had ended up snoring on top of Chad, who, by some miracle, was still very much sober and still doing all of his shots.

Talk about a fucking nightmare.

The only thing that could have made this any worse was if, somehow, Kenpachi and Grimmjow crashed the place, wanting to fight him then and there now that he was a grown ass man. Or Byakuya suddenly appearing, claiming he stepped on his pride one way or another.

Thankfully, none of that happened, but his friends were embarrassing enough for him to dutifully brood in the only hidden corner of the table, nursing his half-full pint of beer. There was no way he would get drunk. The only other sober, and dare he say it, sane person in the table was Rukia. She had taken a couple of sips of sake, but despite her small stature, she had a high tolerance for alcohol. “That’s what happens when you grow up in Inuzuri.” She had once told him, smiling even when the memories must have been painful to her. Currently, the small Shinigami seemed more amused than she should’ve been at watching the mess their friends had created.

“Your friends are so lively.” She suddenly said, in that annoying voice of hers.

Ichigo snorted. “I’d use another word for them.” He answered and waited a few seconds until his mind processed the whole phrase. “Hey! Whaddaya mean my friends?! They’re yours too!”

Rukia just laughed at his accusation. “I suppose they are. Although they definitely didn’t go all out for my birthday.”

Of course they didn’t.

Byakuya would kill them all if they somehow got his precious sister drunk.

Besides, they preferred messing with him for whatever reason. Rukia had once told him it was because he was easy to annoy. Ironically, her comment had annoyed him. Not like he would ever tell her that, anyway. It would only rile her up, and give her more reasons to pester him.

Scooting closer to her, Ichigo took a sip of his drink and then turned to look at her. “Next year, let’s do something fun.”

She raised an elegant eyebrow at that. “For my birthday or yours?”

He made a show of considering it for a moment, before simply answering, “Both.”

Rukia laughed at that, the sound tingling in his ears. Somehow, even with the loud music blasting from the speakers and their friends’ boisterous laughter, he had heard her clearly, as if the only people in the world were Rukia and he.

“Greedy.” She muttered as a reply.

“How’s that greedy? I’d say it’s rather generous.”

“How so? Isn’t that just an excuse to party twice?”

Ichigo shook his head, amused. “It wouldn’t be a party. Just the two of us.”

That got her attention. Rukia looked down, as her fingers fidgeted in her lap, and then right back at him. She bit her lip, as if contemplating something. Then her eyes darkened as she smiled coyly at him. “Oh? So you want me all to yourself, Kurosaki-kun~?” She said playfully, barely containing her own laughter.

“Tch.” He grumbled. What a tease. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“What did you mean, then?” She was unwilling to let all this matter go, not that Ichigo would give her the satisfaction of falling into her obvious trap.

“Well, it’s just you don’t really like parties that much, and to be honest they’re not my scene either.” He replied, gesturing at their table and the shenanigans their mutual friends were currently engaging in. Most were singing, very badly might he add, a birthday song for him.

Rukia giggled. “I suppose you’re right.”

“’sides, we hardly spend time with each other… just the two of us…like old times…”

Ever since the end of the Quincy War, there had been long periods of time in which he had hardly seen Rukia. And, make no mistake, Ichigo got it. He knew they were all busy picking up the pieces of their destroyed world, and trying to put it back together. In many ways, they were putting themselves back together. The horrors they had all gone through were enough to traumatize even the most seasoned warriors. He had tried to help as best as he could, but there were many things he had to take care of himself, back home. With high school ending and his college life starting, and Rukia pretty much becoming the whole leader of her squad, there was not much time left to just hang out together. And he missed that. He missed their adventures or just casually being able to sit next to her. He loved all of his friends, sure, but there was something special about his relationship with Rukia, and nothing else could ever compare to it.

Sensing his distress, Rukia leaned closer. She searched for something deep within him, and when she found it, she breathed intently. “So you really want me all to yourself?” She said the words so lowly he couldn’t have heard her with all the noise around them, but he had.

“Maybe…”

He left his words hanging as he stared right into her eyes. Under the bar’s lighting, they seemed to glow and burn. It might have been his imagination, but Ichigo could have sworn she had gotten closer. From this position, her hair tickled his jaw in a way which made him shiver. Their breaths mingled together and the temperature in the room skyrocketed. He was suddenly very aware of his heart beating ferociously as he noticed Rukia licking her pink lips. He imitated the gesture, and it was then it dawned on him that, if he moved down just a little bit, they would kiss. The thought wasn’t as frightening as he would have thought it to be. Had this been four years before, he would have pulled away immediately, denying what he was feeling in his very core. But Ichigo was no longer a boy. He was now a grown man, and he couldn’t ignore the magnetic pull he felt where Rukia was involved. He saw her close her eyes and he followed suit, the connection between them not breaking even once. He leaned down and he felt her breaths come faster and then slower. He was so close he could already feel her softness and the taste of her─

“Kurosaki-kun!” Inoue shouted from the other side of the table, swaying side by side on her seat, her right armed wrapped around Ishida, her left on Chad. “Sing with us!” She exclaimed.

The spell broken, Ichigo sat up straighter, but didn’t move far from Rukia. “No, absolutely not!” He refused his friend, praying they were far too long to see how red his cheeks looked. Next to him, Rukia also straightened.

“Too afraid to sing, Kurosaki?” Ishida taunted him, even though nobody could have taken him seriously, giving the fact his shirt was stained and his glasses were in disarray.

“Shut up.” Ichigo retorted without much bite.

Renji cackled. “He knows he can’t win against us!”

“Let’s show him!” Ikkaku exclaimed.

Next thing they knew, they were all singing again, except for Chad, who remained impassive, Keigo, who had long since passed out, and Mizuiro, who was recording the whole affair. Ichigo would have liked to feel mad at them, but he knew he couldn’t. At the end of the day, no matter how embarrassing they all were, his friends wanted to see him happy. That’s why they were celebrating his birthday to begin with. Next to him, Rukia chuckled at them and her laughter was contagious. Soon he joined in, followed by the whole table, his friends erupting in laughter all around him, even Chad cracked a smile.

To no one’s surprise, they were soon asked to leave the place when their impromptu singing competition got too out of hand. The chore of extracting their drunk friends and getting them home safely fell to them. Thankfully, Urahara had let the Shinigami crash in his store. The man had probably had a hand in orchestrating the party to begin with, so Ichigo had no qualms in dumping five wasted death gods at his doorstep. They were his problem now.

Now the problem was that they had to get his human friends to their respective homes.

“I’ll get Inoue and Arizawa home.” Rukia told them.

“You sure?” Ichigo asked her, feeling worried.

“It’s no problem. I’ve got this.” Behind her, Inoue and Tatsuki were giggling as they held each other. It seemed like a pain, but perhaps Rukia was already used to dealing with drunk people on a daily basis.

“Alright. Chad and I’ll get the rest home.”

With that said, they separated, Rukia gently pushing the girls in the direction of Inoue’s apartment, Chad carrying Keigo in his arms, while Ichigo put Ishida’s arm around his shoulder and helped him walk. The journey was mostly silent except for Mizuiro typing on his phone and Ishida saying nonsense.

“Oi! How come you’re not that drunk?” He turned to his friend.

