“ i triple dog dare you to take a sip of this, ” a hand holding out the red solo cup of the 'rum punch' theo had told her about earlier in the night. obviously to chicken to do it herself, but curious to know if it were actually as terrible as described. “ it's a triple dog, so you can't say no. ” they could, but mia's just hopeful her pushiness is enough for them to go along with it.
it's the color , the kind of red that makes strict moms grip their child up . makes his stomach turn just looking at it . ❝ i don't believe in peer pressure . ❞ smile appears , a lazy one . eyes jumping from her face to the cup . ❝ i do believe in uno reverse though . ❞ hand moves , gently pushing the cup back towards her . ❝ quadruple dog dare you . ❞
open to anyone @ the bonfire party / @kerdalestarters
"i came to bother you in your solitude ." she opens her cigarette pack and offers , finding the lighter and pulls it out in two fluid motions , swallowing burnt ash into her mouth , "but i also come baring gifts ."
quick glance towards the burning cigarette , the smell potent . . . and yet , the memory of nicotine engulfing her brain almost tempting . ❝ next time bring a less smellier gift . ❞ a second , ❝ and one i'll actually enjoy . ❞
rest of the place might be happy to sit in harmony and sing a happy song or what-the-fuck-ever, but wes is harder to please. got a scowl on his face that reads like a warning sign. careful, ye who enter here! foul mood that catches anyone who comes too close, all rising tide of an attitude — a tide that catches on libby. doesn’t know much about her, but he doesn’t have to. “ not interested in talkin’. bye. ”
asshole ! the thought comes fast . like she's a random girl on a beach and not a van gelder . unruly losers , that's what her little sister warned her of . ' you'll waste your time going ' . filed it away as her sister being a party pooper , the ceo of fun police . but brown eyes , cracking with disbelief , might have to reconsider . ❝ excuse me ? ❞ practiced expression , controlled , polite . a blank stare the only give away before , ❝ you're standing in front of the punch bowl . ❞
coming out is always a risk. from her birthday blunder to the possibility of disrupting her parents, there’s always a danger to parties that aren’t thrown by her or them, carefully curated. he’s a more recent danger — once a comfort, a reason to sneak out, now something soured. heart drops at the sight of him, familiar, slipping between warmth and ice. brown hues are drawn towards him against her will, as if they couldn’t look anywhere else. takes a sip of the suspicious drink in her hands, liquid courage down her throat as she quietly wills him to look her way. futile : he’d left without remorse, and she was nothing but a stain in his story. her throat bobs, her eyes sting, and she turns away, harsh, heat of the bonfire left behind.
a coin toss , it flips through the air the minute feet touch sand . heads points to enjoying himself , having his one beer and all the socializing that his forty working hours robs him of . tails begs to find the brunette somewhere between the sound of laughter and the smell of heavy bonfire smoke . tails wins . one minute the taste of beer is coating his tongue . the next blues , too similar to the color of the ocean , finds hers . dark , beautiful , pained . the past reflected in them , reminding him shame is always prone to make a comeback . she's not looking at him for long , not how she used to , not the way he craves too many nights to count . should leave it alone . . . knows better to leave it alone ( her parents words sharp in his skull ) . he's on his feet regardless , some excuse of another drink tumbling as feet close the distance . stupid . he should turn back now . . . mouth falls open , one word , just one , ❝ vienna . ❞
i'm sure we're taller in another dimension –– you say we're small and not worth the mention .
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unfortunate , poor boy — you’re cursed , so it’s said . teenage love that resulted in a mistake , you . too immature . too young . too broke . your mother thrown out , disowned . your dad , sacrificing his diploma to work for his own father full time . you’ll hear generational patterns , how it’s repeated . your entire childhood is its testimony .
you don’t recall your mothers soft touch , nor her syrupy words . you do recall wide blues watching clear liquid disappear down her throat . her glassy eyes , the one you inherited , soulless . you recall most of all , her bruising grip on your arm leaving black and blue in its wake . you’re cursed . that’s what they said — and you were . cursed with the cruelest one of them all . your mother didn’t love you .
