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upontherisers · 1 month

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in the cold spring

a/n: i'm in a writing mood recently! disclaimer: i haven't read mota or on a wing and a prayer yet so i do not know anything about jack kidd's life beside what is available on the 100th bomb group's website, so consider some details ~exaggerated for dramatic effect~. title is from ml burch's "i feel like giving you things" and this fic is about neither the cold or the spring, but it fits.

Goddamn Air Exec.

Jack says goddamn Air Exec from the moment Bucky tells him that Hughlin recommended him, through two rounds of meetings with Harding—call me Chick—and Bowman—call me Red, through moving into the ops barracks, through shaking a thousand hands, and through getting a desk. Goddamn Air Exec. Goddamn Egan, goddamn Hughlin, and goddamn Air Exec.

His crew, his fort, and his dignity all because Bucky purposely flunked out of the tower. And Buck vouched for him! Goddamn Cleven and goddamn Air Exec. All of his training out the window for a desk in a corner office. He can’t even see the runway through the blinds, just the backroads of East Anglia and occasionally the Land Army girls and their cows. Five hundred hours of flight school for a desk in a corner office and a secretary.

“A secretary?” he asks as Harding points at a small station outside Jack’s newly-labeled office.

Chick nods. “Yes, Lieutenant Keene.” He looks around the busy floor, eventually settling on who he’s searching for. “There she is… Hazel!”

A head pops up from the mass of moving bodies and paper and a woman quickly makes her way across the room, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. As she approaches, she’s smiling with a brightness that goes all the way to her warm, round brown eyes, hand outstretched for another yet another handshake. Goddamn Air Exec, but he’s less bitter about it.

“Jack, I assume you’ve met Lieutenant Keene—”

“Hazel, I insist.” Her grip is firm and as warm as her eyes.

They met the few times when he had to go to Bucky’s office—his office now—and she was waiting at her station outside. He remembers her as polite but busy, inoffensively curt. Not one of the staff who blathers away, overly chipper and overly interested in the reason for his visit, but also not one of the ones who snaps at him to sit and wait and then ignores him like he’s the reason they’re losing the war. Hazel’s friendly and effective, a good temperament for a C.O. He wonders why she’s in here and not up in the air.

“Good to see you again.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Jack, I insist.”

Her smile widens just so, and he has a feeling that they’re going to work well together.

She turns to Chick and nods to where she came from. “Last of the after actions for the 418th—” Jack pretends that doesn't hurt to hear. He should’ve been up there with his boys. Goddamn Air Exec. “—I’ll have ‘em to Sheila in fifteen, and I’ll be at my desk after that, in case you need anythin’.”

It takes him a moment to realize she’s speaking to him, and he mumbles an ‘of course’ at his shoes. He’s a man who gets waited on now; it would take some time to get used to. She departs with another smile and heads back into the fray.

As Chick leads Jack around the rest of the space, showing him charts and maps and a million other semi-familiar faces, he remains acutely aware of Hazel. She’s speaking to a WAC as they go over some maps, marking here and there, her encouraging smile no doubt prompting stellar work from the younger girl. He’s reminded of Ev, the way his friend’s genial countenance can turn a boring day kicking around the hard stand into a respite and a rough flight home from a mission into a night at a comedy club.

Then he misses his friends—Ev, Dougie, Crosby and the man the navigator has become since getting kicked off of the Crash Wagon. He misses hearing DeMarco and Cleven bicker as they climb into their fort, that damn dog never far behind as Lemmons likes to sneak him out onto the hard stand. He misses the feeling of sitting in his seat and the controls roaring to life under his fingers as he hears his crew get ready at their guns. He misses looking out the window to see Ginny settling into her cockpit to his right, grinning like it’s Christmas morning and popping her gum into her headset receiver to set off Knick Knack at her navigator’s seat.

He even misses Bucky and his plane-to-plane chatter, always vigilant, always watching out for his squadron, his group, and the rest of the wing. He misses the man Bucky can be in the air as opposed to the faux-apologetic fast-talker that landed Jack at a desk in the first place. Goddamn Air Exec.

But then he comes back to Hazel and the scrunch of her nose as she stretches her arms above her head with a yawn. She slumps back onto the desk she’s sitting on, looking around the room curiously before meeting Jack’s eyes and nodding. He nods back before Chick drags him off to some new wonder.

She’s at her desk in fifteen minutes like she told him she would be and sticks her head into his office with a smile. She smiles a lot. “I’m back. Holler if you need anything.”

By the time he can look up from the file he’s puzzling over, she breezes back to her desk and immediately busies herself at her typewriter.

He doesn’t know what to do with her. The other C.O.’s have their secretaries do the standard—take memos, keep their schedules, make coffees—but that seems insulting. She’s here to win a war; he wasn’t going to send her scrambling for sugar. On the other hand, it’s insulting not to utilize her, as sharp and reliable as she is. His father would find her a task and a ring, which he had with his last three secretaries. Jack had no intention of using his rank like that. He’ll find something for Hazel to do. It just has to be the right thing.

And he searches for too long, it seems, because after three days of greeting her when he arrives in the morning and occasionally asking her where certain stationery was stored, she steps into his office post-lunch and plops down in the chair in front of his desk with a sigh. Her eyebrows raise and she wears a bemused smile as she folds her hands in her lap. She reminds him of Bucky for a moment.

“Was it something I said?”

He shakes his head. He’d been hoping she wouldn’t notice his lack of engagement, or perhaps would lean into not having much on her plate. “I’ve never had a secretary before.”

“Most men haven’t.” She leans forward and starts picking at a chip in the wood of his desk. “Your job is my job, too.”

“You seem busy enough.” She does. Every time he looks out into the hall, she’s up to something, whether it’s at her desk, in the filing cabinets along the walls behind her, or somewhere on the ops floor. She knows what she’s doing; he’s the one who’s lost.

Her mouth purses. “Not for long. I’ll be done with the backlog Bucky left by EOD.”

“I’m sorry he left so much—”

Her exaggerated eye roll surprises him. “That’s the point, Jack. It’s too much work for any one man.”

Goddamn Air Exec.

“But that’s why you got me. We’re a team… so,” she raps his desk twice, “put me in, Coach.”

He wants to say something, to have an important Air Exec order or some example for her to follow, but as he looks into her expectant face, he comes up short. He hasn’t eaten yet today, but he’d shoot himself in the foot before he ever made her go to the mess for him. She reads him like a book, which only further rankles his sense of command.

“Well, what’s all this?” She spreads her hands over the papers in front of her.

“Interrogation logs, new crew files—” He points at a pile Chick’s aide had delivered that morning. “I need to get those back to Harding as soon as I sign them.”

