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Messages - Ivory Summers

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Past Workshop Prompts / prompt 3: she has my eyes
« on: 12/04/2017 at 06:37 »
Late 1963 ramble.  Holland is 14.   (Not sure if this works, but I'm rolling with it.)


She has my eyes.  Ugly in the way they roll about, how we observe the world in leaps and hiccups.  And she has my eyebrows.  Sharp, skeptical, in scrutiny of this title we were both born into, the brand that i pressed to baby-pink skin before she had fully formed.  These are not my greatest moments.  And if I were my mother, I would have labelled this a responsibility too difficult to carry out, and left her with her father, in absolute disregard or absolute trust that Thomas would not be as weak as I.  That he would not be like his father.

But worn and inept as I am, my mother is not me, and I am not her.  I am tied down by the reflection that Holland is becoming, the small moments floating between years while she slowly turns into me.  I am tied down by the few memories that I have left, and the instincts whose origins I can barely remember.  I was so young then, and so is she.

Yes, she has my eyes, but the most shocking of her features are the ones that didn't come from me.

She has his mouth, and his jaw.  Chin held high and lips curved in a full circle, she bends for no one-- a trait I couldn't maintain quite long enough to prevent her existence.  In the end, it wasn't all bad.  I was never a good mother (far from it), but she turned out alright, didn't she?  I expect she'll be some sort of detective, or a scientist, or historian, or something better than what I am.  Maybe, when she is one of these things, she will find out for me what happened to them all.

Cloudy, especially.

It still hurts to think of him.  After all these years, I haven't gotten better, I've just learned how to block it all out.  After all these years, I'm still lonely, and I'm still boiling alive trying to rebuild my years as golden as I recall them.

Holland says I need to find a boyfriend.  I think she is too young to be telling me things like that, but maybe that is because I still see her as six years old and brandishing a twig from the gutter, three years old throwing blocks at the couch, nine years old shouting that I'm the worst mother and that she's going to run away.  As kids do.  (She never did.  I think she realized how much I need her to keep me here, to prevent me from doing anything rash.  That isn't a responsibility any daughter should have, but it isn't the worst thing I've done, so I hold in the guilt and pretend it isn't there.)

In my mind, she's still ten years old and brushing my hair, four years old rubbing tears into my cheeks and mumbling wordless assurances.  And she has my eyes, pale seaweed and misplaced burnt pages.  Dirty.  But she makes it charming, turns the lack of color into an influx of light, and the impurities into unique gems.  She romanticizes my miserable complexion, and I decide, finally, that she looks good on me.

And that she does not have my eyes.  Rather, I have hers.

1952 / Re: Old Man Yells at Cloud
« on: 12/01/2017 at 22:49 »
-baby bursts into the room-       omg

omg ludOLPH GETTING MARRIED ????  lmao who
                 marry    you   ?  lol


hi we used to thread but then we stopped, i'd love to again if you wanna

Past Workshop Prompts / Prompt 1: Mr. Brightside
« on: 08/13/2017 at 09:12 »
"Off limits?  What are you talking about?  God, Cloudy, I can kiss whoever I want, crew member or not."

It was the spring of '46, and she was curled up on a couch in the Hufflepuff Commons.  A thousand quips and questions tickled at the insides of her cheeks, but she held them in.  It was a dueling match of another kind, and Baby wondered who would be the victor.  His eyes were dark and hers were narrowed— enemy lines crossed.

"Yeah?  Come here, then."

Her eyes widened for a split second before she glowered.  "What?  Are you seriously suggesting I—"

"Kiss me."

She scoffed, shifting uncomfortably.  "Kiss you?  I'm not just going to... I'm not gonna kiss you, Cloudy, that's ridiculous."  She managed to spit out a response, lips pursed and nose scrunched up in borrowed repulsion.  He shrugged and smirked, and somehow she felt compelled to forget how badly she'd like to slap him across the face and just... kiss him anyways.  She could feel the unspoken comments rolling off of him, all about Action and Slick, and whatever other boy he seemed to think she was courting.  By the Gods, he had developed such a strange interest in her pursuits of love.  It was enraging.  But he was right.  She was saving her first kiss for Action, but the idiotic Slytherin would never want it.

And here was Cloudy, demanding it with a confusing mixture of anger and teasing nonchalance.  It was equal parts infuriating, absurd, and thrilling.  The ease with which he manipulated those around him, even her.