you’re too young to remember how it happened , just that it did . an empty closet where your mother once kept her favorite shoes . your fathers cracked expression , calloused hands that promised , shook with guilt for what work kept him away from realizing . how the word mommy got scrubbed from your vocabulary .
your father , almost still a boy himself , moves you and him out of the run down trailer and puts you in his old room at grandma and grandpa’s house . he sleeps on the couch for two years until he can afford something for just the two of you . he overrides your memories , for every tear spilled , his fingertips tickle into your skin until laughter spills out instead . for every bruise , is a kiss placed to the top of your head , the words i love you . he shows up as all fathers should , exhausted , defeated , broken , frustrated , but always your father first . and he takes his two calloused hands and forges you into a man that would be hardworking enough to shoot for the stars and not miss ( because the world is what you deserved ) .
like father like son , its in your blood to remain sturdy despite the storm . to work yourself to the bone and still curl petals upwards . if life is giving you lemons , you make the lemonade . following in your fathers footsteps in working in the family company . in the level headed demeanor , in the effort that ripped your hands open and left them as calloused as his is . to you , the stars is paying back your father for being what your mother didn't want to be . for the appreciation of knowing what he’s lost to get you here . to you , the stars is growing wilder ties and maybe buying a boat that doesnt break down on you every other day .
you don't really love the sun , it drives you wild ——— you're lyin' , summer child .
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petals suck an oily spoon , it’s remnants trickling down your chin and dropping gold . a one percent your blood wasn’t born into , but created with their own two hands . van gelders — a household name , the kings and queens , the ruler of the oil industry ( since 1933 ) , ninety two years of legacy .
the one percent isn’t just brand symbols and staff for every room of the van gelder manor . it exceeds private jets and customized cars — its pieces of a puzzle carefully crafted together . every decision , thought , slack in a smile , turned over and torn apart . to preserve reputation , image , values , the van gelders wrap themselves around a single slogan — be a credit to the family .
alastair and elaine sculpt their children around credit . if hierarchy extends to old money , alastair van gelder is the first heir — securing his fathers favor by ambition , intelligence , and effort . beating his two brothers out of his fathers spot , and granting his three girls a seat on the throne . but like his father before him , alastair valued the name of the family before all . his rulership came with a sharp tongue and stern chocolate pools . you know your father as many things — strict . greedy . pretentious . a bad man but a decent father / a decent man but a bad father , you can’t remember what one .
elaine is the old moneys queen , the kindhearted , charitable elaine van gelder who does what must be done . she created home with four walls that didn’t lack tenderness but openness . vulnerability is something to hide in your closet and under your bed . the bad is not a ghost and shouldn’t be given a voice . tuck away your emotions until the door clicks shut , and even the , get it together . you grow up spoiled in lavishness , in a concept that goes beyond privilege , you grow up loving your parents and hating the ugliness inside of them .
you’re the middle child , docile elizabeth who’s a balance . never a complete goody two shoes for your parents like your little sister edith , never the rebellious wildfire like your older sister elora . you are capable of biting your tongue , capable of hiding behind closed doors , and you’re capable of fitting a mold . and yet , you’re also capable of breaking that mold . twisting features until credit turns into warmness and animation . letting the dam you’ve build for your mother break until she demands you fix it .
years force you to lean slightly right ( edith ) or too far left ( elora ) . . . left when you applied abroad for a fashion degree , despite your fathers threat . left when you stomached talk of arranged marriage . middle when playing mediator , left some more when you allowed your mom to talk you back to kerdale ( postponing your fashion internship ) and then right when you spend days held up with your sewing machine , avoiding the family around you . but who cares right ? as long as you’re a credit to the family name .
you're said to always be in control , a poor trait adopted by a mother whose claws were always puncturing your skin . eyes move around cautiously , like a feral cat deciding if trust can be given . a surface level persona . libby van gelder is intimidating , distant . no one really knows your heart is an ocean . that you’ve also adopted your mothers generosity and often give and give until there's nothing left . that you’re more than the middle child trained to suck it up . that you’re animation , rain after a drought , that there’s nothing more scarier to you that remaining in gilded cage . . . there’s nothing more scarier than losing your parents approval . . . you're biggest discredit is that you're contradiction .
dailybridgerton
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romaincrisis
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