“Hmm?” Mizuiro muttered, blinking away from his phone. “I don’t get drunk that easily. I just pretend to be wasted so that the others keep drinking too.”

Ichigo got goosebumps after listening to those words. “Man, you’re scary.”

The young man only smirked at him. “Well, my apartment’s that way. See ya.”

“Hey! You’re not gonna let Keigo crash with you?!”

“Nope. Happy birthday, Ichigo!”

Happy birthday his ass.

Groaning, he nodded to Chad and they decided to continue forward, in the direction of Ishida’s place. Thankfully, nothing remarkable happened on the way, except for his friend tripping once or twice. Using the spare keys Ishida had given him at one point, (“In case you mess up and need my help,” as he had told him) they went in and left the former Quincy sleeping on his bed. Sighing, he turned to look at Keigo, whom Chad was still carrying. Only one more.

The two friends resumed walking, this time towards where Keigo lived. Ichigo thought it wouldn’t be any different to all the other times he had walked beside Chad. There was always an amiable silence engulfing them, one Ichigo rejoiced in as his life was often more chaotic than not. Chad brought him this peace, not only because he was a quiet person himself, but because he understood all the disturbances Ichigo faced day by day. This time, however, Chad was the one to speak first.

“You really don’t see it, huh?” He wondered out loud, his voice resounding in the empty street.

“Don’t see what?” Ichigo asked, thinking that there was danger looming all around them.

“You really don’t see how you two look at each other?” Chad tried again, this time looking at Ichigo.

Bewildered, he blinked once, then twice. “Huh?” He said at last. “Who do you mean?”

“Kuchiki and you.”

“Oh.”

Silence was present once again, as Ichigo mulled over his thoughts.

“I’ve been observing you two for years.” Chad said, not pausing to let his friend speak. “At first, I was intrigued by your relationship with her. You’re not the type to open up to people in such a short amount of time, then again, you act different when it comes to her. You don’t treat her like you treat Arizawa or Inoue, or even your sisters. And then, when we went to Soul Society to save her, I think I finally understood.”

That made the two stop walking. Ichigo did not know what to say. He couldn’t deny what Chad was saying, because all of it was true. Yet, he didn’t know where he was going with this. What was it he wasn’t seeing?

“Through the years, I’ve wondered if you were aware of how you look at her when you think no one’s watching. Your eyes acquire this softness, as if she’s the most precious thing in the world. You’re soft with her. You smile tenderly at her only. Your eyes just light up when she’s next to you. Even when you fight, you end up looking at her in that same way.”

Chad’s words flustered him. He hadn’t thought he had been that obvious. No one had pointed it out before. His other friends could have used this knowledge as an opportunity to pester him, to embarrass him and admit things he didn’t wish to, and yet, they still hadn’t said a thing. Even his father had remained silent on this matter. Only now Chad was confronting him. For whatever purpose, Ichigo didn’t know, but he felt as if he needed to explain himself.

“I…”

“And you don’t even notice she looks at you in the same way.”

Ichigo stopped dead on his tracks and looked at Chad, wide eyed.

“Kuchiki’s more difficult to read, but I can see it. She’s just like you. Hard around the edges, but soft and tender on the inside. You bring out that tenderness. She looks at you as if she’s seeing the sun for the first time after a long winter. You can see how proud she is of you by how her lips curl up in a smile when she’s watching you. Even when she’s annoyed at you, the fire gives way to warmth. It’s like ice melting. And it only happens when she looks at you.”

He felt like he had stopped breathing, his throat drying. Was that how it was? He had never noticed, too preoccupied with looking at her, just taking in her overall presence, that he had forgotten to actually look at all the little details. Ichigo had never been the most observant, as his friends could attest, but now even he felt like an idiot for missing something as momentous as this. For how long had this been going on? Another part of himself, the darkest, most self-deprecating part, wanted to argue that this couldn’t possibly be true. That Rukia would never look at him in a special way. Surely, he would have seen it.

“But Ren─”

“It still amazes me how neither of you has noticed.” Chad interrupted him before continuing down that path. “All of us know.”

“What?!”

“Possibly even most of the Shinigami you’ve met.”

That left him gaping.

“While you two are clueless… Well, maybe not so clueless anymore.” Chad said as he scratched his beard. “You almost kissed tonight after all.”

Ichigo’s cheeks somehow grew redder. “You saw that, huh?”

“It was impossible not to see. I was sitting right in front of you.”

His words made him feel sheepish. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Don’t apologize. I’ve been waiting for some progress all these years.”

He sputtered. “Chad!” He yelped, feeling beyond embarrassed.

“Ichigo.” Chad called him, now growing serious.

“Yeah?”

“I haven’t said anything because I thought you’d sort it out eventually, but this has been going on for far too long and it’s bordering on being absurd.”

Ichigo laughed at that. Way to put it bluntly.

“I just… I’m scared, y’know? That it won’t work out. That it’s not what Rukia wants…”

“Believe me, she wants it. And after everything you’ve gone through together, I think it’ll work.”

“Alright, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good, now go home.” Chad said, motioning towards the direction of his house.

“Wait, what? Don’t you want me to go with you?”

“No. I can handle this.” The man said. “And Kuchiki is nearing your house, you should probably go to her.”

Ichigo sighed, finally relaxing. “I’ll go then.”

His friend grunted, returning to his silent self, and continued walking with Keigo in his arms, still blissfully unaware of everything that had happened.

“Oh, and Chad?”

The man turned around.

“Thanks for the pep talk.”

“No problem.”

Waving Chad goodbye, Ichigo walked on the opposite direction, when he started running. He didn’t know why but feeling Rukia’s reiatsu flowing so close to him, spurred him on to go to her as fast as he could. He found her halfway, eyes widening at seeing his disheveled state.

“Is everything okay?” She asked, standing close to him, possibly to inspect his body for potential injuries. It was in that moment that he saw exactly what Chad had told him before.

He shook his head, laughing a little. “Yeah… I was just in a rush to get home.”

Rukia chuckled, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. They never lost their warmth.

“Then we should go.”

“Yeah. We should.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a full minute, an inexplicable message passing between them. Satisfied, they pulled away and started walking back home, their hands brushing with each step they took.

“Happy birthday, Ichigo.” Rukia suddenly told him, bumping her shoulder with his.

“Thanks, Rukia.” He answered, his hand reaching to grab hers. She didn’t pull away.

With their fingers entwined, they finally went home.

[sdohertys]

GENERAL:

NAME: Scarlett Marina Kaufman Doherty

NICKNAME: Some people call her Scar, much to her irritation. It’s not even a cute nickname.

BIRTHDAY: January 16

AGE: 34.

GENDER: Cis Female.

PLACE OF BIRTH: Petaluma, California.

PLACES LIVED SINCE: Oakland, CA; Walnut Creek, CA

CURRENT RESIDENCE: Walnut Creek, CA

NATIONALITY: American.

ETHNICITY: Ashkenazi Jewish.

PARENTS’ NAMES: Adina and Vadim Kaufman.

NUMBER OF SIBLINGS: None.