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," she huffed, after too long a pause.  Her frown deepened, realizing that he could probably see through her indignant veneer.  She was confused, flustered, and... (goddammit) curious.  He only stared back, an eyebrow raised— a challenge, she decided.  God, he knew she couldn't resist a challenge.  A final grumble fell from between her lips, before she gave in.  "Fine."

She awkwardly crawled to his half of the couch (squashed together though they were, each knew exactly where the line was drawn), and pressed her lips together defensively.  "This is stupid," she declared, eyebrows furrowed, even as she knelt in front of him on the couch-- too close, too close.  Knees between his, she grimaced, emphasizing at every opportunity how disturbed she was by his request, how disgusting it was that he would even ask— and even more grotesque that she would comply.

Her fingers felt thick and gummy where they touched his face, graceless and cumbersome.  She'd never done this before— never thought to seduce (she scowled at the very idea of it)— and she had never imagined that she would feel prompted to prove a point to Caleb Hollins in a show of faux romanticized movements.  Yet here she was, and her feet felt light and knees wobbly.  Both hands on his clean-shaven jaw, she leaned down and planted a kiss firmly (softly?) on his lips.

A moment later, she broke the seal, leaned back slightly, and folded her arms stubbornly over her chest.  "See—" she began, but her tongue felt three sizes too big and she didn't sound nearly as certain as she wanted to.  Her voice was barely above a mumble now.  (Not bad.)   They were still too close.  Either of them could lean forward any second and...  "Not off limits."

*powerplaying approved by caleb hollins!

1950 / Re: my code gets lazier every summer
« on: 04/07/2017 at 02:42 »

hi ok so we're just gonna pretend that's baby hanging out with cloudy and being happy besties again mmk?  yep.  ok.

anyway, you know i love you i do ok i do and we really need to thread because we are the coolest when we thread together c:  also calvory is my favorite thing eVeR ok so <33333  come homeeeeee cloudyyyyyy

btw your art gives me life, i am your nUMBER ONE FAN SOOOOOO c:  go be a champ all the time.

leaving this here once again, because i can ↴

1950 / Re: pls give me excuses to procrastinate
« on: 04/05/2017 at 07:37 »
name baby ivory.
face claim diana moldovan.
personality/theme oh, you know.
anything else? hi.  pls tell me baby gets to look at cloudy's stupid face again soon.  love you so much.

Christmas Eve, 1956
AU: Baby and Cloudy never reunited in 1950.

She'd never managed to pull herself out of that rut.  Dug deep and wide-- oh, she no longer bothered to pound its walls, and instead lay with her fate in an ugly harmony.  At least it was a harmony at all, mm?  (A pathetic excuse, but acceptance was too much to ask; this was the best she could manage.)

Even after all these years-- shoved between soaked pages and faded words-- Ivory Summers was stretched between wine and water.  Stilled in the pale fingers of her daughter (who had been born in the image of her mother, and Ivory's chest clenched and destroyed itself at the sight), and restless until her eyes dripped black fog in the dark hours of night.

So much had changed, and still, nothing at all.

Ivory --so she called herself.  Her youth was quickly fading, old names stuck in dream-catchers and worn to shreds, and Ivory already had rust plastered to her eyes and lips.  Twenty-six.  Still young, they claimed, but Ivory felt like bits of grain run through an old mill, felt like gray and scratched tan paper.  She was looked over, and strung through points and narrow eyes.  Their words and loud opinions might've cut up her ears, had she allowed herself to care.  But blue and purple footsteps were her existence, and she lived alone through each breath of her daughter, swallowed up in crisp December breeze.

(They whispered things-- sharp and quiet and sometimes bright as Christmas morning in her ears.  Ivory knew, and Holland knew.  But they were useless, and Ivory allowed their white noise to spill on her carpet like soiled milk.  But the silence within banished even her shattered-glass memories.)

Each snowflake-- flower petals torn through shredding machines, a vacant clawing and screaming behind her skull-- was needles in her eyes.  Outside the window, lights flickered and the storm had passed, choked-up remnants tapping against the windowpane.

Holland mumbled shimmery white words to the golden hair of a doll, and Ivory turned her head from her armchair, slipped a thin smile between her lips.  Sage eyes crumbled the room, and Holland looked back-- seven year old chestnut and hazel, hard and intelligent and naive.  Ivory shut her eyes.

"Mum."        "Yes, Holli-- Holland?"