“Sign ‘em now and I’ll run ‘em over.”

“No.” This is exactly what he’s been avoiding, assigning her utter tedium.

She pushes the papers toward him. “C’mon.”

He blinks at her before opening the file. It’s some report or inventory request, or both or neither, which he has no idea why he has to sign, but he’ll do it because that’s job along with waiting around and going to briefings and briefings about briefings. Not even a week in and he was ready to crawl out of his skin or at least out the window. Chick denied both his requests to fly so he’s truly stuck in this office for who knows how long. Goddamn Air Exec.

Two signatures, three, four, five—Hazel points to hidden dotted lines, flipping through the pages without a second glance, and Jack can’t help but feel like she’s tying his shoes. That probably flew with Bucky, but it wouldn’t with him. They gave him the promotion because they knew he could do the job well and he agreed. This is something he could be good at. A team of subordinates was a perk of the job, expected for a man of such a station, and he’s grateful that folks were will to help out, but he’d grown up watching secretaries turn from aides to mother-wives and he doesn’t want that for anyone, especially a gal as nice as Hazel. He’ll find something for her to do.

He signs the last page and closes the file as Hazel stands, hand outstretched. Pausing for a moment, he doesn’t pass it over quite yet. “I don’t want you being my errand girl.”

She reaches across the desk and plucks the file from him. “It’s my job.”

She turns on a graceful heel and heads out across the floor, making it to Harding’s office and back before he could find it in him to stop staring at her confident, unaffronted gait. Bright laughter—the brightest he’s ever heard—bubbles out of her as she tucks her skirt under her thighs and takes a seat at her desk.

“You could’ve signed three more reports in the time that took me. Now I’m gonna have to wait for you.” She tsked. “Wastin’ both our time.”

She’s tying his shoes again and that lights a fire under his ass for the rest of the day. He clears the files that had accumulated on his desk plus two rounds of parts inventory from the hard stand and he gets a memo off to London requesting more birds. He feels satisfied by the time he flicks off the light and gathers his jacket and coat. It sure wasn’t flying, but it felt like making a difference all the time. He didn’t know he could do that from behind a desk.

It takes some soul-searching, but he manages to light his own fire for the rest of the week. He maintains his composure through the worst of it, a long fog delay that had half his pilots climbing into the tower to beg him for clearance, a ‘misplaced’ delivery of Mae Wests that somehow ended up with the 418th before they came to ops, and another declined request to fly from Harding. Goddamn Air Exec.

The job gets easier each day, especially with Hazel right outside the door. It does feel more like a team than subordination as they move around each other, trading reports and memos without having to speak. Still, she’s a few steps ahead of him—coming through the door before he can call her to pick up a file, finding this or that form before he can realize he’s misplaced it—but he’s determined to catch up. He comes in early on Saturday and has the summarized after action reports in Chick’s office before Hazel’s arrived for the day. It’s a good feeling when her eyes go wide in surprise and her cheery mouth finds its usual smile.

“Well, I suppose we’re even now.”

“No,” he shakes his head, “not even close.”

If they’re really going to be a team, he’s going to even the playing field. No more having her play governess. Neither of them are here to clean up after someone else.

That evening, Hazel is leaning into Chick’s doorway as Jack leaves for the day, chatting with Sheila.

He mumbles a ‘pardon me’ as he passes and her face lifts at the sight of him. “Major Kidd! We were just talkin’ about you.”

“You were?” he asks as they fall into lockstep on their way out.

“We were sayin’ how nice it is to have an Air Exec who knows what he’s doin’.”

“Bucky tried his best.” He’s lying.

She knows it and she snorts. “He was fun to have around, certainly.”

It’s quiet as they walk. The flights have stopped for the day and if he strains his ears he’d be able to hear the crews working away on the hard stand, but there’s no need for that now. That’s another thing he’s learning—when he’s doing the job and when he’s not. With the warm evening air and the blazing sunset in front of them, he’s grateful for the time off the clock.

He looks at Hazel and is struck by the sight. The light washes her dark cherrywood skin in a velvet glow, sending shadows of her lashes and her nose across her face. He’s suddenly jealous of Bucky and he doesn't know why. She catches his eye and smiles. Blanching, he clears his throat and stares at the ground. His boots are the cleanest they’ve been since he’s been in England now that he’s out of the grease and dust of the planes. Goddamn Air Exec.

They’re nearly at the ops barracks when he realizes that he doesn’t know where she’s going. Does she live in the barracks? Is she one of the girls who’s at a billet in town? Why doesn’t he know? Shouldn’t he know? She’s never in the mess and is so rarely at the Silver Wings. He wonders what she does with her time. He realizes he doesn’t know much about her at all, not her hometown, her family, where she was before the Air Force. The Oberlin pennant on the wall in his office had prompted her to ask into his life, but that’s because she’s always where he is, but he’s never where she is. He wants to be.

“Where’re you headed?”

She comes to a stop. “Home.”

“Where’s that?”

Her wry smile makes his heart skip a beat as she turns down the path leading toward the enlisted barracks. “Good evening, Major.” She never calls him that.

“Some of us’ll be at the pub tonight—Chick, Red, Bucky… it’d be good to see you.” He takes a half-step toward her so as not to yell the offer, maybe she’ll take it if he’s gentle. Part of him hopes she’ll say yes. He wants time with her outside of keeping the group on its feet, just an hour to hear her laugh, to ask her where she gets that charming accent from, to ask her for a dance. Part of him hopes she’ll give him one more good smile and walk away, that she’ll remind him there are rules, lines to be maintained. He’s not going to become his father.

“Good evening,” she repeats and he watches her go. He doesn’t have time to dwell on the ache in his chest as Cros yells at him from across the way. He’ll have his night and she’ll have hers.

He’s not sure if he should apologize for being out of turn when he sees her next, clear the air and make it clear that he’s not… he isn’t going to be that man. He reasons to himself that wants to know her as a teammate, in the same way he’d come to know the members of his crew. It’s what any good leader does. There’s a short speech ready to go when he enters HQ Monday morning after seeing the forts off.

She greets him as politely as she always has, but he gets the feeling he probably wouldn’t be able to tell if she’s upset. Her cards are meticulously close to her chest while she learns about the people around her. It’d be a good quality in a C.O. He thinks of all the women he’d just sent to Norway—Ginny, Vera, Amelie, Suzanne. Hazel would fit right in.

There’s a small box on his desk, no sender address upon investigation. “Hazel?”

“Yeah?” she asks as she gets up from her desk.

“Do you know who this is from?” He’s popping open one end with his letter opener.