PERSONALITY TYPE: ESTP- A - THE ENTREPRENEUR

body image mention, abandonment, death (cancer)

RELATIONSHIP WITH FAMILY: Strained. One-sided. Basically non-existent. When Scarlett hit her teen years, she’d come to the conclusion that her mother wanted a child, but she didn’t want to be a mother to that child. Their conversations consisted mainly of Scarlett’s appearance and body image, pushing her to be the most prim and proper of ladies. Her mother never called her beautiful. Vadim, on the other hand, was never around to have a real conversation with his daughter, having gone out to meet with his mistress of the year. Might as well not even have a father. She’s cut herself off from her family to the point where she legally changed her last name so she could pretend she was not related to them. After getting many phone calls from her mom when she first moved away, Scarlett changed her phone number and blocked her mom from every social media platform.

CHILDHOOD TRAUMA: When Adina found out about her husband’s many affairs, she blamed Scarlett’s birth, having said that if she never gave birth to Scarlett perhaps her figure could still be desirable enough for her husband. She then proceeded to send ten year old Scarlett away to live with a Filipino couple in their mid-50s in Oakland, who raised her until she turned 17. Scarlett continued to feel unwanted by her own mother.

PHYSICAL:

HEIGHT: 5′4″

WEIGHT: 120 lbs.

BUILD: Slim and petite.

HAIR COLOR: Dark brown.

USUAL HAIR STYLE: She styles it differently every other day, but when she’s concentrating, she pulls it back in a high ponytail. When it’s down, the length is just two inches below her shoulder blades.

EYE COLOR: Her right eye is green-blue and her left eye is a hazel color.

GLASSES? CONTACTS?: Neither.

STYLE OF DRESS/TYPICAL OUTFIT(S): Scarlett dresses in very trendy, designer clothing. A casual coffee outfit would be a cream colored blouse with dark wash skinny jeans and a pair of brown booties, with her hair in a messy bun and gold hoop earrings.

TYPICAL STYLE OF SHOES: High heels.

JEWELRY? TATTOOS? PIERCINGS?: She got her belly button pierced in high school, and she also has her ears typically pierced.

SCARS: She has a scar toward the back of her neck, right below her ear from trying to cut her own hair when she was nine years old. Her mother was less than pleased, to say the least.

UNIQUE MANNERISMS/PHYSICAL HABITS: She’ll lick her lips almost every time she takes a sip of coffee. When she’s drinking wine, she likes to tap her index finger just below the rim.

ATHLETICISM: She’s not into fitness, like at all. She loves to eat and she loves to drink. Her main source of exercise is walking for miles in her heels and running around stores.

HEALTH PROBLEMS/ILLNESSES: None.

INTELLECT:

LEVEL OF EDUCATION: High school diploma.

LANGUAGES SPOKEN: Fluent in both English and Russian, but English is her first language. She also can have conversational French. Conversational Tagalog also.

LEVEL OF SELF-ESTEEM: It had taken a while for Scarlett to be comfortable in her own skin, just because her entire life she was told by her mother that she was never good enough, never pretty enough, or smart enough. As she continued to build her business, slept around with as many people as she desired, her confidence grew. People tell her she’s beautiful, and she never disagrees.

GIFTS/TALENTS: Public speaking, flattering, styling and outfitting someone. Pretending her parents don’t exist.

MATHEMATICAL?: NOPE. The only time she’s mathematical is when she’s figuring out how much she’ll save on a sale.

MAKES DECISIONS BASED MOSTLY ON EMOTIONS, OR ON LOGIC?: Both, I wanna say. Scarlett can be impulsive and controlling at times, but that’s driven by anger, irritation and lust. She usually cuts off most emotions when it comes to people.

LIFE PHILOSOPHY: When you don’t have your shit together, you have to dress like you do.

RELIGIOUS STANCE: She was raised Jewish but she’s not particularly religious.

CAUTIOUS OR DARING?: Daring.

MOST SENSITIVE ABOUT/VULNERABLE TO: Her childhood. Having moved across the country where hardly anyone knew her at the age of eighteen, it was a chance to have a fresh start.

OPTIMIST OR PESSIMIST?: Pessimist.

EXTROVERT OR INTROVERT?: Extrovert.

RELATIONSHIPS:

CURRENT RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Single.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Bisexual.

PAST RELATIONSHIPS: ( cancer tw, death tw)Scarlett has only ever had one serious relationship when she was 25. He was the definition of the perfect boyfriend, everything she thought she should want but nothing seemed right. Two years into their relationship, he proposed and impulsively she accepted believing she was in love with him. Just days later she regretted her decision. Thinking she would catch wedding fever, she stuck to the engagement and continued to plan out the wedding but emotionally became distant from her fiance. A year into their engagement they were married, and just six months after they finally wed, she decided she was going to divorce him. She met with an attorney and was near ready to serve the papers when he told her he was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. He fought for 7 months. She’s harbored a substantial amount of guilt knowing that as he was dying, she wanted to leave him.

Nothing else is worth mentioning. She usually keeps her relationships casual, hardly sleeps with anyone more than twice, and even that’s pushing it.

PRIMARY REASON FOR BEING BROKEN UP WITH: Emotionally distant, doesn’t want another serious relationship.

PRIMARY REASONS FOR BREAKING UP WITH PEOPLE: Doesn’t want a serious relationship.

EVER CHEATED?: No, not at all. She would never do that to someone because she saw the damage her father did from his multiple affairs.

BEEN CHEATED ON: No. Other than her three year relationship, she hasn’t been in a relationship serious enough for it to get to that point.

LEVEL OF SEXUAL EXPERIENCE: She doesn’t date, but she frequently has one night stands.

STORY OF FIRST KISS: Her first kiss was with her best friend in 8th grade during a sleepover when she suggested that they should kiss since Scarlett said she was bored.

STORY OF LOSS OF VIRGINITY: It’s nothing exciting. In fact, it’s quite cliche which she hates. She lost her virginity the night of Junior Prom with a guy she had AP Bio with.

A SOCIAL PERSON?: Superficially, yes, but he’s very particular with who he deems as a close friend.

MOST COMFORTABLE AROUND: A bottle of red wine.

OLDEST FRIEND: CONNECTION OPEN.

HOW DOES HE THINK OTHERS PERCEIVE HER?: Charismatic, witty, beautiful.

HOW DO OTHERS ACTUALLY PERCEIVE HER?: Brutal, pretentious, beautiful

SECRETS:

LIFE GOALS: Still up in the air.

DREAMS: To be a stylist on a Hollywood-type of level.

GREATEST FEARS: Not living an exciting life/growing complacent.

MOST ASHAMED OF: Her parents.

CRIMES COMMITTED (WAS HE CAUGHT? CHARGED?): Underage drinking, but I mean, lmao. She also stole a pair of shoes from a department store when she was 14, but was never caught.

DETAILS/QUIRKS:

NIGHT OWL OR EARLY BIRD?: Night Owl.

LIGHT OR HEAVY SLEEPER?: Heavy sleeper.

FAVORITE ANIMAL: Eh.

FAVORITE FOOD: Sinigang and rice. Half of her childhood consisted of her learning how to make Filipino dishes because of who she lived with.

LEAST FAVORITE FOOD: Highkey salad. Highkey, anything vegan.

FAVORITE BOOK: Lean In: Women, Work, and the Will to Lead by Sheryl Sandberg

LEAST FAVORITE BOOK: Doesn’t care enough to have a least favorite book.