Thin, delicate fingers wrapped in Ivory's, milk-white against a darker, ashen shade.  (She was translucent, skin like a ghost left to dust in an old attic.  Holland still had the livelihood of innocence, but still-- they were otherworldly in their ghastly fading.  Like mother, like daughter.)   "Mum, can we see the lights?"

Ivory nodded, joints like chaffed legs and arms, lips curved up but her eyes were heavy.  "Of course.. Holland."  She cursed her young foolishness.  Every day she lived with this painful memory, and named it her daughter.  Clo-- Hollins was sorely missed, even now.

Her limbs felt heavy, but she pulled herself from the armchair and followed the child to the door.  Donned their coats, laced their shoes, and stepped into the remains of the blizzard.  Fog and white sprinkles, joy drifting between upturned mouths.  Holland skipped, and Ivory shielded her eyes from the Christmas cheer.  She could hardly feel it, trapped under the breaths of years long gone.

(White winters within castle walls, smiling over cups of cocoa, and pushing each other into vanilla tundra.  Owning the place.  Because none of them, really, had anywhere to go.  But they were all gone now.  All of them.  Ivory still had nowhere to go.)

The lights blinded her, but they stripped Holland of the crushing despair that her mother's darkness braided into chocolate waves.    It was a long twenty minutes    and Baby had been watching    but an icy mist pulled at her eyes   and Holland    was suddenly   gone.

1949 / Re: what are titles even
« on: 12/03/2016 at 13:29 »
well hello there.  i know u.  u know me.  im jes, ur friendly neighborhood angst machine and calvory enthusiast.  hey.  luv meh.

first thing.  let me clarify for all those who are unaware (because kay is far too modest)!!  kay is a wonderful (and by wonderful i mean a HOLY CRAP WOAHOHOHHO CAN I JUST MAKE AESTHETICS FROM UR PAINTINGS THX -HEART EYES- sort of wonderful) artist, fantastic at sports, makes a+++ avvies, beautiful writer, and danggggg gurl ur face is great c:  you're welcome, everyone.

second thing.  hecK yeah cloudy needs to get his ass back to baby >{  (but also not bc angst hehe muahaha).  -pushes tiny holland across the counter toward u-  plus baby's kinda dead inside a little bit so hurry (but not too much cos angst is life).  #besties4lyf  #babiesb4baes

third thing.  we need more sephy/rome because #boththeeviltwin #butmostlyromebc #psychopaths and the world is not ready for the hellfirestorm that is these girls' rise to power ^u^

fourth thing.  im adopting micah and giving him to ronnie for christmas k thx bai.  also damien is mine now and that's that.  -tosses him in a pile with bikky and all the other useless vain pureblood socialites but mostly bikky- wheeeee.

aaaaand fifth thing. i loVE YOUUUU k yep.  keep doing everything ur doing bc ye that's the thing you should be doing.  :DDDDD

dont lie u miss that face, cloudy
cos let's be honest, baby misses this cheeky grin

^^^also that

#tbt (#tbs? it's saturday...)

"He spends loads of time in detention and constantly gets eyed by the prefects."

--3 terms later is head boy.
"...Baby is respected and admired by most of the boys and they would do just about anything for her if she asked."
--lmao except stay, apparently

lol what are you doing cloudy

#babyholland coming soon in theaters november 1949 #babyception #nahdad #goawaythom look at that innocent little face; plenty of time to mess her up

-tosses all the calvory at u and everyone- k bai.

Ivory jolted awake to the slippery roughness of a dog's tongue.  She was squished between a beaver's fur coat and a pile of boots (all of which looked like they'd never seen the outside of the closet), legs tangled in some sort of mink scarf.  The Hufflepuff sat up straight, rubbed her eyes, and the beige "royal" licked at the vague imprint of a buckle on her cheek.  The lab whined and pawed at her shirt, and Baby's nose scrunched up in annoyance.

"Duchess, what are you... oh my god.  No, I don't have time for-- oW, get off!  Ugh, fine I'm getting up, alright?!"  She pushed the lab's paws off her shoulders and wiped the saliva off her cheek, stood.  And frowned.  Even the dog's panting and whining couldn't cover up the stark silence that hovered between the lifeless walls.

Baby vaguely remembered-- there had been shouting (she refused to acknowledge the dull memory of shaking hands and sporadic heartbeat), and Baby had been lost, and tired, and upon failure to relocate her room (honestly, how hard could it be to provide her with a map?), she must have settled for a closet.

