#I know Native American people DO wrap their hair sometimes but I think it was to cop-out of animating her braids

[zoe-oneesama]

Some "Special" Girls! And the late girls.

Ko-fi | Patreon

#you don't even know how long I've held onto the Zoe one I made her with the quickness #I still haven't seen the Shanghai or New York Special I went in mostly blind on their looks #all the 'Specials' girls did get a redesign from me so the version where their mimicking their render pose is the redesign #though I kept Jess's hair wraps even though I don't love them #I know Native American people DO wrap their hair sometimes but I think it was to cop-out of animating her braids #my art #fashion #ml paris special #emonette #jess #aeon #new york special #fei #shanghai special #socqueline #zoe #socqueline wang #zoe lee #marinette #marinette dupain-cheng #ml art #miraculous ladybug

[lazarettta]

Misthios

Characters (Reader x Mother Miranda...?) 👀

Rating (T)

Word Count (2.8k)

Warnings (none, first half is has no dialogue, writing while high,)

Once her little warrior, always her little warrior.

I'm sorry if it's hot 🗑💀

The fire was finally the way you wanted it and you could finally fucking rest. You'd been hiking all goddamn day through the rain and snow, and you just wanted a minute to rest and to eat. The sun was starting to set and you still needed to set up your tent, but for the moment you were content to just sit on the log and get warm.

“Who'd ever think a Spartan would be in Rome looking for answers, hm?” it was ironic, how you would've been accused of being a traitor or something like that back then. Ha...back then?

Truthfully you weren't sure anymore where your life really started it's been so long, centuries really if you were being honest. Sometimes even your own secrets were too overwhelming for you to admit, and as the years continued to pass you by it was getting harder and harder for you to hold onto the same principles you once believed in. The wars you've participated in, two of them by choice...and as a favor for the third.

It shouldn't have been possible but it was for you, it was both a blessing and a curse because you were nothing special...you grew up with Spartan blood running through your veins, pushed at a young age to hunt and to protect, it was a common tradition for families then, especially for the oldest or only children. Your didn't ever recall your father, he died in battle before you were born but your mother was there, always. Even if her face was blurry after all of the time that has passed you by—you still remember her teachings and her technique. Your mother was the best hunter in Sparta, proudly.

But after...after her passing, the streets taught you how to be a mercenary at a young age...and then an assassin, not by choice but by necessity because you weren't a good person then, not really, and you still weren't now...but you still had the will do what was right, and so you did.

And maybe that is why the Gods did not let you die in the battlefield when you'd been caught off guard, for what is no longer relevant as it is now long gone, but the scar left through your heart would forever stain you inside and out by some random Greek bastard. You don't remember much of the dying part as much as you remembered how badly it hurt and how livid you were watching him stand over you with his bloody sword raised to the heavens. But just like your pain, that emotion was ebbed away as you laid there dying.

And die you did. And your body laid there for who knows how long but when you woke up, oh you sprung up ready to fight but there wasn't a fight left to be had...the war was over...but you didn't know that until you woke up the second time. Not realizing that your body was next to be burned in the ditch as the battlefield was being cleared of all the corpses from both sides. A gruesome chore performed by the prisoners taken by Sparta.

You had no idea why the Gods healed you and brought you back from the dead, you didn't deserve a second chance (at the time you didn't realize that it was a power). You were blessed by the Gods and that's all that it was, people looked at you with both awe and envy. Some gave all of their iron and dearest family possessions as a gift to the Gods in hopes that their wishes were granted. They hated you and you did not care. You were unstoppable, everyone wanted your attention and your skills—it made you arrogant and stupid for years. And when you caught a pretty nasty gash across your back from a werewolf that ambushed you and your horse, your leathers had been torn and bloody by the time you speared your way through four of those beasts. But while there was blood, there was no wound...the only evidence were the scars it left behind.

Snap!

You turned your head slightly, a few strands of your hair falling in front of your ever sharp (y/e/c) eyes. You stayed perfectly still, eyes scanning the forest surrounding you but there was nothing after several moments. Just as well...with a loud sigh, you finally got up to put up your tent for the night and probably for the next few nights too. You slipped your hunting knife back into your boot but kept it unhooked just in case.

You lived in a time where guns existed but you were always better with a blade. You may not be an active misthios now (mercenary in today's world) but old habits were hard to kick. You were too old and too wise now, even if you didn't look a day over twenty-eight.

The next morning...

You woke with a start your grip around your obsidian hunting knife so tight your knuckles your skin strained against bone. You didn't have a dream but something woke you up, and it wasn't those damn birds chirping literally above your tint. With the help of the morning sun you could even see the spot where one of them pooped. Great. You laid there for a few more minutes, finally relaxed enough to move. You checked your surroundings again, walking around your camp but that feeling of unease didn't go away but it wasn't as strong.