FAVORITE MOVIE: She’ll say Roman Holiday but it’s really Terms of Endearment.

LEAST FAVORITE MOVIE: The Notebook.

FAVORITE SONG: Linger by The Cranberries but anything by Barry White. She loves Motown.

FAVORITE SPORT: She loves basketball and is biased toward the Golden State Warriors.

COFFEE OR TEA?: Wine. But coffee, yeah.

CRUNCHY OR SMOOTH PEANUT BUTTER?: Crunchy.

TYPE OF CAR HE DRIVES: Silver Rolls Royce.

LEFTY OR RIGHTY?: Right-handed.

FAVORITE COLOR: Burgundy.

CUSSER?: All the time.

SMOKER? DRINKER? DRUG USER?: She used to smoke, but quit after she ended her engagement. But yes, drinker. Loves to drink. It’s her favorite hobby.

BIGGEST REGRET: Letting her marriage go on for too long.

PETS: None.

[emma-whoisleft]

GENERAL INFORMATION ➤

Full Legal Name: Emma Esmé Vanity

Emma = “Whole, universal”

Esmé = “Esteemed, loved”

Vanity = “Excessive pride in or admiration for oneself”

Nickname(s): n/a and don’t even try it Age: 18 Gender & Pronouns: cisgender female; she/her Sexuality: Greyromantic and bisexual with an outward preference for men driven by her traditional values and life plans. Date of Birth: March 27th Horoscope: Aries

Strengths: Courageous, determined, confident, blunt, passionate

Weaknesses: Impatient, moody, short-tempered, impulsive, aggressive

Likes: Comfortable clothes, taking on leadership roles, physical challeng individual sports

Dislikes: Inactivity, delays, work that does not use one’s talents

Hogwarts House: Slytherin Nationality: English on her father’s side; a quarter Moroccan via her mother’s. Emma grew up just outside Yorkshire and is very vocally proud of the region, flawed accents and all. 

Occupation:

Emma is currently a student, but she has big plans for her future and no doubt that she’ll be able to accomplish them — which isn’t a surprise to anyone who’s ever met her. Not many seventeen year olds purchase, renovate and successfully run a Quidditch camp as a summer project, and very few others have done simultaneous Ministry internships. 

Ultimately, Emma wants to work at the Ministry of Magic’s Department of Magical Games and Sports. This is made easier by the fact that her father is the Vice Head of the department and her godfather is the Head, but she genuinely wants to build her career upon her own merits. She plans to start as a Junior Regulations Analyst with a seat on the International Event Coordination team. Her goals are currently to change the relationship the Ministry has with corporate sponsors and private companies to increase the funding ceiling and strengthen key partnerships.

Then, within five years, her goal is to create her own, new position (Executive Liaison, final title pending!). Through that, she believes she would run her own staff as a department-within-a-department and be the official point of contact for team owners, sponsors, donors, private partner companies – such as her camp and similar programs – and key suppliers of equipment, uniforms, brooms, balls, etcetera. 

She plans to use whatever downtown is leftover to work on the Department’s overall public relations strategy and inter-Ministry reputation.

Summarized in One Word: Headstrong

APPEARANCE ➤

Faceclaim: Phoebe Tonkin  Height: 5′4″ Hair Color: Brown Eye Color: Brown Noticeable Features: Resting bitch face, and the ability to instill a primal fear in someone with nary a glance. 

Typical Outfit or General Fashion Sense: Emma is usually dressed for capital-B Business. her wardrobe consists of black, grey and other neutrals and she opts for simple lines, minimalist looks and the simple intimidation of clear wealth. Streamlined, with hints to reclaimed masculinity; she has more blazers than any eighteen year old should, but she can seriously rock a little black dress, too. 

HISTORY ➤

Hometown:

The Vanity family has always have a longstanding history of residing in the North Country of England, on the outskirts of Yorkshire and the Humber. Although grand in scale like most pureblood manors, the inside of the estate is considerably warmer; it features dark-paneled wood instead of marble and walls painted in warmer hues than one might normally see. The untouchable artifacts that one might find in other homes have largely been replaced with Quidditch memorabilia, family photos, and bookshelves.

There is a grande ballroom for throwing events and the foyer is invariably pristine, but the layout contains several dens stocked with comfortable couches, ever-burning fireplaces, and shelves of whiskeys and wines brought up from storage in the basement. Everything is sleek and kept up to a standard of perfection, but the family and all those who lived there before them worked hard to ensure that the place seemed approachable to newcomers. Charms ensure that the house always smells of sharp vanilla, burning wood, and pine.

The grounds feature a lake surrounded by willow trees and a trail that leads through a hedge maze into what used to be a prized garden and have since become home to a miniature Quidditch pitch used by Emma as a child learning to fly; the hoops now stand only as tall as she is, but it remains there as a tribute as the flowers grow back around them.

The home is conveniently located only two miles from the practice grounds of the Appleby Arrows, the former team of Eoin Vanity and a family favorite for the last eight generations.

Financial Status: Upper class Spoken Languages: English, and a little bit of German. Enough to have a conversation, but not enough to consider herself fluent. She’s working on some Arabic, having taken an interest for Antonin and Tazie’s sake.  Dream Job: Decision maker of the entire world Bad Habits: Emma will tell anyone who asks that she has none...because of course she will. What she means by this, however, is that she has no "traditional vices” like smoking or drinking. Bad habits, though, she has plenty. Despite holding herself to a strict schedule, she is late for nearly everything. She is also a bit of a packrat; her bag is filled at all times with disorganized papers and lists that make perfect sense to her, and that she won’t just get rid of on the off chance she one day needs them again. She’s also a fairly close-minded person. She’s not curious and prefers to stick to what, who and where she knows best. 

FAMILY BACKGROUND ➤

Mother: Yvette Vanity Father: Eoin Vanity (neé Shaper) Sibling(s): n/a Pet(s): n/a Cousin(s): Amycus and Alecto Carrow (second cousins) 

MAGICAL ABILITIES ➤

Wand: Alder, 9 ¼ inches, mermaid hair core, inflexible. Information on the core can be found here [x] and here [x]

Patronus (and which memory they’re currently using to cast a patronus if they can, or which one they’d use if they could): 

Although she has not yet been successful in casting it, Emma’s patronus would take the form of a camel. Camels are symbolic of perseverance and stamina. People with this patronus are often superbly adapted to their own situation and personal element, but clumsy or inflexible in situations that are unfamiliar. The camel is a symbol of a strong work ethic and a stubborn attitude. While those with a camel patronus are often short tempered with small annoyances, they have almost limitless patience for life’s most difficult hurdles.

Eventually, Emma will use the memory of holding her firstborn son Gus in her arms to cast the most successful patronus she’s ever been personally capable of. For now, her selections oscillate between Quidditch Cup wins, opening day of her camp and her New Years Eve vacation to Russia with Lucinda. 

Boggart: An oversized, string-bound marionette doll. At face value, it is a very real fear of hers: dolls have caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand up since she was a child. Even as a little girl who had not yet discovered the joys of Quidditch, Emma wouldn’t allow dolls of any sort to be allowed in her playroom– including, to the dismay of her mother, the collection of Victorian-era china dolls that she was supposed to take under her wing. On a deeper level, however, the boggart represents so much more: the fear of not being in control of her actions, of being a puppet of her family, of everything in her life coming with strings attached. 

