#as a complete teetotaller

[jikangairodo]

hc + collection

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

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

[delphi-shield]

instant connection .ᐟ.ᐟ

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

next part

leon's a liar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

so of course he messages you.

all right, what's wrong with you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"yeah, of course."

"uh-huh," you hum doubtfully.

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

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

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

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

"that's rare."

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

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

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

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

casual. nice.

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

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

"yeah. yeah, of course."

this is going too well. too smoothly.

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

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

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

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

"just making sure."

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

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

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

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

"i kind of am a big deal."

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

if only you knew that was the truth.

dividers from @/adornedwithlight

[lackadaisycats]

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

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

His abstinence is mostly to do with past experience.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

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

Nope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[shelyue99]

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

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

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

/

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

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

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

[luetta]

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

[ugh-yoongi]

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

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

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

unsaid

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

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

You’re too old for this kind of shit.

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

The pictures are the worst part.

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

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

Fuck, you really need to get out of here.

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

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

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

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

“Feel like sharing?”

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

“Is that a no?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not very nice.” You pout.

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

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

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

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

A spark: “You wanna get out of here?”

“And go where?” you ask.

And a flame: “Wherever you want.”

[tossacointoyourhotmess]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Learn more

[stephofromcabin12]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And finally:

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

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

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

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

[historia-vitae-magistras]

🎮 🎻 🚫 🍔 for my north american trio

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

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

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

Matt - Woodworking, gardening, hiking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matt - He would rather not be sober in general.

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

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

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

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

Character Details Ask Game

[stairnaheireann]

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

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

[mthollowell-writes]

Tag: OC in 15

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

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

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

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

Mariela:

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“My reputation speaks for itself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

September:

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your secrets are safe with me.”

“I need a smoke."

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

[gentil-minou]

Xiantober Day 5 - Innkeeper!Xian

Red Ribbon Tavern was known for two things:

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

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

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

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

His food was known to give you food poisoning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lan Wangji arches his brow, and waits.

(TBC on Day 14: Bartender)

threadfic here

[girls-band-headcanons]

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

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

[blackbutler-readerinsertsandjunk]

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

of course, modern AU is always fun! <3

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

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

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

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

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

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

[aramblingjay]

All things soft and beautiful Established Buddie, Army!Eddie, outside POV (3K)

“It’s just—hard, sometimes.” Buck’s voice shakes, laid bare with pain and longing so thick it makes her breath catch. Oh, Buck. “I really miss him, Hen.”

ao3

-

Hen likes the new firefighter, mostly.

Buck is headstrong and a little bit reckless, doesn’t take no well in both the good ways and the bad, but there’s a bit of a hero streak in all of them or they wouldn’t be doing this job. His is dialed up all the way to 100, but it only becomes a problem on certain kinds of calls.

Calls with kids, mainly. Young kids, four or five or eight-years-old, round faces and pudgy cheeks and wide eyes—it gets to everyone, when there’s a kid they can’t save, but Hen knows what it means to be in that situation as a parent.

Buck reacts the same way.

Like the devastation isn’t communal but personal, like he wouldn’t have to extend his imagination very far at all to know how that kind of loss would break a person.

“I’ll tell them,” he says, very firmly, when he brings out the body of a six-year-old girl and lays her on the grass. (“They deserve to say goodbye,” he said before running into a burning bedroom to get her in the first place, faster than Hen or Bobby could tell him it wasn’t worth risking his life for a body that no longer had one.) 

Buck is reckless on calls with kids like it’s his own that’s hurt or trapped or dying, and it’s only a healthy understanding of personal boundaries that stops Hen from asking how old Buck’s is.

Because there’s empathy and there’s knowing, and the pain in Buck’s eyes as he watches the girl’s parents grieve is the latter.

But Buck hasn’t shared that part of his life with them, so Hen doesn’t ask. Just gives him an extra-long hug after the call and beelines home to be with her own kid, hoping he will do the same.

-

She’s somewhat surprised to learn that Buck is a teetotaler. Well, as surprised as it’s possible to be learning anything about Buck, given how close to his chest he plays his cards.

He rarely joins them for nights out anyway, so even just seeing him in the doorway of the bar is a pleasant surprise.

“Hey, Buck! Glad you could join us!” Hen waves him over soon as they make eye contact.