“Oh, well,” she starts, folding her arms and leaning against the doorframe, “it’s from my momma” Her inflection is that of an embarrassed and entertained daughter.

A swath of white silk flutters to the floor and he picks it up. It’s a scarf decorated with rows of small and large flowers. From… from her mother?

“I—I, uh, I wrote her about you and she insisted on sending it. Bucky got one, too, when he started.”

He couldn’t recall Bucky ever wearing a scarf. “What’d he do with it?”

She scoffs. “God knows. I don’t think he remembers getting it. It was one of his… one of his mornings.”

“Hungover?”

“Still drunk.”

Closing distance, she takes the scarf from him gently and tosses it around his shoulders. She’s so near now as she starts tying it and he can look at her while she concentrates, her eyes glittering with that hope that never seems to fade. Does her mother have the same eyes? The same round apples of her cheeks, the lovely point of her chin? And her perfume, the faint hint of roses he occasionally gets during the day now in full force as she works. He feels flush and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands or where to put his eyes or what to say. A woman who’d only heard about him in letters sent her daughter to war and is sending him beautiful scarves. That’s the kind of woman who would raise Hazel.

“I always tell her that this is unnecessary, that y’all have mommas of your own to fuss over ya,” she says as she adjusts the knot at his neck and smoothes her hands over his shoulders.

“I—I don’t,” he stammers out.

Her eyes widen and he hates the kick in his chest. “Oh, I’m—I’m so sorry, Jack, I had no idea.”

He waves her off but can’t quite find the words. There’s a yearning suddenly, one he left in the dark years ago, and he doesn’t know what’ll come out if he tries to name it. Hazel puts a comforting hand on his arm and looks at him sympathetically. “Well, I’ll tell my momma to keep sending scarves… only if—if you wouldn’t mind.”

“I could use a few more of these,” he says, glancing down at the knot at his neck. He probably looks ridiculous wearing it without the rest of his flight gear, but the accomplished smile on Hazel’s face is worth it. He’ll bear all the stares in the world if it keeps her smiling.

She gives him one more once over before returning to her desk. “It’s a good color on you.”

“Matches my eyes?”

“Something like that.” She winks.

His stomach flips; he thinks of his father and three weddings.

“Oh,” she calls, “you can keep it on.”

He raises an interested eyebrow.

“The Telergma mission, you’re going. Chick sent authorization this morning.”

Three days later, Ev’s the only one who comments on Jack’s new gear after they finally get the all-clear for engine start.

“That from Franny?” his co-pilot asks. It’s a good guess; his sister would send something like it.

“Lieutenant Keene’s mother sent it.”

Ev scoffs with a shake of his head. “Your secretary’s mother is sending you scarves? Goddamn Air Exec.”

Yeah, Jack thinks, smirking out the window and sitting a little taller. Goddamn Air Exec.

#my writing #hazel keene #jack kidd x oc #masters of the air #straighten up and fly right #jack x hazel #some of y'all have neat little banners for all of your works and i want one of those i just don't know how to make them #also this ended up being way more of a jack character study than a true intro to hazel because i wrote it in his pov instead of hers #also i can't decide if this universe is in present or past tense. who's to say

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sins0fthefather · 3 months

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Cravings Run like Water.

Entry II- J.I.N

It felt like ages since he had tasted a proper meal.

The smell of autumn was cool on his tongue as the crunch of leaves pervaded the deafening sting of the air, a chill running up the spine of anyone less protected. A chill he could not feel, nor see, nor taste. It had been ages since he had felt just about anything.

Well, anything besides the ache in his stomach.

His hands reached out to hold against the bending of tree lines, grasping and trembling for anything that could guide him along. It had been dark for a long time. Far too long. His limbs croaked with each movement in an unfamiliar urgency, much like a piece of himself that didn’t truly belong to him. He didn’t know where his feet had taken him— he didn’t bother to ask. It mattered very little in the end where his hunger took him, it wasn’t as if he had a semblance of control over it after all. He let his body have it’s way with him, much as it tore him apart. The smell of flesh pierced through his senses, granting him the briefest sense of direction. The presence of civilization was more filling than the former option.

I will not starve.

It wasn’t a request or passing comment, it was a command of a highest order. A slave to the being hidden away behind his mask, he was at his core torn from his own senses of morality. The legs that carried him stalked forward with a slow trudge that could only be compared to the wariness of a wild animal. He could no longer tell if he was the predator or prey. He would sacrifice anything to rip his mind away from his body’s actions, away from the eradication of beauty that he was responsible for, yet the hunger only drew him further and further. His hands reached out against the ridges of bricks and the grooves of wood, each stepping stone letting him stalk behind the outer limits of the town his other half had dragged him to. The scent of blood unlike his own filled his senses, presenting itself to him like a full course tray picked to his tastes. Would his trembling hands grasp at the throat of a son? A daughter? A family? A sacrificial lamb? Much of it was up for debate, left to the devices of the him inside of him.

Without much thought— much resistance— he had felt his way through the panel of a nearby window. Cold. Much like himself. His body slumped against the floor with little effort, the muffled squeak underneath him failing to showcase just how overbearing his form had become. The scent was unbearable, teasing him further throughout the domain that did not belong to him. Each step into foreign territory was hesitant, feeling around for furniture and obstacles his eyes could no longer perceive. Before long he had slinked his way up the structure of a staircase, the carpet underneath his skin almost familiar. Yet, it wasn’t, and the shadow that encroached as he followed his senses made it clear. Every step was torture, a breathless please escaping the confines of his mind with each thump. Yet, his other half refused to listen, much like the unfeeling being it was.

The low creak of an unkempt door rang out so clearly to him as he pressed against the wooden structure, a sound so loud to his ears and only his. It was sharp. Foreboding. Similar to the shifting of grass underneath his heel when paired with the elements. Yet it was a sensation unnoticed, one that many would excuse for something lurking around the corner in a bad dream. This case would not be so simple. He crept further, further, feeling, sensing, smelling for any hint of what his body craved. It was only when his legs teetered against the surface of a bedpost did he realize his instincts had carried him there, watching as he had trembled.

He could hear breathing underneath him, steady in it’s slowness as the calm remained. From the scent, he could pick up the fact that it was a female. He had cursed himself every step of the way, but the crisp clarity of undeniable hunger prevailed against all other odds. He didn’t register how his body had leaned forward on it’s own, his hand sliding into a nearby pocket for the familiar edge of a sharpened scalpel. The image of what he was doing was unclear, until the soft hitching of uneasiness caught his attention.

He could not see it, but he felt it crawling against his skin. The figure underneath him had awoken, her stare piercing in the fear that overtook it. Fear of him— of what he had become.