OWLS: Ancient Runes, History of Magic, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Potions, Arithmancy, Herbology, Care of Magical Creatures NEWTS: Transfiguration (A), Arithmancy (E), Herbology (E), Defense Against the Dark Arts (E); Charms (E); History of Magic (O); Potions (INCOMPLETE)

What Kind of Magic do They Excel at: (OOC NOTE, this ended up becoming more of a pro/con thing than an ‘excel’ thing, but I like it so I’m keeping it oop)

Emma’s grades have always been stable and in the mid-range. However, she’s always known that her career path leads through to the world of sports somehow and that knowledge is enough to bolster her through any lower points in her academic career. 

Nonverbal spells are Emma’s specialty, as she has never been one to show her cards and depends on the elements of mystery and surprise when she’s looking to make an impact. She is heavily guarded when it comes to her arsenal, and so she stared making nonverbal spell-casting a priority. Her constant need for control over situations has lead to her holding her wand too tightly; it makes her wrist movements less fluid than they should be. 

Along those same times, the type of magic she is most gifted at is defensive magic, an interest that’s only increased in the current political climate. She can pull a shield, she can deflect, she can make herself a smaller and less easily seen target. It’s not about winning for her; it’s about surviving, just knuckling down and making sure that the crossfire doesn’t decimate her. These spells being largely nonverbal is an added boon for her safety; they draw less attention and can’t be as easily combatted. 

Personality wise, Emma is abrasive and that’s a quality that has carried over into her magic; when she tries spells, they are a bit harsher than intended. For instance, she knows a thing or two about first aid spells but if she had to heal a teammate’s broken nose on the pitch, there would be more of a crack to it—and, likely, leftover bruising—than if anyone else had tried.

Outside of dueling/magic situations, when Emma is on the offense, she prefers to do it through soft influence: with her words, with her power over people, through other channels other than violence. She knows her limits as well as the limits of others, and she’s never been able to stomach using violent magic against someone else…not that she’s ever tried, to date.

If she ever did have to make a show of physical power, her years on the Quidditch pitch have given her a predisposition to do it with actual physicality, not her wand. She has no problem smacking an unwelcome hand away or giving a well-placed shove. 

In terms of subjects she does NOT excel at, Emma is terrible at cooking and by that same logic she is terrible at potions. She doesn’t have the precision, intuition, or gentle touch for the subject. 

PSYCHOLOGY ➤

MB Type: The Logistician

Few personality types are as practical and dedicated as Logisticians. Known for their reliability and hard work, Logisticians are good at creating and maintaining a secure and stable environment for themselves and their loved ones. 

Yet Logisticians can be easily tripped up in areas where their practical and methodical approach are more of a liability than an asset. Whether it is finding (or keeping) a partner, learning to relax or improvise, reaching dazzling heights on the career ladder, or managing their workload.

As parents, people with the Logistician personality type are often the most comfortable. Their sense of responsibility and honor blends well with a tradition that has been in place since time immemorial: to raise one’s children to be respected, contributing members of home and society. As with most commitments, Logisticians do not take their roles as parents lightly, and will make it their work to ensure that this tradition is upheld to the highest standard.

Logisticians approach relationships, as with most things, from a rational perspective, looking for compatibility and the mutual satisfaction of daily and long-term needs. Blind dates and random hookups are not Logisticians’ preferred methods for finding potential partners. The risk and unpredictability of these situations has Logisticians’ alarm bells ringing, and being dragged out for a night of dancing at the club just isn’t going to happen. 

Logistician friends are not spontaneous. They are not talkative, or particularly playful in their affection. What Logistician friends are is loyal, trustworthy, honorable and dependable. Logisticians are a very methodical personality type, and this loyalty isn’t given away lightly. Often slow to make friends, Logisticians usually end up with a smaller circle, but they consider that circle to represent a promise to be there for the people they care about, and Logisticians’ promises are not easily broken.

When it comes to the workplace, Logisticians are almost a stereotype for the classic hard-working, dutiful employee. In all positions, the Logistician personality type seeks structure, clearly defined rules, and respect for authority and hierarchy. Responsibilities aren’t burdens to Logisticians, they are the trust that has been placed in them, an opportunity to prove once again that they are the right person for the job.

Enneagram: ISTJ [read more]

ISTJs are responsible organizers, driven to create and enforce order within systems and institutions. They are neat and orderly, inside and out, and tend to have a procedure for everything they do. Reliable and dutiful, ISTJs want to uphold tradition and follow regulations.

ISTJs are steady, productive contributors. Although they are Introverted, ISTJs are rarely isolated; typical ISTJs know just where they belong in life, and want to understand how they can participate in established organizations and systems. They concern themselves with maintaining the social order and making sure that standards are met.

+ Perseverance + Planning + Detail Orientation – Stubbornness – Tactlessness – Resistance to change

Moral Alignment: Lawful Neutral 

Archetype:

45% Athlete - The Athlete's focus and drive are unparalleled. Staying healthy and being fit are paramount to them (as for winning, that doesn't hurt, either).

44% Royal - When the Royal walks into a room, they command attention. They are the one in charge, and they enjoy reaping the rewards of their hard work.

11% Intellectual - The Intellectual is the ultimate dinner-party guest. Engaging questions and thoughtful debate are their trademarks.

Temperament: Choleric

[tonystarktogo]

An Unwise Murder (An Inconvenient Survival)

Summary: “Someone within SHIELD sold out an Avenger. That was their first mistake.” When Avenger Steve Rogers is declared killed in action, everyone expects his best friend and fellow agent Bucky Barnes to go on a rampage. It’s the quirky mechanic with a sharp tongue and a secret talent for less-than-legal hacking that throws the whole agency for a loop. Featuring: A dead Steve (but when is Steve ever dead), a very pissed off, fucked-up secret agent Bucky (so basically your usual Bucky), and a very civilian Tony (who is exactly as harmless as you’d expect Tony Stark to be).

Read on AO3

Here is, as promised, the first part of the Double-0-Bucky/Hacker-Tony fic! To most of you, this part will probably be familiar already, but we have to start at the beginning *shrugs* and don’t worry, the next part will follow soon. Enjoy!

Part I 

Funerals aren’t meant to be a pleasant event, so Bucky doesn’t bother to put on a show.

His face could be carved in stone for all the emotion it conveys, and his muscles are tense, coiled, trembling faintly with the desire to grab his gun and pull the damn trigger.

Bucky isn’t sure if he’d stop shooting once he starts though. Not with how many tempting targets currently surround him. Not with how it would finally shut Pierce the fuck up. People tend to talk a lot less after you’ve emptied a magazine or two into them  — and Bucky has always been a man who appreciates silence.

Fuck, Bucky doesn’t even know what he’s here for. He doesn’t attend mandatory events. It simply isn’t done. The few weeks of the year that Bucky spends in his own country, he wastes drinking and sleeping around, often both at the same time. What’s to stop him from walking straight out of this impersonally sterile room filled with people he doesn’t trust, and go back to his favourite rundown bar to knock back vodka until he can’t feel the cold on his skin anymore?

Oh right. His best friend just got himself killed in action. The lucky bastard.