“I can’t stay long, but I wanted to stop by,” Buck says, and there’s something in his voice that makes her decide not to press.

“Got a hot date to rush off to?” Chim teases, and it’s only because Hen’s already watching Buck so closely that she sees the way his expression completely shuts down for a second before roaring back like nothing happened.

“Something like that,” Buck says evasively, then sighs. She can almost see the cycle of emotions play out across his face—doubt, then resignation, then acceptance. “Actually it’s—I’ve got a kid.” Buck pulls out his phone, as nearly all parents tend to after those words, and shows the table a photo of an adorable little boy who couldn’t be more than seven. “Christopher. He’s with a friend, but I’ll have to go pick him up soon.”

She suspected as much. A lot of things make a lot of sense now that it’s been confirmed.

“Really cute kid, Buck,” Chim says, almost like an apology, but Buck only smiles.

“The cutest,” he agrees.

And Hen is a little biased, given that no kid is cuter than hers, but Christopher can be second.

“Could I get a club soda?” Buck asks the bartender a few minutes later, like it’s his usual order on an evening night out, and that makes sense too.

Buck’s a dad—it’s nice to know her instincts were right.

-

She meets Christopher after Buck has been with the 118 for nearly six months. 

“Childcare fell through, and I didn’t know where else to bring him,” Buck says, glancing apologetically at Bobby as a woman and a little boy on crutches walk into the station, both with the same curly brown hair.

“Yeah you did. You brought him here,” Bobby says warmly, seemingly unsurprised that there’s a kid Buck normally coordinates childcare for, despite not having been with them at the bar when Buck shared that tidbit, and that’s that.

Buck talks quietly to the woman for a moment—she looks a little too old to be Buck’s partner, Hen thinks, though clearly she’s familiar to the kid—before taking the boy in his arms and giving him a big squeeze. Any doubt at all that this isn’t Buck’s kid disappears at that—not just the gesture, but the way he knows exactly how to position his arms so the kid’s enveloped in them without his crutches poking or prodding or getting caught anywhere they shouldn’t.

Buck sets the kid down and turns to them, looking as though he forgot for a moment that he had an audience at all.

“Everyone, this is Chris,” Buck introduces him, and though he doesn’t add my son, it’s implied by the protective arm he has around Chris’s shoulders, the open affection on his face every time he so much as glances at the kid, the way Chris turns to Buck instinctively every time he has a question.

Having Chris at the firehouse turns out to be a blast. Bobby seems happy for Chris to take part in anything that isn’t dangerous, so Chim shows Chris around the ambulance, and Hen takes his vitals so he can see how the monitor works in action. They lower him down the fireman’s pole, her and Chim supporting him up top, Buck and Bobby on the level below to catch him, Chris laughing in delight the whole time. Chris is the sweetest kid, bright and happy, the smile never wavering from his face, and it’s easy to see Buck’s influence in the way he asks a hundred questions, stares at everything with wide-eyed wonder, wants to touch and feel and experience every single corner of the firehouse possible.

Bobby even lets Chris watch as he makes lunch and gives him a whats-what of the engine, pointing out the different hose lines and switches and showing him how the radios work, and she hasn’t seen Bobby smile so freely in a long time.

“That’s where Buck sits,” she hears him say at one point as she’s walking past (okay, eavesdropping, but it’s so rare to see Bobby this uncomplicatedly happy, and she wants to revel in every moment of it).

“I wanna sit where Buck sits,” Chris says immediately, and Bobby chuckles like he was expecting that.

“Yeah, I thought you might. C’mon, come over here. There we go. You know, before I was a captain, I used to sit in Buck’s seat, too.”

She didn’t know that about Bobby. It’s not often that he lets anything slip about his life as a firefighter before the 118.

“It’s the best seat.” Chris sounds far too solemn for a little kid. “Like my Buck.”

Bobby chuckles again. This time, Hen could swear it sounds a little wet. “That’s right, kiddo. Like your Buck.”

Hen wonders why Chris didn’t say like my dad, but it’s not her place, and she doesn’t ask.

Whatever Chris calls him, there’s no doubting what Buck is to the kid.

-

The questions only grow after meeting Chris, because it’s plain to see there’s no mom in the picture.