Today was clearer than it was the day before though you still had to deal with the snow and the cold, not that either really bothered you too much. Leaving your camp behind, marking the trees so that you had a way to find your way back through these unfamiliar woods, you set off to find breakfast. You came to an edge, a cliff's peak and you went to stand on the edge of it—to maybe see the rest of the mountain you were exploring but something caught your immediate attention.

When was the last time you ever saw a castle? Not...not those tourist marks they have all over Europe but a castle. The place was eerie but most castles always felt that way to you...but this was different? It was as if the castle was looking right back at you, mocking you. From your vantage point you could make out the edges of a lake through the thick trees, you couldn't see it very well but you could tell it wasn't small nor was it man-made.

It was a pleasant surprise to discover this as you assumed that your trip would mostly be you exploring this cold ass mountain without a proper guide but you didn't need anyone to know why you were really up here, your reasons concerned no one but yourself. That and you knew you'd end up leading your guide. You were better off alone. Or at least that's what you kept telling yourself that but those words stopped being comforting a very long time ago. Not like fate was giving you much of a fucking choice though.

Your stomach growled, reminding you of your hunt...you glanced down at the village below the castle curiously before turning away from the ledge, the heavy aura of the castle still on your back.

~~

Fat and full, that's exactly how you'd describe yourself at the moment. There were more predators in the area than there were prey it seemed but the rabbit you caught seemed plentiful enough. With winter kicking in, the most worrisome predator in the woods would be hibernating leaving nothing but the wolves and maybe a mountain lion for you to deal with if you're lucky. You hefted your smaller backpack onto your back and left your camp, deciding to check out the village to see if you could learn more about the castle.

You were both excited and curious, you'd spent a majority of your modern life exploring the wonders of the Earth and using the currency you've collected throughout your lifetimes to fund whatever myth caught your eye. In other words, you were bored but the thought of war and fighting no longer made your blood sing or your heart race. You've done so much of that already, and lost so much because of it.

“Get back! Get back! Agh—GET THE FUCK BACK!”

Your legs stopped moving immediately and your gloved hand was already wrapped around the hilt of your hunting knife, ears trained. You heard growling and barking not too far from where you stood, maybe two or three hundred feet to your right just through those bushes and that fallen tree. It sounded as if someone was having a bit of trouble with a pack of wolves. Which struck you as odd, you were still pretty high up on the mountains and you hadn't seen anyone else up here in a week, so it couldn't have been a local...could it?

The growling grew more intense and there were sounds of a scuffle and grunts but the man still sounded alive.

And it wasn't your problem. Your days of coming to the rescue were over. You allowed your hand to fall from your knife. You got maybe seven steps away before the man spotted you, he caught a glimpse of your fur lined hood and started screaming for you to help him just as one of the wolves snapped the branch he was holding in half, forcing his back against a tree. His time was counting down now.

He was yelling so loud, you were sure even the villagers could hear him now. There was no way you could walk away now.

“Fucking hell.” with a heavy sigh, you dropped your backpack and stalked in the direction of the soon to be crime scene. You didn't feel the need to mask your presence, you wanted the wolves to know that you were there and that ultimately saved that man's life. The wolves were honed in on you the moment you stepped through the bush but three shots echoed through the small clearing before any of them could pounce in your direction. The echoes faded away quickly, and you sighed again watching the white snow stain red beneath the furry corpses.

The only other sound heard was the man's heavy breathing as he leaned against a tree. You looked down at your gun before putting it back in it's holster on your lower back, you may prefer blades but it was always better to have something and not need it, than to need it and not have it.

“Thank...thank you,”

You looked at the man with furrowed brows...just by looking at him, you knew that he wasn't a native but the moment he opened his mouth only confirmed it. He was American...you spotted all of his gear nearby, torn to shreds and you scoffed.

“I don't think camping is for you.”

“I don't think so either,” He tried for a smile but it was only a grimace, the blonde man pushed himself from the tree and approached you, carefully stepping around the wolves bodies, “I'm uh a bit lost, I guess.”

“And I'm leaving.”

“Wait!” he rushed around you, stopping you and you could've gone through the man if you wanted to...you were taller than him by an inch or two, and you definitely had more mass than he probably knew what to do with, “Listen, I'm obviously not from here, but I'm trying to find my daughter okay, she's—”

“I'm not from around here,” you held your hand to make him stop while simultaneously telling yourself that you're not about to get involved in someone else's mess and derail your own mission, “I'm sorry about your kid, but I can't help you.”

He frowned at you obviously not happy with your answer but he was quickly reaching into his pocket and any normal person, especially someone who is armed, would've taken a step back but you weren't some ordinary person. You simply raised an eyebrow, because you knew that he wasn't going to attack you even though he was probably fully capable of doing so. You assumed that he was about to dig out a baby picture or something but it was just a sheet of paper with writing on it. You took it before he could shove the damn thing in your face and you looked down at it carefully, keeping your face neutral.

“I can't read whatever language that is.”

You glared up at him from beneath your lashes, “And you think that I can?”