On a fucking nightmare of a mission in France of all places. If it had been Russia or Iran or North Korea or even just Sokovia (and really, it takes skill to be wanted by all four sides of the conflict), Bucky could have dealt with it.

But France? Bucky takes that as a personal offence.

Avengers don’t get killed in France. Avengers get killed the way they kill: brutal and messy, with no one left behind who’d bother to avenge them. Because justice is a fairy tale, and every act of peace is built on the actions of someone smart enough to wash the blood off their hands before they step in front of a camera.

At least the acknowledgements are short and free of false sentimentality. A whole lot of bullshit, sure, but it’s not like there is another choice. Not when the truth amounts to Steve Rogers died on a mission we weren’t authorised to give, in a country he wasn’t supposed to be in, over intel that we won’t admit exist.

Bucky doesn’t laugh. Barely huffs a a breath, but the people on both sides of him twitch tellingly.

Like all Avengers, Bucky has sought out the back of the room, where he can keep his back to the wall at all times, has a clear view on all available exists and a good excuse to keep an eye on the crowd of mourners.

The thought that one of them — multiple ones, possibly — are faking their sorrow makes Bucky clench his fingers against the urge to start an interrogation right now, Avenger style.

“Don’t kill anyone you might need to sign you off on field work again,” Barton mutters to his left, the words barely audible.

Bucky forces the tense muscles in his shoulders to relax, adopts an at-ease position that won’t fool the other Avengers, but at least won’t traumatise the attending techies and lawyers. The psych department always makes such a fuss when you break their precious, civilian employees.

There’s no point in fooling his colleagues though — if the Avengers can even be called that. It’s not like he meets them for brunch or goes out drinking with them in his downtime. They’re the elite of a internationally operating spy organisation for a reason, and it’s certainly not their ability to play well with others.

Just hours after having one of their own killed in a SHIELD-issued safehouse, all the Avengers are on edge. More so than usual. That the entire op smells like foul play all the way across the Atlantic does about as much to deescalate the situation as throwing a hand grenade into a room filled with weaponized uranium.

Someone inside SHIELD sold out an Avenger.

That was their first mistake. Their second was taking Steve out without killing Bucky as well.

There’s a shift in Bucky’s peripheral vision. Natasha Romanoff, codenamed Black Widow, looks as affected of recent events as she always does: not at all.

Is she the traitor? Bucky wonders as he tilts his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement. The rivalry between Black Widow and Steve is no secret. It isn’t a friendly one either, not that any of the Avengers are the sort of person one might associate the word “friendly” with. She betrayed the Red Room at eighteen. What offer would it take for her to turn on a fellow agent? An Avenger at that? Is she tense because she expects me to do this country a favour by killing Pierce or is she afraid to be found out?

The service lasts barely twenty minutes — unsurprising, considering how much isn’t said, can’t be said, because living within the specter of the highest security clearance makes for a shoddy eulogy — but to Bucky it feels like forever.

It doesn’t help that half the people around him are waiting for him to fly off the handle in either grief or blind rage. Blind rage admittedly being the more likely outcome.

It doesn’t help that the other half undoubtedly suspects him to be the traitor — who better to kill Steve Rogers than his best friend, after all? Especially when Avengers so clearly don’t have best friends — though Bucky can’t fault them for the sensible assumption.

He’d suspect himself too. The black hole that is four years of being held as a POW on his résumé hasn’t left him with what one might call a solid standing within the agency. Or a stable life in general.

Bucky has simply been lucky that Avengers don’t have much use for stability as it is. (Also, Steve was planning a revolt, should they stop attempting to recover Bucky. Not that anyone likes to acknowledge that. Pierce’s secretary still pales every time she catches sight of one of them.)

He’s been lucky that he’s too useful to be killed.

That might change now — Steve Rogers’ death changes a lot of things — but if it comes to that, Bucky will make damn sure to take the traitor with him. Another outcome isn’t acceptable.

And Bucky is very, very good at getting what he wants.

But first, he needs to find someone clean — meaning unaffiliated with SHIELD in any way — who can take a look at the USB flash drive he’s found in one of his dead drops two days after Pierce declared Steve KIA.

Fuck, but the first thing Bucky is gonna do when he sees Steve again is punch him in the fucking face.

*

Tony has always had an interesting way of making friends.

For example, Tony meets his best friend Pepper during a hostage situation when he’s sixteen. He’s never before seen a girl throw high heels at a guy’s head with such a deadly accuracy. Suffice to say Tony likes her immediately — and promises to buy her all the shoes she needs to knock stupid people down, naturally.

They keep in touch afterwards, and it’s the start of something great.

He meets his brother in all but blood much the same way, only Tony barely remembers that one because those kidnappers were smart enough to drug him before trying anything funny. Luckily, Tony has Rhodey for the straight thinking part — or at least he does after that episode.

On another, memorable occasion, Tony befriended one of his kidnappers.

In his defence: they were some pretty alright people, for being criminals holding him for ransom. No unnecessary threats or bodily harm, and they actually gave him drug-free food too. Also, you have no idea how mind-numbingly boring being kidnapped is. Well, not the getting kidnapped part but the staying-kidnapped-whilst-your-kidnappers-fail-to-get-their-money part.

Sadly, some people still believe that Stark Industries will pay for the disowned heir Tony Stark’s safe return. And usually they don’t react too well to being proven wrong. That time being one of those rare exceptions. In no small part thanks to a certain member of the crew whose identity Tony will protect until the day he dies. Or something.

Never mind.

The point is, Tony is used to meeting cool people under very hazardous, extraordinary circumstances.

Which is why — as he will later explain to a very exasperated Rhodey and an even more distrustful Pepper — when Tony locks up his garage at 7.40 pm after a long day of changing oils and busted tires, only to suddenly find himself face to face with a hooded stranger — after he’s already locked the doors, though he won’t share that part with his friends — he doesn’t panic.

He greets the guy — there’s a twenty percent chance Tony knows him, okay, hiding their faces as they track him down isn’t exactly a rarity — like a civilised person instead.

“Hi there,” Tony says with his best customer smile. “How may I help you?”

The guy — who definitely has more upper body strength than Tony, not that he notices or anything — doesn’t so much as twitch. He just stands there, body turned towards Tony, face shadowed by his hood. Tony really should have switched out the broken light bulb ages ago, maybe then he wouldn’t have to squint at his visitor like a sceptical squirrel, trying to make out the guy’s features.

“Anthony Stark?” the guy asks after a moment, voice low and rumbling, like gathering clouds on the far end of the horizon, as a violent storm approaches.

It’s that specific, unfairly nice sound that decides it: Tony definitely doesn’t know this guy. There’s no way he would have forgotten a voice like that.

Tony lets his smile brighten a little because if he’s about to be kidnapped — is it that time of the month already? Tony wouldn’t know, his last calendar sorta had a small accident involving a fire and DUM-E using up all the fire extinguisher on Tony rather than the actual fire. It was a pretty sweet, protective gesture, actually. Tony may or may not have teared up, just a little, but that didn’t change that half his equipment had to be replaced — then he’d like to start their working relationship on a good note. The kidnapping attempts tend to have less violent endings that way.