She meets Tía Pepa, the older woman with Chris’s hair, and wonders a) when Buck learned Spanish and b) how they’re related. Neither of them offer that information, though, and she’s not some gossip-hungry neighbor to go prying into business that’s not hers.

She meets Carla, a home health aide who seems a lot more like a co-parent than someone paid to take care of Chris. Carla is fierce and kind and wise, and Hen likes her immediately. All the more so when she sees how Chris greets her, his perpetual smile widening even further, his arms reaching up to ask for a hug that Carla returns with great enthusiasm.

She meets Maddie, Buck’s beloved older sister. Former nurse, now a dispatcher, and the only person she’s seen who calls him Evan. That seems significant, for reasons Hen can’t quite explain.

But neither Tía Pepa nor Carla nor Maddie seem fitting for the missing person in Buck’s we—we thought LA would be a good change, we wanted Chris at a school which supports him, we have a spare couch you can crash on—always, always we, like there’s someone missing.

Hen doesn’t ask the obvious question. Who’s we?

Mostly, she’s afraid of what the answer might be. Because it doesn’t seem like the other half of Buck’s we is around anymore.

-

Buck comes into shift and he’s off.

Everyone can tell. Bobby sends him no less than seven worried glances during the morning briefing, Chim keeps looking at her like maybe she knows what’s going on, and Buck himself is uncharacteristically silent. Really, he seems like he’s a million miles away from the firehouse entirely.

Bobby pulls Buck into his office before lunch, and whatever the two of them talk about, they both come out looking even more grim than before.

“Are you okay, Buck?” she asks him, only once, fully aware he’s going to hate that but unable to help herself. He looks awful.

Buck manages the most pathetic imitation of a smile she’s ever seen, his lips stretching into the gesture but not a trace of happiness anywhere on his face, and shrugs. “Bad day. But I’m fine.”

He looks like he knows that’s a bullshit answer and she’s going to call him out on it, so she doesn’t.

-

The bad day becomes a worse day and then an even worse day over the course of the shift, until Hen is all but ready to tell Bobby they need to send Buck home. Calls have been light, thankfully, but he’s in no shape to handle anything more serious than grandma with a sprained ankle right now. And in this job, a five-alarm emergency can drop at any moment.

She elects to talk to Buck first.

“Something is going on with you, Buck. You’re not yourself. And I get that you’re a private guy, I respect that, but I’m worried you’re too distracted for the job.” That’s true, but only partially. She isn’t here because she’s worried about his ability to do the job. “I’m worried about you,” Hen adds.

They’re in the locker room. Shift change is twelve hours in either direction, which means it’s completely deserted. There won’t be a better moment than this for Buck to open up, if he decides he wants to.

It’s fine if he doesn’t. Hen isn’t in the business of forcing answers out of people she cares about, and somehow, in the short time he’s been with the 118, Buck has already made that list. But sometimes, all someone needs to open up is a little, gentle nudge.

“Talk to me, Buckaroo,” she says softly, smiling a little when he huffs at the nickname. It’s new, but she thinks it might be here to stay. “Is this about the missing partner?”

His eyes widen comically. “What? How did you—”

“I’m very observant. Trust me, I don’t think anyone else knows.” Chim is too oblivious. She has a feeling Bobby knows most of it already, though that doesn’t seem to be Buck’s concern. And nobody else on A-shift pays enough attention to their little band of misfits to have noticed. “Tell me about them.”

Buck lets out a long sigh and swipes a hand down his face. She waits him out.

Eventually, after several minutes of sitting in silence, he nods and clears his throat. “My partner is, uh—his name is Eddie.” She can tell what’s coming next just from the warmth that rushes into Buck’s voice as he says the name. Her heart swells. “He’s my fiancé. Love of my life. Um, and Chris’s dad.”

She hears what isn’t being said. “I think you’re also Chris’s dad, Buck.”

“Not officially. Not yet, at least. But someday soon, yeah.” She sees Buck smile just at the thought of it, and her heart swells a little more. “Someday.”

She assumes he means adoption papers and signatures and all of the legal stuff that’s worth nothing more than the copy paper it’s printed on.

“Your actions every day mean a lot more than some piece of paper, Buck. You don’t need someone else to sign off on what you mean to that kid.”