“Can you?” he shot back, and you rolled your eyes...your attention back to the paper before shoving it back in his hands, “Well?”

You nearly scowled at his impatience, “It's a mix of Romanian, Serbian and Tatar. Whoever sent that clearly doesn't want anyone else to know what's on it.”

“So you can read it then?”

“Bits and pieces,” You said with a shrug, “I'm not expert but someone named Beneviento is demanding a shorter route for wine delivery from that giant castle.”

He stared at you then down to the paper, which was full from top to bottom, then back to you, “What...that's all? Are you sure?? No, that can't be all...there has to be something about my daughter here! Here, please, just try again slower—”

“That's all I could read.” you shouldered past him, throwing your hood back up and ignoring his calls after you. Your backpack was exactly where you dropped it, you shook off the snow and threw it back on your back not caring about the cool wetness on your back now—you just wanted to get away from this area as quickly as possible. You should've used your knife as those gunshots gave away your position.

“Amateur hour everyone,” you grumbled under your breath...you veered off the path slightly, just in case he tried to follow you (wouldn't be the first time someone tried to force you to help them).

You'd maybe walked for a mile or two down the mountain before you noticed the hairs on the back of your neck standing, you chanced a casual glance over your shoulder but there was no one there, no man nor animal. Licking your dry lips you turned back around but as you were doing so, you caught something in your peripheral. A dark figure, twenty feet away and that's when you noticed how fucking quiet everything was around you...you forced yourself to keep walking even as a feeling of dread began crawling up your back, like two sharp fingers walking along the ridges of your spine.

Pushing the hood from your head, you whirled around with your knife drawn at your side gripping it with the intentions to kill but there was nothing there except two large obsidian feathers fluttering gently down onto the snow at your boots. Feathers?

Cool breath touched the base of your neck when you heard soft chuckling directly behind you. You turned around sharply, easily flipping your knife around but the mass of darkness in front of you disoriented you for a split second and that was all this creature needed. Before you could plunge your knife into it's feathery belly, a pale hand shot out and caught your wrist in a bruising grip as another hand curled itself around your throat, sharp nails oh so slightly pricking your skin.

You were about to kick away when the creature leaned forward, and it's face came from beneath the hood...only it wasn't an it, it was a she, though her entire face was hidden by the gold headgear you could see her lips and...and her eyes.

A pair of eyes you'd never forget in any of your lifetimes. It felt like a millennia ago when those eyes alone had you on your knees covered in fresh warm blood and exhausted from tearing through small armies.

Despite yourself, you were trembling in her ironclad grip, your hand that wasn't still trapped fruitlessly came up to wrap around her wrist as if that was going to help you. You both knew that it wouldn't. She brought you closer until your feet were no longer on the ground and you could feel the tip of your blade pressing against something...no, her...and your nose was nearly touching her helmet.

“ο μικρός μου πολεμιστής...” (my little warrior...) her cool breath washed over your face, her eyes still boring down into yours so intensely you swore you felt the heat, even as her hand tightened around your throat making you choke, but you were fighting against her... “επιτέλους ήρθες σπίτι μου...” her chuckle fell on deaf ears. (you've finally come home to me...)

~~

You were supposed to run into Alcina first 😭, but Miranda works too...(save the best for last obvi) I don't know I am playing Odyssey while waiting for this game to drop and I went The Old Guard route too so then I just ended up writing some shit, and I wanted to try something that's not so maiden-esque lol so I hope it's enjoyable at least...I honestly might make this a WIP...

#resident evil 8 #mother miranda x reader #mother miranda #resident evil #resident evil village #lady alcina #alcina dimitrescu #alcina x reader #dis tew much #assassins creed odyssey #lady dimitrescu #i'm a big simp for these bishes

[faerienextdoor]

general relationship hcs with (some) pastas

Fair warning, I'm using and hinting at mine and my friends’ writing for these creeps :) enjoy  also as soon as i figure out how to open an ask box, I’ll be accepting requests

Brian:

- oh where to start with this absolute himbo

- he melts around you. like he's your bitch, and you're his.

- he's the type of boyfriend that takes you out in the snow and shoves a handful down the back of your jacket, and laughs until you shove snow in his face

- it is snow war

- it ends with you cuddling him, wrapped in a blanket and content in front of the burning fire he got started just for you <3

- but he also has some weird... habits.

- drinks pickle juice.

- gets his hand stuck in the jar.

- looks at you like 🥺 until you sigh and help him. for the fifteenth time.

- he can cook some basic breakfast foods, and happily breaks out a cookbook to prepare you something as a surprise or to learn something with you!!

- baking with him would be a mess. he forgets flour goes everywhere and now you both look like you took a bath in cocaine

- but the cupcakes are mediocre at best. they aren't absolute garbage, so... cupcake points!

- he worries about how hoodie treats you. he doesn't remember anything when he regains control, but you've reassured him hoodie is just fine.