Additionally, Tony really doesn’t want to start a fight in his garage. This is his work place — which is basically holy, ask anyone. His cars are in here. They are not acceptable collateral damage, no matter what Pepper says.

“Do you know a Steve Rogers?” is mystery guy’s next question.

Which is a damn shame because it takes all of Tony’s not inconsiderable self-control to not tense at that particular inquiry. Steve Rogers.

God fucking damn it.

Tony forces the memories, the reflexive questions — a bloodied, broken body, screams of pain, narrowed, blue eyes glaring at him even as strong hands push him out of the line of fire — down immediately, takes care to keep his expression calm and clueless instead. He’s got lots of practice doing that. It’s just like being confronted with an obnoxious reporter who won’t stop bothering him with stupid questions about why he denies his father’s legacy. Bloodthirsty reporters, bloodthirsty assassins, it’s really just more of the same.

Tony has been handling shit like this since he was nine. If mystery guy expects him to trip up and give up even a single piece of information the easy way, he’s got another thing coming. Tony Stark doesn’t do easy.

Especially not when it concerns people he almost considers tolerable. Those gems are hard enough to find as it is — well, among the boring, totally legal working crowd at least — Tony will protect them with all he has. Not that he wouldn’t do the same for people he doesn’t like, he just wouldn’t be as happy about it.

Mystery guy is in for a surprise.

“Rogers?” Tony furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “That doesn’t ring a bell.” Close enough to the truth to count.

Then, the grin slides completely off Tony’s face and his eyes narrow in open suspicion. “Not that it matters. I don’t make a habit of handing out contact information to strangers who can’t be bothered to introduce themselves. Client privileges, I’m sure you understand.”

And yeah, some sarcasm may slip into those words, but can you blame Tony? He’s been working for almost ten hours in that special place reserved in hell for customer service, and, frankly, Tony is done with the world for the day. That he’s most likely dealing with what’s either a very diligent mercenary or a very strange kidnapper does little to lighten his mood.

Both options are far less appealing than mystery guy’s sexy voice initially indicated. Tony feels a little cheated.

“Oh, I understand,” mystery guy murmurs ominously.

When Tony squints, he can literally see the shadows behind the guy blacken. On an unrelated note, he really needs to stop binge-watching those horror flicks. Clearly it’s messing with his mind.

Not that this keeps Tony from bristling at Mystery Guy’s threatening tone — if anything, it has Tony reflexively square his shoulders because he does not fold.

Mystery guy snorts, and Tony has the fleeting impression that the stranger has the gall to be amused by him. He kind of wants to deck the guy just for that.

“I can see why he liked you.”

Something in those words freezes Tony into place long before his brain has puzzled through their meaning. By the time his mind catches up to the past tense that refers to a person it should absolutely not refer to, mystery guy has already taken a few steps towards the only functioning light bulb in Tony’s garage and slips his hoodie back.

The bleak light reveals a pale, handsome face with a strong jaw and icy, blue eyes. Absently, Tony approves of the way the hoodie has messed up Mystery Guy’s wild hair into something untameable and unfairly attractive, but it’s kind of hard to melt into a puddle of appreciative goo when you’ve just learned of the death of a friend.

Or well, acquaintance maybe. Rhodey always reminds Tony that he can’t just go around, adopting friends left and right just because he wants to. And with Steve it’s hard to say. The guy is almost impossible to read.

Still, it’s Steve they’re talking about. And whatever mess he’s gotten himself involved in, Tony doesn’t doubt for a moment that Steve thought he was doing it for the right reasons. He’s annoyingly self-righteous like that. It sucks even more when you listen to him rant and realize he’s got a point, not that Tony will ever admit such a thing to his face.

Which will be hard to do if Steve is actually—

Tony presses his lips together and defiantly stares up at Mystery Guy. Who is, in fact, taller than him. There really is no justice in the world.

“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want?” is what Tony settles on to summarize the maelstrom of confusing emotions wrecking chaos inside him.

The man takes a threatening step closer. Of course, it’s not that hard to come across as threatening when you’re half a head taller and made of muscles and steel. Still. The guy could at least try to keep his looming on the downlow.

Not that Tony does him the courtesy of giving up an inch. This is his garage, damn it. No one makes Tony feel afraid in his own home.

Mystery Guy growls and there is a lethal coldness in his eyes that Tony doesn’t think a human should be able to portray.

“I was Steve’s best friend. And you’re going to find the people who killed him so that I can return the favor.”

Thoughts? 

[theoddcatlady]

My Friends Went On A Roadtrip Through Europe

The only reason I didn’t go on the ‘greatest trip of our lives’ was because I was in a car accident that nearly killed me.

It was bad. I wasn’t able to get out of bed without assistance for that first month. Broken leg, busted up ribs, I looked more like a boxer that just got out of a match gone bad than a recent highschool graduate who was planning on going to college as a psychology major.

My friends and I had been planning this trip since our freshman year in highschool. I know. It was fucking stupid. But we promised if we all graduated with a grade average of 3.5 or better and if we all scraped together the cash from after school/summer jobs, we’d take a road trip through Europe. Somehow we actually managed to do it, our parents were so impressed that they even kicked in some cash. The silly dreams of fourteen year olds were coming to life.

Whitney wanted to go to Paris and see the Eiffel Tower. Jade was all about Austria, she wanted to see where the Sound of Music was filmed. Jonah planned to eat all the chocolate he could stomach in Switzerland. Me? I wanted to see the countryside of every country- mountains, rivers, the ocean… But one week before the plane was supposed to take off, well, the accident happened.

I told my friends to go without me, but I made them promise to constantly send me updates and tell me how much fun they were having. So they left- Whitney, Jade, Jonah, Holden, and Tori. I even gave them a portion of the money I saved up so they could go crazy.

At first, everything was normal. I got pictures, they even sent me a package from England full of lil knick knacks and snacks. I hated the Irn Bru but the Cadbury chocolates were to DIE for. But everything went wrong shortly after Austria.

Below are the emails and messages my friends sent me when they had the time. These all take place over about three weeks. After that, everything goes silent. Their parents have yet to hear from them. They’ve filed missing person’s reports, but I think if any of them are still alive… they won’t want to be found.

From: Jade

Jesus CHRIST, you will not believe what happened last night, Lilah.

First off, let me make abundantly clear that no one is dead, and no the trip is not over yet. We got really lucky. Second off, Jonah is a fucking moron and I swear to god once his stitches are out I’m ripping him a new one.

Okay so last night we were out a bit late, we all got a little tipsy and we were heading back to the hotel. Legal drinking age is eighteen, it’s not like that time we tried to sneak into Beverly’s with those fake ID’s. On the way back, we stumbled across another drunk who made a pass at Jonah. And you know Jonah, his drunk ass reacted loudly and violently. I swear he was about to make a swing at the guy… but the other guy swung first.

I swear, the drunk guy fought like an animal, Jonah didn’t stand a chance. We barely managed to rip Jonah away from him before he ripped his throat out. It was bloody and MESSY.

We got Jonah to the nearest emergency room, got him patched up, headed back home to sleep it off. How much do you wanna bet that he won’t remember it in the morning?

I’m gonna hit the sack. Jonah is a moron.

From: Jonah

Jade told me she sent you an email about the fight. She really needs to chill, I’m really not that bad off. Besides, the guy was a creep.