“… J—.. Jack?”

The sound of her voice was quiet, yet oh so jarring. He felt his hands freeze under such a simple plea, second guessing himself. Did this person know him? Was he unknowingly targeting the livelihood of his own familiarity? His kin? Even then, he couldn’t escape the sinking feeling that followed him. He felt her fingers brush against him, searching for answers just as desperately as he was. It was only when her hands found his ID wrapped around his collar did his stomach sink further into himself.

Of course she didn’t know who he was. That would’ve been too easy. She was merely reading off of what was provided to her, fumbling for any sense of security within the darkness. A low rumble left him in response, a hand traveling up to raise the mask that had hidden his more horrific features. Even if he had prayed for another outcome throughout the entire journey, a beast’s hunger still belonged to the heart of one. The cold handle of his blade reminded him of the fact that he was, at the end of the day, a beast all the same. His voice came out pleading, begging— asking for forgiveness long in advance. Yet, no amount of forgiveness would sway his hunger.

“… I’m sorry.”

#hes so fun to write #desperation in a physical form asf #eyeless jack x reader #creepypasta #creepypasta headcanon #creepypasta headcanons #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta/you #character study #character intro #eyeless jack #ej

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homestuckreplay · 9 days

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Gee John, How Come Your Dad Lets You Watch Three Movies?!

Alright. I suffered through THREE of John's movies today, and all of them were extremely bad. All three of them had terrible dialogue and boring characterization, Face/Off was mostly gunfights, Armageddon was mostly explosions, and Ghost Dad was mostly an absolute fever dream clearly signed off by a very drugged up executive.

However, I do see why John likes these movies. John is a Nic Cage fan, and I do think both Cage and Travolta gave great performances in Face/Off. The weird, experimental science aspect is fun too, and might have a link to John's chumhandle - I can see him getting curious about how the facial transplant surgery works. Mistaken identity is an interesting theme - John feels like his dad doesn't know him well, thinking he'd like harlequin dolls and cakes, and might think his dad sees him as a different person. People on Discord have theorized that John's arc will be realizing she's transgender, which is REALLY interesting in light of this movie and its focus on physical features vs actual identity.

Armageddon has the same basic premise as Deep Impact - a meteor will destroy the Earth if the American government can't figure out a way to stop it - but on a much shorter timeframe. I personally think Deep Impact is miles better, but Armageddon is very focused on American masculinity and a motley crew of men who live dangerous, somewhat criminal lives (it's more similar to Con Air in this regard). We know John likes a Cool Movie Moment (see p.20) and this one is basically fifty lab-grown Cool Movie Moments stitched together.

Both these movies are very long and very action packed. Armageddon barely takes time away from the action to give us the characters' names, and since John probably watches movies for escapism, this must be appealing to him. Their major characters have very exciting lives, whether that's working for the FBI, as a terrorist, as a deep sea oil driller or as an astronaut - John probably isn't concerned with the politics of these things, they're simply cooler kinds of people who he could grow up to be, and it's fun to imagine himself in their place because it beats his current life.

Ghost Dad is completely irredeemable. [ooc 2024 note: I don't endorse watching movies that feature Bill Cosby, who is a known terrible guy, and I can guarantee he did not receive any money from my watching this.] It's horrifically written and plotted and none of the humor lands. But, it makes perfect sense that John and his dad would watch this, as it's about a family who pranks each other. The son is an aspiring magician just like John (and is similarly bad at it), and John might even have got his interest in magic from watching this.

The dad spraying whipped cream on a top hat is very Dad Egbert-coded, and John might love the idea of having a ghost in his house who can pilot clothes around while invisible and float up to windows to scare mean kids. Meanwhile, Dad clearly likes to show John movies that feature parents eventually choosing their kids over their career. (It seems like he shows this with his actions, too - he's clearly not at work today, and John's feeling suffocated in the house suggests that Dad is there most of the time).

MOVIES WATCHED: 10/11

MOST RECENT MOVIES:

Face/Off (1997) - Rating 4/10

Armageddon (1998) - Rating 3/10

Ghost Dad (1990) - Rating 1/10

#ghost dad gets 1/10 because i still cried.#ive cried at every movie ive ever seen and would only give 0 if i didnt cry #john's movies #homestuck #one to go !!#thoughts on meteor movies:#deep impact is very neoliberal but feels well meaning and optimistic in a 90s way #meanwhile armageddon is very cynical libertarian and is literally oil company propaganda #i read an intro book on media studies that said 'media can make a bad character likeable by positioning them against other worse characters #i disagree with this. i am extremely capable of not rooting for anybody in a movie

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tenderhungering · 8 days

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Men & Glory: The Revered and The Reviled

God told me I was forgiven and then he split me open

Late Night With The Devil places a lot of emphasis on worship. Be that a religion, a lover, wealth or power. But it feels an awful lot like at the end of this worship always lies another man. An all-seeing powerful one that you feel less than around, one that you can comfort yourself (or fear) in knowing they are what is leading your life for you.

Before I had even finished the film, and I saw Gus beginning to split himself open to rid himself of the worms that lived inside of him, those that were a constant paranoia he thought he only had to worry about externally, unaware that his fear was so deep inside of him that it become the perfect home for it, I noticed he wore a cross.

Not that a cross is anything out of the ordinary to see on someone. But he wore it underneath his clothes, near his chest, dear to him. A succor. It's especially ironic since he was dressed as the devil earlier in the film. But he took it off surprisingly soon (I thought he was going to wear it the entire night since it was a Halloween special!).

I'm not sure where I'm headed with this specifically but him wearing a devil costume despite being the only character we see show devotion to a religion is making me want to dig a little deeper. Something about how much he is willing to do for the network. For Jack. Going against belief for the sake of others. Did he believe he was being punished for that? For caring for Jack?

Gus is awfully selfless in every action that he seems to take. I don't think anything he did in the film came from self-interest. He was concerned for his own safety, of course, but him constantly saying the crew and him spoke gave indication he was a solace for them, someone to go to when things got hard. He was worried for everyone!

I think he has been with Jack for so many years and has seen the man go through so much that he thought Jack seemed to act in a feverish way. But what seemed to really get me is that he told Jack he was not a bad man. Jack, you're a good man. You know better than this. You are not yourself. I know you.

But of course, he is always dismissed in his concerns. Almost in an emasculating way. He's just the sidekick to Jack, the comedic relief, the one who doesn't quite get the jokes that Jack says. Less than. On screen that is. You would think they know Gus is just playing the part but the way he is condescended seems to show otherwise, like they cannot differentiate between him on camera and off. The lines have blurred. Gus you need to learn to just take it. You don't have control around here. None of us do.