- and he is

(hoodie)

- hoodie is like a rottweiler or a doberman.

- protective. intimidating. energetic.

- but also a giant fucking baby.

- this large ass man lumbers over and drops to his knees. places his chin on your lap and stares at you from the fabric of his mask until you stop what you're doing and stroke his head awkwardly

- you could swear he does those happy grumbled a rottie does.

- hoodie is silent but shows he loves you just as much as brian does. He strokes your hair silently, even places a kiss to the crown of your head as you sink into his beefy arms.

- he smells nice too. surprisingly.

- but that raises the question: if hoodie showers, does he shower with that damn thing on?

- you won't get an answer if you were to ask.

- brian introduces you to his grandma julia. and she dotes on you.

- the immortal old lady remarks that you’re the best s/o brian has brought to her yet.

Tim:

- a lumberjack man with biceps like a fucking tree trunk

- how'd you land him? give me your secrets (/j)

- he's such a love bug. a tired stressed love bug.

- he finds /every/ excuse to have physical contact with you. it's like a little touch from you reassures him that you're real. you're like a dream to him.

- he's the best for cuddles. He holds you to his chest

- and you get special access to his moobs

- and he gently strokes your head, traces shapes into your back, etc. it's a special intimate moment each time.

- my man's is italian-american but can't cook to save his fucken life

- he always gets your favorite microwave meals though!! he never forgets.

- not feeling good? dw baby he's making it for you <33 shitty low tier bean and cheese burrito coming up

- slowly he learns the basics and surprises you with lunch or even dinner if you're lucky!!

- he loves you so much. and wants you to feel it and know it. all the time.

(masky)

- god where to start with this bitch

- he's not jeff levels of bad ofc, but he's silent and... weird. creepy, some may say. he doesn't mean to be.

- and he's a hard ass. far more strict than tim.

- he follows you around like a giant fucken puppy and will spook you by grabbing you abruptly and holding you tightly

- you can't escape him. he really utilizes his physical strength

- he loves lifting you up and just... holding you. or carrying you off.

- protective and overbearing.

- but tim keeps him under control.

(angst)

- he wouldn't want to lose you like he lost his last wife.

- you find pictures of a woman laying around and a small girl that bears a striking resemblance to her and tim.

- tim goes quiet and questioned but eventually caves and tells you about his family

- or what he used to have

- his wife died and his daughter disappeared.

- it broke him and you're all he has left now

- constantly needs your affection in return to his own

- pls love him

jeff:

- why the fuck would you date him

- he's the absolute worst in so many aspects. But he genuinely tries for you.

- even if his gifts are shitty, it's nice to know he thoughts of you, right? even if it's a half dead flower or a rib torn from a deer caraccas.

- but you get the butt end of his shithead antics. ranch bath, specifically. he smelt like spoiled milk for a week after and you had to cuddle that fucker.

- and don't get me started on mayo bath

- but he still loves finding himself in your arms. or finding you in his. he's demanding affection wise, and will yank you into him for some cuddles. whether you like it or not.

- he isn't one for a lot of pet names, but calls you curse words or "sweetheart" in polish.

- and you get to see the side of him that only shows when he breaks down.

(bit of angst)

- he misses his family and the life he used to have. he'll reminisce what it was like in poland with his mom and family with you, and you sometimes swear you can see his brown eyes gloss over at the memory of her.

- he never talks about his dad, you've noticed.

- don't ask.

- he brushes off heavy conversations with some dumb quip ("wanna see my renegade?")

- he sucks at cooking. god awful at it. but he really tries for you. manages a bowl of oat meal that's edible.

- but he overloads it with sugar and for some reason, salt.

- he's confused. he thinks that's normal (it isn't)

- his idea of a date is napping with you. or rather, forcing you into nap time.

- I mean it when I say this man is strong in a weird fucken way. latches onto you with that iron grip and you won't be able to leave for at least a few hours.

jane:

- ethereal wlw woman.

- could break you with her heels. or a flutter of what eyelashes she has.

- you're lucky to have her, and she's just as lucky to have you!

- she's sweet and charming. very smooth and takes good care of you.

- her love language is a mix of physical touch and acts of service.

- she'll cuddle you all night, and then make you breakfast in the morning.

- she loves showering with you when she's comfy enough around you! it's super intimate and she washes your hair.

- massages the soap into your hair, suds spilling down your neck and back as her fingers scrub circles into your scalp.

- it's heaven on earth. such a domestic life.

- it'll take a while for her to settle enough in the relationship for you to see her without her mask

- you make her feel so loved and wanted

- secure, even.

- she's protective but not controlling or overbearing. shes that type of girlfriend that's just a worrywart and relaxes as soon as you're curled up in her arms. you fit there perfectly, too. like you belong there.

- which you do. at least in her mind

- she has such a gentle touch and hold on you. like she's afraid you'll combust in her arms if she holds you too tightly.