I do remember what happened, despite what she thinks, we were heading back when, get this, strange guy complimented my SKIN. Said it looked smooth and rosy. That’s not even flirting anymore, that’s just creepy! I mean, he was totally your type, tall, dark, handsome, blue eyes and a bit of scruff on his face, but noooot mine.

I’m fine though, you can barely tell where the guy got me. I think he had a knife because I got ripped. Up. Can barely tell now, he must’ve just grazed me.

We’ll be looping back up and heading for Poland next. Gonna cross through Germany to do that, but I don’t mind the drive. Besides, Germany = MORE BEER.

Miss you, next time you will totally have to come along.

From: Tori

I really wish you were here. I miss you so, so much. How is your therapy going? I hope it’s going well, you really missed out on some beautiful views today. The camera doesn’t quite capture it, but I hope to paint it once I’m home with my supplies. Maybe I can bring a little of this place back to you.

I think I’m just homesick. I might cut my trip short and head back, I’m really worried about you.

From: Whitney

Did you talk Tori out of going home yet? I don’t think she’s willing to admit how spooked she got when that bum attacked Jonah. She started crying when she saw how bloodied he was. I was pretty freaked too, but it was way worse than it looked. He’s actually completely fine now. Stitches came out, there’s not even a scar. I’m pretty sure Jonah’s actually bummed there’s nothing to show off for when he gets home LOL. But yeah, nothing to worry about, he’s still the same energetic Jonah we all know and love.

Holden’s horrible at remembering to email you, I’ve told him like, six times. Did he do anything other than the one time he sent a what’s up? He totally only did that because I nagged him.

I wish we spent more time in Italy, but we’re making great time through Germany. I’m gonna go now, kick ass and take names at Overwatch for us when you can sit up, all right?

From: Tori

Jonah’s almost too over the top since the attack. I think he’s trying to make up for something, I don’t know what. It’s like… remember that time he pounded Mountain Dews all night while we were gaming? This was during our League of Legends phase (glad that ended) but Jonah was incredibly manic and he was constantly getting up to pace.

He’s like that but 24/7. I don’t think he’s slept a full night, and it’s almost impossible to make him stop for the night. We want to relax, there’s no rush to get to Poland. I’ll talk to him when I can get him to settle, see what’s wrong. Love you.

From: Jade

Welp, Tori went home last night.

Her clothes and passport are gone, she left a note saying she really missed you and her parents, she’ll make it up to us when we’re home. I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed she didn’t talk to us beforehand.

She was right though, Jonah needs a chill pill. Is this how some people deal with trauma? Because I mean, you weren’t there, but that was… pretty bad. I can’t even imagine how Jonah feels, but he’s Jonah. He never lets anyone in. It’s why you two broke up sophomore year, kid has issues. I hoped this trip through Europe might help him learn about himself but I think it’s making it worse.

From: Whitney

WE’RE IN DENMARK BECAUSE APPARENTLY JONAH DECIDED POLAND WAS A STUPID IDEA.

Ugh, sorry. So Jonah offered to drive us through the night. I said no, but Holden and Jade were all for it. So I sucked it up, took something to make me drowsy, and konked out in the back seat. When I woke up, Jonah and Jade were having a shouting match and turns out, we’re in DENMARK. That wasn’t the plan. He didn’t clear this with us.

Holden’s on his side, saying that Denmark is a cool country too but Jade’s royally pissed. I can’t blame her. We promised at the beginning of the trip that we were to clear any travel plans with each other. We’d talk about it.

That’s another reason to miss you- you are SO good at talking. <3

From: Jonah

Everyone but Holden’s pissed at me.

Listen, I’m fine, I promise. I’ve just had to deal with some insomnia lately, is that really that bad? It’s not like I’m as bad off as you were. There was a brief moment that morning of the accident we all thought we’d lose you.

The insomnia goes away in the day. I can sleep then. Everyone can go and have fun during the day, I get to sleep, and at night I go do my shit. There’s. Nothing. Wrong with that.

I mean, another reason I wish you were here was that I’ve been having some… preeettyyy interesting dreams involving you, when I can sleep anyway. TMI. But maybe I should’ve been less of a puss with you back in the day. I shouldn’t have pushed you away.

When I’m back, can we go on a date? I’ll buy. Anywhere you want to go.

From: Jade

Jonah made a pass at me. And he’s not drunk.

I’m confused. And worried. Not gonna lie, he was pretty smooth about it, but I’ve never thought of him that way. He’s like that obnoxious little brother you love anyway. I told him no and he accepted gracefully.

Talking with Whitney and he also made a move at him… and at Holden? Jesus Christ, it’s about time that dumbass fell out of the closet. Holden’s pretty into it though. I’m wondering if this trip was actually a success in that matter.

We’re going up through Scandinavia now. Sweden, here we come!

At least we’re in some of the most gay friendly countries in the world right now… although I swear to god I think someone’s been following us. I’ve spotted this small white car twice now and I think it’s the same driver. But I’m probably just paranoid.

From: Holden

i know i dont email you often. i hate writing.

but something’s really wrong with jonah. i think he hurt someone.

last night we went out for drinks. ive always thought jonah was cute but never thought hed give me the time of day. we shared a hotel room, nothing happened but it was nice.

but I woke up this morning and I was trying to find something to wear and I accidentally went through one of jonah’s bags because our bags look the same and

i found one of his shirts. it’s covered in blood. And I found tori’s passport. it’s also bloody.

i’ve been reading and there’s been two bodies on the same route we’ve been going. i also called tori’s mom and she hasn’t heard anything from her daughter. she hasnt gone home. what should I do lilah? you were always the smart one.

From: Jade

Jonah’s lost his goddamn mind.

I’m surprised I get signal out in the middle of nowhere but Holden asked him about Tori and Jonah got really defensive. Then he brought up clothes covered in blood and that Tori never made it home and… Jonah snapped.

He pulled over to the side of the road and lunged for Holden. Whitney tried to break it up and got pretty fucked up for it. They’ll be okay as soon as we get to a hospital or something.

He’s gone now. He took the keys with him. I’m gonna try and call for help but jesus christ how have things gone so wrong?

From: Jonah

(This email was sent to all of us, along with the next one.)

I’m with Master now. He never meant for this to happen. He never meant for me to get turned. He tried to find me but my own stupidity kept us going… I’m so mad at myself. I should’ve told you guys what’s been going on. I’ve been barely sleeping, any sort of bright light fucking hurts, and Tori…

I never meant to hurt Tori. I swear to god. She was one of my best friends. But she’s dead. And I killed her. I couldn’t stop myself. By the time I came to my senses, I’d shredded her to pieces. If they ever find where I dumped her, she’ll probably be a Jane Doe for the rest of time.

Master found me running around around and stopped me. We’re someplace safe now. He’ll help me.

But I need to know one thing-

Did I bite you guys?

From: Whitney

You bit me. And you bit Holden.

Jade’s fine. For now. I don’t know how long though. I feel strange. Like there’s something burning in my head and down my spine. Please find us. Holden’s starting to feel strange too.

Lilah, we love you so much.

Please, don’t try to come find us. Go to college. Have fun. Make new friends. Study hard. Forget about us.

We’re dead anyway.