It's like being punished for stepping out of line. For committing the sin of putting himself first before the God they worship and that God is the network. This all knowing presence that rewards you for how much blood you are able to feed into it. You must dedicate yourself to it. It demands it. You and I might worship different things, Gus, but we both know that they're both bigger than you and I.

You have made the mistake of viewing Jack as the one that had any charge. As much as you plead for him to return to that old friend of yours, he is long gone. If he was split open, the worms you fear so much would fall right out of him the same as you. He is nothing but a man. You have given him the glory that is reserved only for kings. And as Jack's last name implies (Delroy = Of The King), he is not a king but rather belonging to one. He is a hunting dog taking orders. And you the prey. And the worms will return you back to the dirt. You will become one with them. But even then, that is not enough. The worms that eat you do not die and their fire is not quenched.

#late night with the devil #lnwtd #gus mcconnell #rhys auteri #character study #jack delroy #david dastmalchian #not so proud of this piece oh goodness #i'm rusty...#but don't worry i will get back intro the groove and make something more coherent? consider this a work in progress lmao

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p4nb3an · 4 months

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hi, i'm Bea :))

they/them ☆ pan-ace ☆ a problem to everyone

i draw and have too small of a brain for the amount i worry

interests change every day/week, so prepare for pretty much anything to seep out of my brain

as of now i'm working on figuring out colour, and shape language in my art while throwing consistency out the window because who needs it

#my art #drawing #illustration #digital art #original character #persona #introduction #intro post #pinned post #small artist #small art blog #artist on tumblr #artists of tumblr #havent illustrated in a while #its weird #i might need to study shading techniques again #cause i was struggling

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shslpunkartist99 · 2 months

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The overwhelming urge to watch the whole Sonic Underground series..

#Punk Posts #and the equally overwhelming second-hand embarassment that keeps me from doing it #also the fact that my brain will go “I've seen this 20 times already”#cuz I have. I actually have #I literally STUDIED this show when I was a kid #Manic my fffffffuckin BELOVED #fun fact: There would be no Naomi if there was no Underground #Sonic X was my first intro to Sonic in general but Underground is what got me into make comics and characters #literally fuckin.. made an “epic team” of Naomi Manic and Shadow cuz they were my faves #Scourge too lol #the hyperfixation never left but it's clogging my brain all over again

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astarionbae · 5 months

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Luna Dungardio is a noble high half elf who was born to a human female bard and a high elf druid male. Her father, Apolis and more commonly known as "Blackwood", was a dark archdruid that had a created his own circle from the teachings of the Circle of Spores, granting him a large following. They believed death and decay brings new life to all things, and to keep nature pure from contagion. When he met Serena, and fell in love, that's when it became dangerous. Around the age of five, Luna and her mother were found out by her father's grove and been attacked. The faction considered the child of their beloved Blackwood to be the rot in the roots due to their own demented interpretation of their circle's rule. Blackwood had fought back with animated death at his side, calling a sheltering spell on Luna. In the middle of casting a rather sadistic and torturous, Blackwood was stabbed which caused him to lose concentration on the sheltering spell and release his newest incantation. All were struck dead with vitality slipping from their bones and blood seeping out of every orifice; Luna was not spared. As her life began slipping away Blackwood called on Jergal, the Lord of the Dead, to save his daughter's life and to take his in place. Instead, Bhaal had come to him and made him an offer that he could not refuse. To save Luna, Bhaal bestowed his own blood within her body to make her a spawn and in return, he wanted Luna to be his Chosen. Blackwood accepted, not knowing the true outcome of this deal. As the years progressed and Luna got older, Blackwood noticed that she would hesitate for periods at a time, speaking with someone he could not see. It gotten to a point that he tried to make deals with devils to help out his daughter but before any progress could be made, he was met with a knife's edge that been plunged into his skin by his own daughter. Luna found her way to the Temple of Bhaal and became a leader, devoting herself and her life to her newest 'father'. In the 15th century, at the age of twenty-nine, Luna was betrayed by fellow Bhaalspawn Orin the Red at Moonrise Towers. She had her skull pierced and opened with a dagger, and was infected with a mindflayer tadpole that began to eat her brain, resulting in amnesia, as well as her becoming the first True Soul. Found by Kressa, who been impressed with her willpower and resistance to the elder brain, began to study her by cutting her up and sewing her back together over several days as she couldn't speak or do anything. Luna was then sent on the Nautiloid Ship, where she would soon wake up with no memories of herself or their past. There, she meets a githyanki warrior named Lae'Zel and a half elf cleric named Shadowheart, beginning her journey of self discovery and a path to redemption.

taglist; @rey-of-luke, @endless-oc-creations, @fandomqueenlove, @aliverse, @mmmayflower2016, @seize-the-droid, @maddyperiez, @foxesandmagic, @harleyquinnzelz, @bravelittleflower, @anotherunreadblog, @kendelias, @dreamerwithapen1, @kiara-carrera, @phoebestarks, @rickiisrad, @anqelwiithhxrns, @the-multifandommess-blog, @ocs-supporting-ocs, @luucypevensie, @claryxjackson, @aaronhotchstuff, @susiesamurai, @witchofinterest, @heresthefanfiction, @reysfinn, @arrthurpendragon, @margoshansons, @richitozier, @waterloou, @bobfloydsbabe, @decennia, @asirensrage, @starcrossedjedis, @zoyazenik, @dyhlanobrien, @eddiesmunsons, @bisexualterror, @squirrelstone, @lucys-chen, @jewishbarbies, @carmens-garden,

#ocappreciation #baldur's gate 3 ocs #video game ocs #dark urge oc #luna dungardio #fic: castle of glass (?)#still working on a title but #character study and intro #mine #my creation #my ocs #first oc of the new year!!

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surviveds · 19 days

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much like him thinking that checking out men was normal, i think buck thinks his approach to gender is just... normal. he doesn't care if someone uses he or they or even she for him - she might make him raise an eyebrow, because he doesn't think anything about the way he presents would warrant it, but it's not going to make him uncomfortable or angry. he'd just accept it. he doesn't understand anyone making a big deal about pronouns or gender as a whole - which is why he doesn't actively identify as nonbinary (but he doesn't exactly go out of his way to identify as cisgender, either.) he doesn't actively recognize that they/them pronouns give him a sense of euphoria. because he's totally fine with being gendered as a man; he loves being someone's boyfriend and maddie's brother. of course, nonbinary doesn't inherently equal androgyny and a lack of gender, and buck does realize this, because he's gone out of his way to understand lgbt identity/issues - but it just hasn't fully clicked for him, yet. it's literally just something he thinks most people think.