- she loves stroking your hair and having you nap

- using her tiddies as a pillow 👌

(angst)

- she needs affirmation from you when it comes to her scars.

- she thinks that jeff ruined her. permanently marking her once spotless body.

- and she thinks you'll hate her or find her disgusting.

- that's why she freezes if/when you gently slip off her mask.

- she stares at you with those teary green eyes. then leans in and kisses you

- you make all of her worries disappear.

- she's also financially comfortable, but not really rich (on that topic: eat the rich)

- she spoils you every chance she gets. gifts, a nice dinner date, you name it

- she almost spoils you as much as she does her cat Emory

- little shit has the sparkliest fucken collar and acts like he's the shit

- he's your fur baby too now

Helen:

- oh my god this disaster of an art boi

- he's convinced he's the luckiest man in the world (and he might as well be!!)

- he obviously wouldn't have been the one to confess. but it was really obvious by how he painted and drew you constantly, that some feeling for you was lodged into his beating heart.

- he treats you like the finest china. with the most care a man can manage.

- he's the definition of clingy and affectionate from the very start.

- he curls around your sleeping form perfectly when y'all cuddle.

- his hand dances in your hair, soothing you into a dreamless sleep each night without fail.

- he has a magic touch and a gentle voice.

- and he cherishes you so fucken much. (like a simp /j)

- he shies away from kisses at first, but will hold your hand and melts if you hold his face in them!!!

- he's greek, and often speaks sweet things to you in it. he's so comfortable around you that he speaks in his native language to you. that's an accomplishment.

- he loves when you baby him. helen loves being cradled and loved.

- taking a nap with his head on your chest also hits different. he's so in love with you

(angst)

- he's afraid of losing you. who wouldn't be? you're amazing and you love /him/ of all people

- he thinks very negatively of himself. please scold him for self deprecating.

- he always worries he'll wake up and you'll be gone.

- so he holds you extra close at night. and follows you around when you leave for any reason. Trails behind you like a lost puppy in need of a gentle kiss.

- which, is what he essentially is

- and also: pls steal his sweater and wear it. he'll cry over how cute you are.

#creepypasta #creepypasta hcs #cp headcanons #jeff the killer #brian thomas #marble hornets #timothy wright #creepypasta headcanon #creepypasta x reader #cp x reader #scenarios #creepypasta scenarios #jane the killer #jane arkensaw #helen otis #bloody painter

[9tzuyu]

the art of delicate hands – pt. i

[ wandanat. ]

College AU.

Multiple part series ;

↳ snippets of their relationship and how I perceive them.

sumary:

wanda doesn't like to talk very much, only to her brother (and sometimes her lovely redheaded girlfriend).

notes:

if anyone international is reading this, ASL is shortened for american sign language (language of the hands).

+

this is a revised and edited version from when i wrote it on ao3 in 2018.

The only person that knew was Pietro. It was her little secret, and she could only hope that no one now would find out. She knew she shouldn't be ashamed, it was nothing to be ashamed over. Unsurprisingly however, it became her biggest insecurity – years of relentless bullying ensued that.

Wanda was always anxious. When she was seven she began experiencing panic attacks. The metallic taste of blood in her mouth became familiar over time as her panic attacks worsened.

All because she was mute and didn't feel comfortable to speak to anyone, including her parents. The only person Wanda felt comfortable enough to talk to was her brother (you could say that's because they're twins).

A doctor in Sokovia mentioned to Wanda's parents that therapy may help, that it may get her to speak more than four words a week. So her parents moved her when she was 16 and hoped for the best.

Within a year and a half Wanda was able to develop a clear understanding of American Sign Language. Eight months into the move and Wanda's parents had given up on Wanda ever talking, something that she took personal. They didn't catch on to English as quick as the twins did, their native language stuck closer than expected. Pietro didn't mind learning English quickly as he wanted to fit in school, and he also didn't mind studying ASL to communicate with Wanda on a deeper level.

American high school wasn't much better than her hometown. People talked, whispered and gossiped about her in class, muttered hurtful things about her appearance and the way she carried herself; a shy, quiet, timid girl. The worst part of it was when they mocked her for using a language that was supposed to feel safe for her. Pietro always came to her rescue, shooing people away, reminding them that she's his sister. The silver haired boy had no problem fitting in, it was only when they were apart did people tease the younger brunette.

When their parents died, Wanda took the brunt of the emotional attack it had on the twins. She'd been sitting in the backseat of the car, earbuds in, with her music volume at maximum capacity. Her father had tried to tell her to turn down the music while her mother rest in the passenger seat, window down with her eyes closed. When Wanda didn't hear her father, he reached over, eyes off the road, and tapped her. The second she registered his touch a semi-truck hit her father's door. In a matter of minutes Wanda and Pietro both were left alone to fend for themselves.

Putting the blame on herself only caused her to shut down further. It took over a year for Wanda to speak to Pietro again.

