#p:flashback

Shaking hands unhooked the glittering, pink ribbon charm dangling from her burner phone. She clenched the charm in her palm, the gold and moon-shaped plastic glued to the center of the ribbon leaving indents in her skin, as she let the man on the other line rant into silence. His voice stayed agitated for a long time and although he never said anything vulgar, his criticisms tore through her young heart: childish, naive, ditzy, and stupid. 

And only when the man realized he’d perhaps gone too far, did his tone turn into something halfway apologetic. And by that time, he was too late. 

Like the spring of a mousetrap set off, her arm snapped forward and pitched her phone into the park fountain. The phone clatters as it bounces off the black granite, cracks beyond repair, and sinks until it rests atop a bed of copper pennies. 

“I'm gonna...gonna call the FBI and tell them what a jerk he is,” she sniffs. But, she knows that she could never turn in Gilbert for his crimes without exposing herself as an accomplice. “No, I’m gonna go on Good Morning America and tell them what a jerk he is.”

She fantasized about embarrassing the elusive diamond thief, who only she knew was an absolute jerk named Gilbert Gladstone. It almost brought a smile to her face. But then thought about how her first instinct was to tell the government and a talk show, rather than having friends, family, or even a group of real life ride-or-die Sailor Scouts to talk to. 

“I don’t have anybody,” she said.

Dottie’s phone charm drops to the sidewalk as she covers her face with her hands.

flashback to 1st year | @cralecc

“Do you like Goosebumps?” he asks. The eleven year-old clutches the book to his chest, this thin fingers brushing over the title: The Haunted Mask. “This one is number eleven, see? My mom is gonna send me a new Goosebumps every month I’m at school!”

His chapped, pink-tinted button nose sniffles from a cold. The boy wipes his nose on the red scarf an upperclassman was nice enough to give him, seeing how the new addition to Gryffindor hasn’t heard of pepper-up potions yet. 

For @mpsunny

"I'm home," Blair whispered, clear exhaustion in her voice, "If anyone's awake..." It was early in the morning when she got off of work, her feet aching in her boots and her half ripped tank - purposefully distressed and revealing for their Coyote Ugly night - smelling like beer and cigarettes. Slipping the shoes off of her feet, she gave a satisfied moan with how the cool floor soothed her muscles.

@ccjinil​

flashback | tw; mentions of gore, death, and loss of limbs 

Bloodied, chewed fingertips lightly graze over his thighs and he closes his eyes. Every pothole that jostles the car makes it feel like his stitches will snap, and he’ll spill out all over the back seat. Jinil is stressed enough without having his comrade bleed over the leather seats. “The bodies aren’t even in the ground yet, but they won’t postpone the trial?” he says. “Are all district representatives this heartless? Most of us are being wheeled in on painkillers.” 

Memories of carnage and desperate, broken cries for help intermingle like the threads on a spiderweb. It hasn’t been long since he was pulled out of a familiar portal on a stretcher, exiting the hellish dimension one leg less than when he entered. The thoughts make his injuries pulse harder -- makes the phantom pains intensify until he doubles over, dry heaving into an empty Lotte Mart bag.

Bruised, swollen hands shake and clench the plastic bag harder than necessary. His vision is spinning and he wants the car to stop. He wants everything to stop. It doesn’t matter if they’re late to the trial, if his suit becomes stained with bile, or if his eyes redden with tears. “We need to pull over,” he says. “P-please, stop the car!” 

@ccxeunji 

He doesn’t talk much. even when it comes to communicating with his new siblings and auntie, the preschooler’s words are used sparingly. His little family is spending the sunday afternoon at the playground, as long as the promise not to ruin their church clothes. Not only is his new caretaker a devout catholic -- and technically their group home is a christian one -- but nothing seems sweeter than twelve children following behind their auntie likes ducks in a row. People love asking about the children, the home, and about the whole process of having one of those ducklings for their own.

All his siblings run around in their little button down shirts and lace dresses in a game of tag, but the youngest had given up only in a few minutes. He’s the only one not in his sunday clothes (he’d spilled grape juice all over himself in the car), but in a red shirt and blue overalls instead. It’s precautionary for auntie to keep a plastic bag of extra clothes because sunggyu always manages to wreck whatever he’s wearing.

All ten of his fingers are covered in astro boy band-aids to prevent him from chewing them up, and they grip the chains of the swing set. He twists so instead of going back and forth, the swing spins in a small circle. The five year-old pops a thumb into his mouth as he continues to spin, content to sit by himself if Auntie stands only a few feet away and his stuffed octopus, Mr. Kimchi, is on his lap.

They haven’t been at the playground for long, but he soon sees a familiar face from preschool: Jung Eunji. 

It had been a few days since the accident and Barry was now moved to STAR Labs which Iris still wasn’t sure about. There was no way she could just go home and leave Barry here alone with people she barely even knew. All she knew was that she needed Barry to be okay and if that place was here then that’s where she was going to stay. She heard footsteps and let out a sigh thinking it was her dad. “Dad, I already told you I’m not leaving,” Iris said before turning around. “Oh..sorry. I thought you were someone else,” she said smiling a little at the blonde. “Who are you? I thought Caitlin and Cisco were the only two that still worked here.”

He should be tough. He should be able to hold his head high. That’s what his father would tell him now. Be a man and all that rot. But eleven year old Royden Greengrass doesn’t feel particularly manly as he tries to make himself unnoticeable in the Gryffindor common room, sniffling as he tries to keep his bruised cheekbone in the shadows, away from prying eyes. It wasn’t like he’d been innocent to what happened. He has a bit of a mouth on him when he wants to and the Slytherins who think themselves better than the Greengrass family started making their voices too loud to ignore.

But damn does the bruise hurt. Almost as badly as his wounded pride.

There’s nothing he can do about it though. If he goes to the professors, it will fall back on his family. Those Slytherin brats will cry to their parents and the next function his family is invited to will be a shit show of cold shoulders and whispers behind their backs. It may even come to bite Jac or Florence who are too young to suddenly be barred from playing with their little friends on account of him.

Miserable and behind on his first Transfiguration essay, Roy doesn’t notice his friend’s presence until the other boy speaks. The last person he wanted to catch him like this was Marcus, yet there he is, as if being friends meant he couldn’t get a moment to nurse his poor mood by himself.

      The best part about the Lestrange stronghold is the fact that her family isn’t around to pester her. She’s convinced that Rodolphus’ parents hover less, making it seem nearly possible to do anything they like. Not that Bellatrix ever finds quality time with Rodolphus something she particularly likes. But today, she’s in a favourable mood and she lets her fingers skirt along the wallpaper in one of the corridors as she makes her way to her fiancé’s chambers.

      Bellatrix feels like celebrating. No harassing questions about the wedding from her mother, a perfectly executed murder of Lily Evans’ parents, and no looming return to Hogwarts at the end of the summer holiday. Not to mention, having tea with Rodolphus’ mother had gone swimmingly as well. The Lestrange matriarch carried more grace in her than her own mother did. If she thought herself even marginally capable of being a well-groomed and behaved pureblood woman, Bella’s certain she’d aspire to be like Lady Lestrange.

      Instead, she considers just what she’ll do to her betrothed.

      “You look rather comfortable,” she acknowledges as she steps into his bedroom and lets the door click closed behind her. “One would hazard to think you enjoy yourself more when I’m not around.”