#i love thinking about buck and identity. especially with everything going on in s7.#i just can't stop thinking about that line about checking out hot guys. it genuinely informs so much of his character #and of course most people have just taken it as b*ddie fodder specifically because of eddie's intro which is understandable #but i think it has so much significance for a lot of buck's actions beyond just hints at his sexuality #because i really do believe there's canon evidence for buck being nonbinary. that's just me reading into things too much but skjnfdkj #it's THERE.#ch: b. buckley.#study: b. buckley.

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sins0fthefather · 3 months

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Somethin’ Sweet Enough to Taste.

Entry I— J.A.W

The quiet thrill of the crisp autumn air was a luxury appreciated by few. It welcomed the change of pace the quiet town of Northfield held this time of year with open arms. Bound together by harvests, pumpkin patches, and the shrill of passing crows, very few found themselves wanting for much within the confines of their simplicity. It was a settlement that found comfort in the silence of the nights that passed.

Perhaps a bit too much comfort.

The hushed thump of boots traveled their way through the empty streets, noting the frost that had begun to layer the roads. It had never chilled so quickly there in the past. The thought brought a smirk to the lips of the body accompanying the sound, as if it were all too familiar to him. His eyes flickered towards the glazed panes of a nearby café, his gaze lingering on his own reflection for enough beats to satisfy himself. Only then did his attention bother to catch onto the silhouette of the waitress stationed inside, his brow furrowing at the way she swayed while wiping tables.

He had made up his mind long before the bell above the door chimed, clicking along in rhythm with the pace of his boots.

The woman instinctively raised her head at the noise, an agitated huff escaping her before she had even turned around. A late customer or two never bothered her much, but this was ridiculous timing. She struggled to hide the frustration behind her words as she began, “We’re closing—“

“Surely it doesn’t take that long to make one simple fuckin’ black coffee.” The figure interrupted, his sneer hidden behind the surgical mask that covered the lower half of his face. The amusement behind his eyes was evident however, lacking the decency to even pretend his gaze wasn’t dragging along her form. He almost looked disappointed at what was in front of him. He then invited himself to sit at one of the nearby booths, crossing a leg over the other as his fingers tapped against the smooth surface of the table in front of him. The frown that tugged at the waitress’s lips only seemed to earn a snicker out of him.

“Got a name for that order?” The woman reluctantly asked, turning on her heel towards the pot behind the counter. It was hardly fresh, but the mere prospect of drawing another batch made her scowl.

At her question, the figure’s smirk faltered. His gaze only seemed to harden at her tone. “There’s nobody else in here. Is one really necessary?” He leaned back into his seat, a singular hand snaking into one of his jacket pockets.

His question was enough to make her tilt her head back at him, her once sunny eyes only littered with aggravation. One bad review from a customer wouldn’t kill her, surely. A guileful grin played at her expression, “If you want your ‘fuckin’ coffee,’ yes.”

The waitress’s musings were met with a twitch of a brow, a curling of a fist as the man before her sucked back a breath filled with his own colorful insults. Instead, her question waited for a few beats. He seemed almost hesitant, as if considering the option of a fake name to suffice her wager. Soon after however, he seemed to come to his conclusion— one that allowed his solitary smirk to return. “It’s Jeff,” he began as his muscles relaxed, “Surely you can spell that, right dollface?”

His words made the woman’s own self amusement deflate, her grin thinning into a line within the matter of seconds. She was tempted to spell it incorrectly on purpose out of spite as she wrapped the now-full cup up in it’s sleeve. Instead she settled for a cat-scratched ‘Jeffrey,’ fastening a to-go lid up against it. She slid it onto the table between the booths, restraining herself back from letting it hit the wall. “Have a nice night,” She practically forced her words out through her teeth.

While he had planned on reacting with his previous snark, a certain coldness overtook his eyes as he glanced at the name inscribed on the cup’s sleeve. With a slow rise he stood from his seat, his gaze purposefully avoiding the waitress that stood before him. He turned his back towards her, pulling at his mouth’s masked constraints to take a ginger sip at the lukewarm coffee offered to him. As she peered over his shoulder, she squinted.

Was that… blood around his mouth?

Before she could voice her concerns, her previous formalities were met with a rasping response, “I’ll be sure to visit again soon. Don’t miss me too much.” His words ended with a slight snicker, pulling his mask back up around his face. His head turned back to steal one last glance at her, his pale blue eyes saving her face in their memory. Without waiting for a retort his boots thumped against the tile once more, slipping out of the café door much like the shadows that littered the streets.

His mind was too preoccupied on the feel of the blade within his pocket to dwell on anything other than the ‘shining review’ he’d leave his newest doting server.

#this took way too long #jeff the killer x reader #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta #creepypasta/you #character study #jeff the killer #jeff x reader #character intro

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ghstlygrm · 3 months

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Pelos Céus, ARCHIBALD HOWARD ST. JOHN chegou a Hearthstone Hall. ELE tem 34 anos e pertence aos HOWARD ST. JOHN de EFFINGHAM. Embora essa NÃO SEJA a sua primeira vez em Hearthstone Hall, só podemos descrevê-lo como DIRETO e POMPOS, caro leitor. Acompanhado pela sua MÃE, ele se instalou e está aceitando visitas sociais. Mas esteja avisado: ele é conhecida pela sua INCAPACIDADE DE PARAR DE FALAR SOBRE SI MESMO.

#⤷ CHAR. / HEADCANNONS.#⤷ CHAR. / PORTRAYAL NOTES.#⤷ CHAR. / CHARACTER STUDY.#HH-–intro

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yndrr · 3 months

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Pelos Céus, HENRIETTA LOCKHART, the TENDERHEART chegou a Hearthstone Hall. ELA tem 27 anos e pertence aos LOCKHART de MAYFAIR, LONDRÊS. Embora essa SEJA a sua primeira vez em Hearthstone Hall, só podemos descrevê-la como GENEROSA e LEAL, caro leitor. Acompanhada pelas suas IRMÃS, ela se instalou e está aceitando visitas sociais. Mas esteja avisado: ela é conhecida pela sua TEIMOSIA.

O nascimento de Henrietta prenunciou aspectos de como sua vida sempre seria. Depois de três filhas e de um trabalho de parto muito longo, quando Ettie respirou pela primeira vez, a mãe estava tão exausta que mal se importava em segurar a filha. Esse comportamento continuou ao longo dos anos… Sua mãe não era de forma alguma abusiva ou desamorosa, ela estava sempre preocupada. Ela estava preocupada em educar as duas filhas mais velhas, depois em encontrar pretendentes para elas e depois em preparar casamentos.