But as per usual, the twins stuck together and finished high school. The only difference was that they lived in foster care, they belonged to the state, up for grabs if anyone wanted them. That came to an end six months into their stay. The foster family proposed the idea of adoption, they had no problem in taking care of the twins for the rest of the time being – or, if they wanted, every day after as well.

At twenty, Wanda and Pietro eventually both went to college and shared a house with a bundle of other people on campus. The younger sibling even found herself a girlfriend within the group, her name being Natasha Romanoff.

Natasha didn't mind at all how little Wanda talked. She was curious, of course, but even before their relationship Nat never pushed her girlfriend into anything uncomfortable. Natasha could tell Wanda always made effort though, that's what drove the brunette into allowing herself a relationship.

When the redhead would sleep, Wanda would continuously practice signing. She'd sign songs and poems, movie scripts and books, everything she possibly could to improve herself. It was a very personal, in touch form of language for her.

Wanda had been with her girlfriend a little over a year and Natasha still didn't know all the unpleasant factors that came about her life. Wanda only told her just enough to get by, and she felt immensely guilty for that. Truth was she desperately wanted to tell Natasha, she just didn't know how. She'd thought about just signing something to her and hoping she would catch on, but figured that would be too much. Anxiety spiked in her chest and in her bones, and she was tired of feeling like a liar.

With a sigh, Wanda plopped down on her bed and pulled her phone out from her back pocket. Unlocking it, she went to her text messages and scrolled to Pietro's contact. When she was sure no one else was in the house, she tapped the call button and listened to the phone ring until Pietro answered.

"You know I'm in the other room, right? You literally could've called my name." He greeted, accent heavy through the speaker.

Wanda giggled as she ran her fingers through her hair. You're safe. Speak, it's okay. She reminded herself.

"Yeah, but are you free?"

"Always."

"Can you come here? I need to ask you about something." Pietro gave out a loud, playful sigh but walked to her room, disconnecting the call on his way in. "What is it, my dear sister? What could possibly be troubling you here on this day? Is it that scruffy redhead?" He smirked arrogantly but sat down in the desk chair across from Wanda, not failing to notice how she rolled her eyes.

"She doesn't have scruffy hair and you know it. It's soft, gentle – and much less damaged than your shit show of an excuse for bleached hair."

"Whatever you say, little chaos."

Wanda groaned, "Why must you still call me that?"

"It suits you well."

There was a shared moment of silence between the two before Pietro spoke up. "What was it you wanted to ask me about?" A small frown was plastered on Wanda's face and Pietro found himself wanting to know even more now. Wanda waited another minute before finally answering. "Should I tell her? You know, about..."

A huge smile took over her brother's face. He was ecstatic that she wanted this for her girlfriend. "Of course you should! I really think she'd be interested to know more about you – y'know, since you don't ever tell her anything."

"I tell her things!" Pietro shook his head, "Does she even know your birthday?" Wanda nodded and turned herself away from him. "I just don't know how to do it. I mean it'd be kind of heavy just taking her out to dinner only to tell her my deepest, darkest secret afterwards. I'm scared she'll hate me, Pietro! And I've never even spoke. More than like, 12 sentences all at once with her!" He softened knowing how much trouble one past  had caused his little sister. "Write her a note?" He suggested, but she shook her head. "I want to tell her, not write her."

Right before he was about to speak again there was a knock at the door. The pair looked up to find Natasha standing in the doorway smiling down at the two. "Am I interrupting?"

Wanda froze while Pietro arrogantly raised his eyebrow and announced his answer. "No. We were just finished talking."

Confusion was written on Nat's face and she stood there until Wanda shook her head and muttered a small "No," giving her the signal that she could come in.

"I'll be in the other room if you need me." Pietro got up, despite Wanda's silent plea for him to stay. He gave her a thumbs up and left the room.

Natasha closed the door and laid next to Wanda, wrapping her arms around the younger woman. "You okay?" Wanda nodded in reply and Natasha knew not to push. For now she'd just keep an eye on her, reassuring her that she could talk to her if need be.

Over the next few days Wanda seemed to be doing better. She was supposed to go to a party with Nat, but opted out to study for classes instead.

"Be safe," she whispered and planted a small kiss on Natasha's lips.

Everyone else went to the same party, leaving the house to just Wanda. She sent out a group message telling everyone to text her or ring her (at the very most importance) if they needed a ride. Wanda didn't drink much anyways so she didn't mind being the designated driver of the bunch. And besides, she didn't mind having some time alone, it gave her the absence of the boys so she could study.

However, after over an hour or so of studying Wanda was beginning to feel stressed. Her nerves were building and she could feel her jaw clench.

She needed a break.

With a small sigh, she got up and connected her phone to her speaker. After scrolling and clicking on her song of choice, Wanda found herself signing the words to a Modest Mouse song.

Green eyes closed as her hands began to string along with the words of the song. It was rather fast paced, but Wanda was able to keep up fairly well thanks to years of practice. Lyrics flowed through her fingertips and in the palms of her hands, her stress levels immediately decreasing as she went on.