A pressure on her leg pushed her out of the little room, and Baby growled half-heartedly at the brave little mutt.  Thomas must spoil these dogs rotten, because it showed no sign of heeding her warning.  "Where the hell--"  The dog was pushing her now, and she complied, only because she was hungry and no doubt Duchess knew her way around the manor far better than the Hufflepuff did.  Rubbing her eyes, she allowed one last pout to escape her lips before she reluctantly followed after the dog's padding feet.  She could do for some coffee.  (Did these pureblood families even own coffee?  The prestigious seemed to be all about tea-- ew.)

Much to her chagrin, it was not a pantry to which she was led, but another...bathroom?  Not food, that was certain, and in her frustration at the dog's betrayal, Baby had half a mind to turn around and find the kitchen herself.  But Duchess refused to give in, and the scratching at the door was really starting to get on her nerves.  "Down, Duchess," she grit, rolling her eyes, and finally pushed the door open-- if only to shut the brat up.

But then there was Thomas, and he was bleeding, and he was.... Baby's heart clenched up and her eyes went wide.

Thomas Ellwood-Luxe was crying.

A whine behind her reminded the Hufflepuff of the ridiculous (and yet, fondness stirred somewhere in her chest for the beast) dog that had led her here.  Baby turned on her heel and quickly shoved Duchess' nose out of the doorway, and locked the door to keep the lab out.  The dog pawed for a few moments more, but then-- there was nothing.  Only the red blood remaining at the bottom of the sink and Thomas' fractured spirit.

(She knew this feeling.  Too well.  Buried under years of stitched memory and "forgetting".  She knew what had happened, she knew, she understood.  So many days had a miniature Ivory Summers spent collapsed in the bathroom, like this, pretending not to hurt.  Some part of her had always hoped that her Father would learn to control his anger, but he never did.)

Baby pursed her lips, and cursed the pangs pulsing in her chest.  "Tom..." she whispered.  There was regret and empathy woven into the name, but she didn't elaborate.  They had never spoken of his father-- not implicitly-- but she supposed she'd always sort-of known.  His devils were hers; maybe that was why she had initially been drawn to him.  (Or was it his chiseled jaw and impressive ab muscles?  Or the way he somehow managed to infuriate her and drive her wild, all at once?)

Moments later, a wet towel was in her hand, and the Hufflepuff slowly knelt on the floor facing the boy.  She pressed the cloth to his lip, then his cheek, soaking up blood and allowing the coolness of the fabric to ease the bruise's swelling.  Her other hand carefully moved to his upper arm, and her lips to his quivering chin.  There was hardly anything she could say to soothe his ailing mind; he wouldn't be alright, he couldn't.  It was likely a result of her presence that Thomas was in such a state.  It shouldn't have been her here to mend him.  It should have been--

"What happened?"

1948 / Re: help will always be given at Hogwarts
« on: 08/01/2016 at 06:42 »
hEY SHAAAAAYYYY YOU SLAAYYYIING ADORBSNESS (#shayslays) i bow to you, teach me how you post so much

THE WORLD WILL NEVER BE PREPARED FOR OUR ANGST.  your charries are superhero, mine are villian, and there will be tragedy on both sides


are you r e a d y.  ready steady.  prepared already?  let us

slay ;P

i love you so much!!!!!! <33333

1947 / Re: Come gather 'round people, Wherever you roam!
« on: 04/30/2016 at 07:38 »
Preferred mentor character: *sigh* .......fine, use Baby
Other characters: Ronnie Jay Beckham, Bikky Lisbeth, and hopefully soon to be Évariste Altier and Andromeda Crowley
Time active on site: A year! :}
Cake or Death?: Either, as long as it's with you ;P

« on: 04/21/2016 at 19:20 »
It was the kind of weather that made you want to jump into Munchkin River and never leave.  It was cooler inside the Infirmary wagon, but still the sun burnt down on them through the wood and the hole in the wall.  (They still hadn’t gotten around to completely repairing the damage, much to Cloudy’s dismay.)  Baby had repeatedly charmed the air indoors to be cooler, complaining grumpily all the while, as she could never quite get the temperature where she wanted it.

The Infirmary itself had been set up in what Baby might consider a gray and brown circus on wheels.  The clowns (charmed scarecrows, almost prepared for their act) danced stiffly on their melancholy stilts, while she and her fellow Infirmary Counselors rushed about preparing the last bits before the doors were opened for the Case Study.  Well, she and Eira rushed about.  Cloudy mostly sighed and threw her annoyed looks.