Embora não parecesse sempre que fosse assim, Henrietta e a sua irmã mais próxima em idade usaram esta liberdade a seu favor, explorando o campo e a aldeia onde passaram a maior parte da infância, sendo o seu passatempo ler favorito um livro grosso sentadas no alto gramado de um campo ensolarado e observando a irmã pintar.

À medida que cresceram, as atenções de sua mãe se voltaram para as duas meninas mais novas. Era hora de eles encontrarem seus pares também. As ambições de sua mãe permaneceram tão altas quanto as de suas outras filhas, mas Gracelyn não atendeu aos padrões, nem cedeu aos argumentos de sua mãe, quando anunciou suas intenções de se casar com um fazendeiro de sua aldeia.

Isso acendeu uma faísca em Henrietta, que se revelaria perigosa. Ela não apenas passou mais tempo do que o normal fora de casa enquanto a família planejava o casamento de Gracelyn... Mas ver sua irmã tão feliz com suas próprias decisões a inspirou... E ela sentiu que se sua família se preparava para casar sua irmã com o homem de sua escolha era um bom sinal de que talvez ela pudesse fazer o mesmo. O homem que ela escolheu era filho de um ferreiro da cidade. Ou teria sido, mas eles não chegaram a essa parte da história antes de Evelyn intervir. Ettie manteve seu romance em segredo até que Evelyn encontrou cartas entre os dois e imediatamente as levou para a mãe, Josephine. Henrietta não tinha certeza se a mãe delas estava mais chateada com quem ela decidiu amar, ou porque poderia haver fofocas sobre sua honra que poderiam dissuadir futuros pretendentes. Tudo o que Ettie sabia com certeza era que estava proibida de vê-lo novamente. E isso colocou dentro dela um ódio profundamente enraizado por sua irmã. Que só cresceu quando a mãe anunciou que Evelyn a acompanharia na temporada social do ano de 1873.

No meio do turbilhão do noivado de Gracelyn e do árduo planejamento do casamento, ninguém notou os olhares prolongados, os olhares acalorados trocados entre Henrietta e um jovem que ela conheceu e com quem dançou – DUAS VEZES! – em um dos bailes de Florence. Ele se apresentou como um rico dono de fábrica, aparentemente amigo do marido de Florence, e ficou por perto depois do baile, para “UM POUCO DE AR FRESCO NO CAMPO”. E cortejar Henrietta, claro, em segredo. Longe de olhares indiscretos, o romance deles foi apaixonado e de curta duração, pois, na véspera do casamento de Gracelyn, quando todos se reuniram na casa de campo de Florence, foram descobertos por Josephine – e Ettie repreendeu-a muito por interromper o que havia acontecido. Parecia ser uma proposta! Mas Josephine reconheceu o jovem instantaneamente, proibiu qualquer um dos dois de voltar a falar um com o outro, pois ele não era um mero dono de fábrica, mas um membro da família real belga, um amigo na verdade do marido de Frederica, eles haviam frequentado um internato. junto. Para completar, Josephine informou a Henrietta que ele estava, na verdade, noivo de outra, uma princesa holandesa, eles estavam prometidos um ao outro desde o nascimento. Ettie, totalmente desolada, cortou todo contato com ele, não o viu desde então - embora ela também não tenha conhecimento das dezenas de cartas que ele escreveu para ela, todas queimadas por Josephine ao chegar.

Na posição de mais nova entre quatro filhas, Henrietta sempre teve dificuldade em se definir. Ela passou muito tempo tentando determinar quem ela era. E sempre pulou de cabeça em qualquer oportunidade que surgiu em seu caminho, tentando encontrar seu nicho.

Mas quem conhece Ettie sabe que ela é coração e sentimento. Ela é extremamente carinhosa, embora com uma língua afiada você não consegue, propriamente, chamá-la de gentil. Ela acolheria qualquer um que batesse à sua porta, daria dinheiro a qualquer um que implorasse e cuidaria de um animal selvagem ferido até recuperá-lo, se este lhe permitisse. Ela também é um espírito livre. Quando ela era mais nova, ela era a filha que tinha o cabelo bagunçado e os pés descalços, correndo pelos jardins de sua casa de campo. Como adulta, isso se traduziu em ela ser teimosa, sarcástica e um pouco sonhadora. Muitas vezes ela se esquece de seus modos e das formalidades que algumas interações exigem.

As irmãs Lockhart se consideravam uma só entidade. Elas são excepcionalmente próximas e muito raramente foram vistas umas sem as outras durante a infância. Elas até insistiram em dividir quartos até a adolescência. Nunca perderam contato, é claro, um vínculo de irmã nunca poderia ser quebrado mas todas – exceto Henrietta – agora embarcam em suas próprias jornadas, em suas próprias novas aventuras.

A pior pessoa que Ettie já teve o desprazer de conhecer é – infelizmente – parente dela. O filho da irmã de sua mãe, um menino rebelde, talvez o conversador mais terrível do país. Ele realmente a irrita apenas por existir, ele se preocupa consigo mesmo um pouco mais do deveria, com sua fortuna, sua terra e seu título. Oh, impertinência é que homens como ele recebam um título, uma educação universitária! Isso a deixa com raiva só de pensar nisso. Ela tenta evitá-lo a qualquer custo.

Henrietta gosta de palavras escritas, por isso não é surpresa que ela tenha encontrado uma alma gêmea no poeta e romancista que reside a poucos passos de sua casa. Embora sua mãe torça o nariz para isso, Ettie faz questão de visitá-lo todos os dias, onde discutirão seu último poema, um romance ou alguma ideia radical sobre a qual ela leu.

#⤷ CHAR. / HEADCANNONS.#⤷ CHAR. / PORTRAYAL NOTES.#⤷ CHAR. / CHARACTER STUDY.#HH-–intro

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wngdsrphs · 3 months

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Pelos Céus, ADELINE SMYTHE-SMITH, the CHARMER chegou a Hearthstone Hall. ELA tem 19 anos e pertence aos SMYTHE-SMITHE de HAMPSHIRE. Embora SEJA sua primeira vez em Hearthstone Hall, só podemos descrevê-la como DOCE e ADORÁVEL, caro leitor. Acompanhada pela sua MAMÃ, PAPÁ e IRMÃO MAIS VELHO, ela se instalou e está aceitando visitas sociais. Mas esteja avisado: ela é conhecida pela sua BOCA DE TRAPOS.

Quatro meigas e exemplares senhoritas, quatro corajosos e magníficos cavalheiros, eram assim os irmãos mais velhos de Adeline — o sonho de qualquer mãe. A casa dos Smythe-Smith estava cheia! Talvez demasiado cheia! Com tantos irmãos, era apenas uma questão de tempo até que surgissem discussões, que sentimentos fossem feridos e segredos compartilhados a ouvidos indignos. Ah . . . Isso era apenas o começo dos problemas que aconteciam naquela casa.