Unbeknownst to her, however, Natasha was standing in the doorway watching her every move. She was absolutely mesmerized by Wanda's hand motions. Her finger spelling was very fast, and Natasha was curious to know how long Wanda had known ASL.

When the song was over, Wanda stopped her music and moved herself so she could study again. She grabbed her pens, pencils and highlighters, along with her textbook while her back faced Natasha.

"I didn't know you could sign." Natasha commented. A mix of shock and uneasiness quickly took over the calm look on Wanda's face.

It wasn't until then when Tasha put two and two together. She quickly rushed over to her girlfriend, and carefully engulfed her into a hug.

"Hey, no, I think it's really cool. You don't have to worry now, your secret's safe with me." Wanda began to shake in her grasp, tears forming in her eyes. She backed out of the embrace and against the wall, pulling her knees to her chest.

"No, you're supposed to hate me, laugh at me. You're supposed to be anything but be cool with it." Natasha tilted her head, "Is that what they did to you?"

Wanda peaked out from underneath her arms, the confirmative nod sent Natasha's heart well beyond sinking. She’d never understand how people could willingly be so cruel.

"I'm here to listen, not judge." Her words softly echoed in Wanda's mind, and she watched Natasha carefully to see if she was lying. When she didn't make any remarks or snide comments, Wanda knew it was safe. Accent heavy, she began letting words slip from her mouth.

"I have really bad anxiety when it comes to talking, so I just don’t. Asl makes it easier to communicate, but growing up I was often teased for it. You’re really good at reading me without it, so I hid it from you. Guess their words still haunt me...” Wanda finished, giving Natasha a little more insight on her life.

Natasha moved closer to her girlfriend, bringing Wanda’s shaking body into her embrace. She then kissed the top of her forehead.

Wanda looked up to see Natasha thinking, her eyebrows scrunched together and she was chewing on her lip. She nudged her.

“I think it’s quite beautiful if you ask me.” Wanda cracked a smile and rest her head on Tasha’s shoulder. “Beauty comes from pain, I guess.”

But Natasha shook her head, “No, No, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Wanda nodded. She understood what Natasha was saying, she just didn’t believe it to be true when it came to herself. Nonetheless, she spoke the words, repeating the mantra so that maybe she could start to feel a belief in them.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

#wandanat #scarletwidow #scarlet witch x black widow #wanda x natasha #wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff x reader

[dweetwise]

yes hello, i’m back on my riconti bullshit again, this time with a cute prompt fill from @dailyau by @hcpelesshcney about fire alarms and sharing a blanket ❤️

i’m also trying something new with splitting a fic into chapters!

ship: felix x ace warnings: briefly mentioned internalized homophobia word count: 3700

[next]

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire (part 1)

It's surprising just how scattered the human brain becomes during a crisis.

When Felix was woken from his restless sleep in the hotel bed by a blaring fire alarm, he'd bolted out of the bed and scrambled out into the hallway without second thought. He'd probably even left the door to his room wide open, with his wallet, passport, phone and laptop all neatly arranged on the desk for anyone to walk by and steal.

And now he's standing in the parking lot in the chilly late summer night, dressed in nothing but his pajama pants and a t-shirt. His socks were drenched as soon as he stepped outside, running straight into a puddle while hurrying to get away from the potential fire.

At least he's not alone in the stressful predicament. There's plenty of other people around, looking just as lost and dazed as him, having been forced to evacuate the hotel in the middle of the night. Most have been sensible enough to bring their jackets and shoes, a couple of kids even huddling beneath a hotel duvet.

And since there's no sign of a fire or even any smoke, Felix feels like an idiot for not having the foresight to bring something to warm him up.

The firefighters have just arrived at the scene and are preparing to search the building for the source of the alarm. Felix tries not to shiver even more as he relents to the fact that they're still going to be stuck out there for quite some time.

The crowd in the parking lot is loud, families and partners gossiping amongst themselves, some people even arguing with the staff members about ruining their vacation. Felix wishes they'd just shut up, more than happy to forget this ever happened if he'd just get to curl back under the warm covers of his bed instead of freezing out here.

This trip just kept getting worse. Not only had he been forced to come on only a day's notice, taking over Lauren's business trip across the Atlantic when she'd unexpectedly caught a cold. He’d also had to take a shitty flight route with two extra stops, and his last flight had been no less than six hours late.

When he’d finally arrived at the hotel and started trying to sleep off the massive jet lag after barely getting any sleep on the plane, he'd been rudely awakened by an emergency. And now, to add insult to injury, he’s gone from the threat of burning to death to freezing to death.

“Hey,” a voice says from right beside him, making Felix jolt in surprise over being distracted from his internal pity party.

He sees a man standing next to him, wrapped in a hotel-issued blanket, looking up at him with curious brown eyes and a pleasant smile.