Buck snorts. There’s more pain than amusement in the sound. “That’s what Eddie always tells me. I think the two of you would get along. He’s, uh, he’s always cool under pressure. Like you. Mr. Calm while I’m freaking out.” Another snort, self-deprecating this time. “Apparently you both know how to get me talking, too.”

A little bit of kindness and a lot of patience. It isn’t really a tough one to figure out, but she keeps that to herself. It’s been more and more clear that whatever Buck’s past, it wasn’t one that left him feeling valued and appreciated.

“Did something happen to Eddie?” she ventures very carefully, still trying to get to the bottom of his mood today.

Buck is silent for a long time. When he speaks, his voice is thinner than a thread. “He’s deployed. Army.”

Oh.

“It’s just—hard, sometimes.” Buck’s voice shakes, laid bare with pain and longing so thick it makes her breath catch. Oh, Buck. “I really miss him, Hen.”

He breaks on her name, and she reaches forward to wrap her arms around him in time to catch the first tears on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Buck. God, I’m so sorry.”

“They lost contact—with his chopper—this—this morning,” he continues between gasping sobs, and her heart breaks and breaks and breaks. “I can’t lose him. Chris can’t—I can’t—”

She goes home the next morning and holds Karen as tight as she can and tries not to cry.

-

Hen doesn’t love keeping secrets from Chim, but this isn’t hers to tell. 

Buck looks better next shift—she doesn’t corner him to ask how Eddie’s doing, but Buck gives her a small, tight nod when their eyes meet in the locker room, and she takes that to mean Eddie’s at least been found. He and Bobby have another long conversation in Bobby’s office, but Buck emerges looking a whole lot healthier this time, so she just deflects when Chim asks the low-hanging question.

“Do you know what’s going on with Buck?”

“I think he’s just going through something, Chim.”

“So you do know!” Chim crows, triumphant, because he knows how to read her far too well to be fooled by that.

“My lips are sealed,” Hen says, smiling a little to soften the blow but no less serious for it.

And Chim knows her well enough to accept that without further protest.

-

She and Karen have a fight. It’s small and stupid and will probably be resolved by the end of the shift, but they like to give each other time to cool off, so Hen comes to the firehouse an hour early just to get some space.

Buck is already there, leaning against the back corner of the bay where no one can sneak up on him and talking on the phone.

His eyes flicker to her when she walks in, and he shoots her a little smile before going back to his call.

Her first instinct is that he’s talking to Christopher—there’s a wide, easy smile on his face and a looseness to his limbs that she recognizes from days Chris has visited the station.

But it’s a school day, and there’s no way Buck would be interrupting that to talk to Chris unless something is wrong. And nothing seems to be wrong. If anything, Buck looks lighter than he has in weeks.

That’s when the other possibility occurs to her—he’s talking to Eddie. Elusive, deployed, they-lost-contact-with-his-chopper Eddie. Eddie, who apparently can make Buck smile like the sun itself.

She’s always felt, even after meeting Chris, that there are parts of Buck they don’t get to see. Maybe the problem is this—all the soft, happy, best parts are stuck in a warzone an ocean away.

She watches his lips move—she’s not looking, per se, but she’s not not looking—and recognizes the familiar shape of I love you just before Buck hangs up.

He puts his phone away and walks straight toward her. “Yes, that was Eddie,” he says, clearly able to read what she was going to ask. Buck sounds like he might have meant the words to be nonchalant and serious, but there’s a happy twist to his lips that just makes him sound adorably fond.

She doesn’t ask how Eddie’s doing. She doesn’t need to—it’s obvious just by looking at Buck.

“You seem a lot happier today, Buck,” she says, opting for total honesty. “I’m really glad.”

It’s a much better shift than the last one.

-

Several months go by without incident. She learns that Buck has worked pretty much every part-time job in existence, likes his rope tied off in a very particular way depending on what he’s being lowered into, and talks in his sleep when he’s really, really tired.

Mostly he just mumbles, and it’s a surprisingly entertaining game to try and figure out what he might be saying.

Sometimes, though, his sleep ramblings are a lot more heartbreaking.

Today it’s no—stop—please—and then he’s awake, mouth open around a silent scream, chest heaving, eyes darting frantically around the room until they land on her. “Ed’ie?” he asks, voice slurred like he’s not all there. “Ed’ie?”