Really, he couldn’t have expected any less than this from she and Eira.

They had rearranged the Infirmary into a setting most like the Emergency and Triage wing of St. Mungo’s— five cots had been placed in the room, specific to the Case Study.  A matching five scarecrows, scattered about in their various states of affliction, would be their patients— and with Baby and Eira as the final determiners of these ailments, they were sure to be...difficult, to say the least.

Baby frowned and snapped her fingers at one of the more troublesome of their dummies [Zeke], who was roaming closer to the potions closet, mouth full of delusional grunts.  She couldn't have him ruining all Cloudy's hard work already, could she?  "Quiet, you."  He didn't listen— good.

The walls were quaking, a charm that Baby had finally managed (after half an hour! but she had refused any help), and lights and noises flickered slightly to effectively create a panicky feel to the room.

Fifteen minutes later, Baby marched across the floor and shoved the door open.  She shouted for the attention of the Infirmary students, who were gathered outside the wagon, and ushered them in with the urgency of a witch on fire.  They were a sorry lot, she decided, a big horde of confused and over-confident witches and wizards.  (Ah, but the less sure of the group were almost worse.)  After pausing briefly to shoot a warning glare at Ellwood-Luxe, and smirk at Joy, Baby turned and snapped her fingers loudly.

"Knock that off," she hissed at a chuckling third-year, shooting him a warning glare.  "This is a professional situation."  (Believe it or not, Ivory Summers could be quite serious at times.  Even in supposedly ‘fake’ situations.)  Felis was her next target— "To your post, Adair,"— though she would be lying if she said she didn't respected the girl.  Baby stood at the head of the gaggle, frowning while Eira rushed about and Cloudy dragged in the fifth scarecrow [Henry].  The room was a choir of ailment-induced moans and babbles, and it almost felt like they were in a beaten-down, wooden St. Mungo's with a small hole in its wall.

"Welcome to the Emergency and Triage section of your training.  I want every one of these patients alive and well by the time we leave today— go."  Then she smiled, because there was no way in hell all five scarecrows would be in good health by the afternoon's end.  She, Eira, and Cloudy would be sure of it.

OOC: The Infirmary is now essentially an emergency room!  Ack!  Five cots are set up and five scarecrows, each with their own ailment or affliction, are about the room, and the infirmary participants must a) coax your patient to bed and figure out what is wrong with them, and b) heal them.  This will be a difficult task, so be wary!  Remember to label which scarecrow you are tending to, just like bludgers in Quidditch, and bold your actions! (: Details are below~

Scarecrow #1 [Hunk]: Has a broken arm. (: hehehe
    Ava Adair
    Kenneth Holmes
    Euphemia Vane
    Lamia Cadwallader
Scarecrow #2 [Zeke]: Pacing frantically about the room, getting into all sorts of trouble.  Seems to be babbling something or other, who knows..
    Clinton Litchfield
    Ronnie J. Beckham
    Icarus Argabright
Scarecrow #3 [Hickory]: Wandering about vomiting on everyone who comes near.
    Joy Detora
    Caitlin McLeod
    Acheron T. Belowes
    Marius Paladin
Scarecrow #4 [Patchwork]: Sitting in bed; appears to be missing his right hand and forearm?  *shrugs*  Perhaps talking to him would help...or not.
    Sparrow Robinson
    Zoella Mertz
    Mirella Appleton
Scarecrow #5 [Henry]: Being dragged/escorted in by Caleb, has third degree burns on legs and left collarbone area.
    Gardenia Reine
    Cisca Mallow
    Eli Egneus

1947 / Re: We'll be counting stars || Finny
« on: 04/18/2016 at 07:47 »

>>> This is the reply code! Good job, you found it. <<<
There are only five things you need to look for and replace in this big mess.
Don't even worry about the rest!
Remember, ctrl (or cmd) + f is your friend!

- Your name (somewhere at the top, labeled "Your Name Here"
- Traits 1, 2 and 3 (labeled "TRAIT #1" etc)
- The actual reply field. Also where you put your age and blood status! It's at the bottom. You'll find it.

Good luck!

- Finny

Ivory Summers Baby


17 // Halfblood

....Both Summers', both timewarp victims, similar addition, Baby is close friends with Eira, and is one of Finny's counselors.  I can honestly see Baby essentially adopting him (lol, she and Eira like "u mine" *hogs Finny*), seeing a lot of herself in him, etc...^.^

Then again, she is very overbearing, so I don't know whether Finny would appreciate the attention or despise it...?



you've stolen literally every single one of my friends and potential friends and you're going to break my best friend's heart to bits, i know it, so just....ugh

i hate you.