Adeline nasceu na madrugada do dia 26 de dezembro de 1853, na casa ancestral de sua família. Foi a última de uma novena de crianças o que levaria as mais comuns das famílias a testar os seus recursos por terem tantos filhos. Os Smythe-Smith seriam a exceção a esse pensamento — afinal Lord Arthur Richard, 2º Duque de Wellington era filho do famoso general e estadista britânico que derrotou Napoleão Bonaparte na Batalha de Waterloo e o ducado que pertencia à família era o mais antigo do Pariato do Reino Unido. Devido ao status do duque, a família Smythe-Smith estava longe de ser pobre. Os seus dotes era notáveis em comparação com muitos outros de classe semelhante, seus vestidos elegantes e a sua casa era frequentemente renovada para se manter por dentro das tendências.

Tudo isto para dizer que a pressão sobre Lord Smythe-Smith era imensa. Ele não se sentia apenas responsável pela família, mas também por manter o estilo luxuoso ao qual estavam acostumados. Sendo essa a principal razão pela qual ele estava sempre ocupado com seus negócios. Smythe-Smith também tinha talento para as aparências, sempre pronto para participar de uma festa ou oferecer um jantar chique.

Nesse contexto, Adeline foi criada e habituada a todo o luxo que o dinheiro e poder podem proporcionar a uma jovem donzela. Recebeu, ainda, a mais das perfeitas e completas educações que uma Lady inglesa do seu tempo poderia receber: teve a sua própria governante e aprendeu todas as regras de etiqueta e diplomacia social, aprendeu francês e italiano, aprendeu a tocar pianoforte e violino e memorizou todos os passos de dança para não envergonhar os seus pais em bailes. Bordados e pinturas eram as disciplinas que, durante os seus anos de formação, maior adversidade lhe provocaram e ela nunca chegou a domá-las com sabedoria, sendo apenas capaz de entregar resultados levemente satisfatórios.

Lynn — como a família e amigos mais próximos a tratavam — tinha recém completado os 15 anos de idade quando, numa tarde despretensiosa, se sentou na secretaria do seu pai a desfolhar o The Daily Universal Register e encontrou um artigo de opinião escrito por um Lord que a deixou fascinada. Adeline não pensou duas vezes antes de reunir algumas folhas, uma caneta de imersão e um tinteiro para compor uma carta ao autor de tão requintada prosa. A jovem só se sentiu hesitante quando terminou de escrever todos os seus pensamentos e opiniões e reflexiva encarou o final do papel na sua frente. Sabia que se assinasse com o seu próprio nome o autor do artigo que a tinha fascinado a iria ignorar. Ninguém queria saber de garotinhas. Por essa razão, fez-se passar pelo seu patriarca e marcou o papel com o símbolo do Duque de Wellington.

À medida que os seus irmãos começaram a sair de casa para construir as suas próprias famílias, Lynn — começou a passar mais tempo com o seu irmão mais velho, Charles, Conde de Mornington. Ele costumava levá-la à cidade enquanto fazia recados e sempre a mimava comprando-lhe algo de que ela certamente não necessitava. Corria o ano de 1871 quando, após uma dessas idas à cidade, Adeline caiu de cama gravemente doente. Durante vários meses, ardeu em febre e como o seu quadro só piorava, o médico da família comunicou aos Duques que deveriam preparar a família para o pior. Todas as suas irmãs regressaram a Stratfield Saye House para se poderem despedir da pequena Adeline. O Duque passava as manhãs no seu quarto, a ler-lhe as principais notícias dos periódicos da época e a Duquesa era a sua companhia durante as tardes. Lady Elizabeth Hay chorava enquanto rezava, pedia a Deus, aos anjos e santos que tivessem clemência pela sua mais nova, que não a jovem não fosse punida pelos pecados dos seus pais. Não imaginava que a sua filha a ouvia e que guardaria as palavras da Duquesa até morrer. Fez mil e uma grandiosas promessas e todas elas cumpriu, assim que Lynn começou a melhorar.

Quando atingiu a maioridade, Adeline havia se transformado em uma jovem inteligente, charmosa e delicada. Sua mãe ainda se recusava a aceitar que Lynn não era mais uma criança, mas a Duquesa acabou por concordar que havia chegado o momento de apresentar a sua última filha perante a sociedade. Com isso, só o tempo dirá o que se esconde por trás da máscara de sede de Lady Smithe-Smith, uma que foi tecida entre meias verdades e charme.

Na posição de mais nova entre nove filhos, desde cedo que Adeline aprendeu que precisava de se diferenciar do resto do grupo para conseguir alguma atenção. Ela era a filhinha do papai e a companheira de fofocas de sua mãe, sempre desejosa de participar de uma boa e longa conversa sobre os estranhos acontecimentos na vida dos seus irmãos. Conhecida por ser tagarela e oferecer ouvidos bem abertos como uma língua solta, logo os seus irmãos aprenderam a manter seus segredos longe dela. Suas fofocas nunca tiveram nenhum pensamento nefasto por trás, ela apenas gosta de conhecer pessoas e ter conversas agradáveis — tendo um caráter um tanto maleável, não é preciso que a empurrem muito antes de ela revelar um segredo que deveria ter guardado, muito para sua consternação quando ela percebe que o voltou a fazer.

Felizmente, e apesar da sua tendência para a fofoca, ela é bastante versada na arte de encantar pessoas. Criada na sombra de uma casa movimentada, sempre soube que precisava de se distinguir de alguma forma e descobriu, nessa busca, como era muito eficaz tornar-se agradável. Ela segue as regras de etiqueta quando necessário, embora também saiba quando quebrá-las, o momento certo para virar as expectativas dos outros de cabeça para baixo, a fim de provocar uma risada e um sorriso de encantados. Bem versada na arte da bajulação, misturando o sincero com o calculado, ela sabe exatamente quais botões apertar para se tornar querida por alguém.

Apesar do seu jeito com as pessoas, ela ainda tem uma certa ingenuidade esperançosa. Ela olha o mundo com estrelas nos olhos, confiando em todos. Por melhor que seja em ganhar graças dos outros, é igualmente simples ganhar as delas, e com isso vem a sua confiança, tornando-se um livro que se abre de forma imprudente.

#⤷ CHAR. / HEADCANNONS.#⤷ CHAR. / PORTRAYAL NOTES.#⤷ CHAR. / CHARACTER STUDY.#HH-–intro

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