Hen freezes in the middle of spreading the sheets on her bed. Normally when this happens, Buck hightails it out of the bunk room and disappears into some corner of the firehouse from where she’s sure he calls Eddie or Chris or maybe a therapist, re-emerging after about thirty minutes looking like nothing happened at all. Normally when this happens, she stays very still and silent and tries to act like she hasn’t seen anything until Buck is out of the near vicinity. Privacy is important, and it seems even more so for Buck.

But there’s no chance of that now.

“It’s me, Buckaroo.” The nickname has indeed stuck ever since she realized Buck’s awkward blush at hearing it is because he does like it, not because he doesn’t. “It’s Hen. You’re at the firehouse, in the bunk room. It’s probably…close to midnight? You’re okay, Buck, you’re safe.”

“Hen?” he asks, still a little slurred. He rubs at his eyes, blinks twice, and then tries again. “Hen. Sorry. I didn’t meant to—”

She doesn’t wait to find out what he didn’t mean to do. “Don’t you dare apologize. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, just—nightmare.”

And she desperately wonders what kind of trauma prompts a nightmare with those words (no—stop—please—she might hear them in her own nightmares for a long time to come), but Hen only nods. It’s not her place to ask.

She leaves the bunk room to crash on a sofa elsewhere, letting Buck have the space to himself to decompress however he needs.

It doesn’t surprise her in the slightest that when she walks past the bunk room entrance an hour later, he’s on the phone wearing his gentlest smile, the one she now knows is reserved for only one man.

-

“Where’s Buck?” she asks Bobby, once the morning briefing is done and everyone is out of earshot checking the apparatus. Bobby claimed Buck took the day off, which had everyone raising their eyebrows, but ultimately prying secrets out of Cap is harder than pulling teeth.

“Like I said, he took the day for personal reasons.”

That could mean anything, good or bad. Or really, really bad.

Hen hesitates, then decides to go for it. “Is it Eddie?” Bobby looks surprised that she knows about Eddie, but not surprised about who he is, which makes her even more certain. “Buck told me about him. You don’t have to say more than you can, Bobby, but given that we both know—I just want to know if he’s okay.” She’s not really sure which of them the he refers to, but if Buck and Eddie are anything like her and Karen, one isn’t okay unless the other is anyway.

“Eddie’s coming home today on medical leave.” Bobby smiles as he says it, and Hen can’t help but smile too.

Good news, then. Really, really good news.

“Oh, that’s fantastic! Buck must be over the moon.” Despite not knowing Eddie outside of how happy he clearly makes Buck, Hen thinks she might be a little bit over the moon herself.

“He couldn’t stop grinning the whole time he was asking for the shift off.” Bobby chuckles, fond and warm like a pleased parent. “I told him to just take the week. They deserve the time together, all three of them.”

Hen can’t agree more.

-

She finally meets Eddie Diaz at the start-of-summer barbecue, just a few days after hearing the news that he’s officially home for good.

(Buck looked close to tears telling her about it, but good tears, unlike the last time she saw him cry over his fiancé. Very, very good tears)

Eddie’s nearly as tall as Buck, close-cropped brown hair, warm eyes, the kind of muscled that comes from months of relying on your body to survive rather than hitting the gym in the evenings—and drop-dead gorgeous. He isn’t her type, sure, but she has eyes.

Damn, Buckley.

Eddie’s more reserved than she expected—polite, kind, greeting her with a handshake and a pleasant smile, but not the life of the party that Buck so easily becomes in gatherings like this. Even Chris doesn’t seem afraid of the spotlight, but Eddie hangs back, watching.

It means that she gets to watch him watch Buck, the way his whole face lights up with joy and clear affection whenever Buck does pretty much anything at all, and there’s something pretty special about that.

She’s never seen Buck quite like this before, either—bright and wild, full of energy, as easy to smile as Chris, his heart all the way out on his sleeve, nothing held back. And always, always glancing around the room to find Eddie, like a magnet to a pole, beaming every time their eyes meet.

She likes the Buck she knows quite a lot. But seeing him like this, it’s clear that all those parts of Buck that seemed like they were missing returned when his fiancé did. And she’s really looking forward to getting to know who Buck is when he’s got Eddie by his side.