1947 / take my place || calvory
« on: 04/11/2016 at 10:46 »
Baby twirled a blade of grass between her fingers before tossing it casually toward the river.  Unsurprisingly, it didn't make it more than a foot, but Baby was too busy toying with her next victim to care.  Plucked grass was scattered about her little patch of bank, a lopsided painting of boredom and distraction; a few strands sprinkled Baby's skirt and even Cloudy's jumper, but not a word of complaint had been spoken.

The Hufflepuff glanced briefly at her friend, but the gaze didn't linger.  If she was right, something was bothering the boy again.  Come to think of it, if she was right, something had been bothering Cloudy since before the end of the term.  And, if she was right, it had something to do with his father again.

Baby was always right.

The girl leaned back on her palms, staring at the river and suppressing a huff of boredom.  They'd been sitting in the same spot for over an hour, and not a word from Cloudy.  She gathered up a handful of the dismembered grass and tossed it at the water.  It got farther this time, a few feet, due to the compacted form.  Baby wondered if she could make it to the river if she squished the blades together as hard as she could.  She was far too lazy to try.

Another moment of silence, and she too would trap herself in that pit of frowns that Cloudy had buried himself in.  (Ha, Cloudy.  They'd named him right, she supposed, but not for the reason they thought they had.  This new version of her friend was a walking rain cloud, stuck in his troubles and faux grin.)  And the last thing Baby needed was to dwell on her own issues.  She'd been so focused on fixing her friends' problems that she'd almost forgotten her own, which had resulted in an almost dragon-like obsession with those she was closest to, rather than any amount of selflessness.

But, she knew, sometimes it was better to be an inconsiderate jerk than to dwell on the unnecessary, or — Merlin forbid — allow the Crew to tear themselves apart further.  Baby had recently come to the aching realization that without Action's guidance, the responsibility had fallen to her to hold them together.

She plucked another few blades from the ground, expanding the small patch dirt beside her, and tossed them once again into the golden-blue air.  The afternoon sun beat on her shoulders— a ghost reminder of Atlas' lament.  The rustle of the river could never be entertaining enough; Baby glanced at Cloudy briefly and wished to know all.

*EXPLOSIONS*  that is all.
Another Night On Mars - The Maine

1947 / another!!! <333 hap-hap-hap-ppy!!!
« on: 04/09/2016 at 14:53 »

Happy Birthday, Sparkles

Another birthday!!  Well would you look at that!  Aren't these April people just lovely? :3  Anyway, happy freaking 17th birthday to the lovely Shay, aka Thomas Ellwood-Luxe aka SPARKLES (((: love ya much!!! <33333

1947 / Re: iscariot || calvory notes
« on: 04/04/2016 at 19:58 »
Haha, what?!  Pft, I can't imagine hating your boyfriend's best friend.  I mean seriously, Cloudy, why can't you guys just get along? ;P  No really though she's so annoying.

1947 / Re: that one dancing kid [Jaquel]
« on: 04/04/2016 at 04:13 »


hey so other than your absolutely disgusting friendship with thomas e-l, you seem like a cool dude, almost like a crewmember.  love to flirt with ya sometime, or do whatever as long as thomas isn't there.  oh btw!  you should go chat with cloudy, he's a dancer too, he's teaching me (:

1947 / Re: princess || Bianca
« on: 04/04/2016 at 04:05 »

renegade, protective, selfish
british, seventeen, hufflepuff
pft, you can have that crown, but i still get to snog all the bois first now what's all this i hear about carlisle hey let's go tempt some losers, eh? ;P

1947 / Re: Hey there
« on: 04/03/2016 at 23:14 »
why is jaq's avvie changing everytime i refresh alskafjlskfja i really like the mustache face one ;P

HI YOU!  I'M JES!  I'M not really actually oops COOL sometimes..ugh!  alSO jaq sounds friggin fAntAstiC and we should plot and stuff cos i think he would get along with my charrie baby [aka ivory summers] if she can get over the fact that he's friends with thomas ellwood-luxe, who she does not like

but anyways wELCOME TO HOGGIES!  YOU'RE LEGITNESS SO YAY.  also jaq should teach baby how to dance or smth and we should also chat and stuff and coolio!

also i can't dance either so eh ;P

*gives you all the threads*

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