Felix racks his brain for if he knows this man or not, but draws up a blank, the tiredness and cold making his thoughts feel sluggish. The man is shorter than Felix and looks a little older, if the laugh lines and grey hair are anything to go by.

“You look cold,” the man says. “Wanna share my blanket?”

As the man lifts the fabric just the slightest bit in invitation, mortification hits Felix. Not only is his shivering noticeable enough to warrant someone taking pity on him, he's being offered physical contact from a stranger.

Isn't it a weird thing to offer, especially to another man? Does he somehow know that Felix is gay? Is he making fun of him? Or is it just an American thing? Wouldn't it be weirder for Felix not to accept, since the man has noticed how much he’s freezing?

“Alright,” the man says when Felix isn't replying, lowering the bedding in surrender. “My bad, I just thought—"”

“Yes,” Felix says, interrupting him.

“Uh…” the man says, understandably confused by Felix's social awkwardness.

“Yes, I want to sh-share,” Felix says, another full-body shiver wracking his body.

“Oh! Sure,” the man grins happily, and then he's suddenly very close, shoulder bumping against Felix's chest, and a corner of the blanket is thrown haphazardously over Felix's shoulder.

“T-thank you,” Felix stammers, both from the nerves and the cold, grabbing the soft cotton fabric and pulling it tighter against himself.

And causing the stranger to stumble even closer from the momentum.

“Sure, don't mention it,” the man grins, like he's not now pressed against a stranger's side from shoulder to hip.

Embarrassed as Felix feels, both the blanket and the person attached to it are warm. Felix has to stop himself from sighing blissfully as the other's body heat starts to warm him up, slowly working away at the chill in his bones.

“Well, since we're gonna be stuck here for a while,” the man muses. “My name's Ace.”

“F-F-Felix,” Felix manages through clattering teeth.

“I'd shake your hand, but I think we're past that stage already,” Ace jokes, and then offers a pleased grin as Felix huffs out a surprised laugh through his nose. “In any case, it’s nice to meet you, Felix,” the man looks up at him and smiles, and Felix's poor, gay heart skips a beat.

Yeah, this is definitely preferable to freezing to death.

“I wonder how long they'll take to find the cause this time,” Ace starts conversationally, while pulling out his phone from the nest of blankets. He sets to what looks like writing a text to someone, not seeming the least bit bothered by their predicament.

“You don't seem very nervous,” Felix observes.

“Not my first rodeo,” Ace looks up and grins. “Probably someone just smoked inside and tripped the alarm. Happens a lot in hotels.”

“D-d-do you travel? A lot?” Felix asks, partly do distract himself from the cold while he gets his body heat up, partly to divert Ace’s attention from his phone.

“You could say that,” Ace says. “What about you? Here on business?”

“Yes,” Felix says, with no small amount of annoyance over being reminded he still has work tomorrow. “Thankfully my meeting isn't until the afternoon.”

“Glad you can get your beauty sleep,” Ace says.

“And hopefully get rid of the jet lag,” Felix comments with a tired sigh.

Ace hums in acknowledgement before going back to his phone message. Felix tries not to take it personally; he knows he's not that interesting to talk to.

Ace is so warm, and it's a little awkward being pressed this close, but embarrassingly enough, Felix finds himself drifting even closer. Ace smells like whiskey and cheap cologne, but somehow, it's oddly comforting. He'd probably been drinking last night—well, technically tonight. Thankfully, he doesn't seem drunk, as Felix doubts he would have had the patience to deal with alcohol-induced rambling.

“Whiskey man, I see,” Felix comments. When Ace looks up from his phone in surprise, Felix realize how weird it is for him to admit to smelling the man.

“I reek that bad, huh?” Ace grins, taking the comment in stride.

“I didn't mean—” Felix flounders to explain.

Damnit, he should just give up on trying to make conversation.

“Wow, lighten up,” Ace says and elbows him playfully under the blanket, adding even more physical contact to their already borderline inappropriate situation.

Felix tries to ignore the fluttering in his gut when he feels Ace's hairy forearm brush against his own. This is more physical contact than he's gotten from another man… probably ever.

“Yeah, I had a few drinks earlier. I'm more of a wine man, but…” Ace seems to ponder. “Sometimes, you've got to try new things.”

Like huddling under a blanket with an attractive stranger, Felix considers.

Suddenly, he almost regrets the blanket blocking his view from seeing more of the man. His body feels firm against Felix's, and his shoulders look defined, though that could just be an illusion from the thick fabric covering them.

“What’s your poison?” Ace asks, following Felix's awkward silence.

“I don't drink much,” Felix lies, like he hasn’t been going through his father’s old liquor collection at an alarming rate for the past year or so. “Uhm… whiskey, I guess. And bourbon.”

He could really, really go for either one right now. Not only would the drinks warm him up, they'd also make him act like an actual human being instead of the stiff robot impression he's currently doing.

“Huh,” Ace comments.

“What?” Felix asks, trying not to get defensive.

“Nothing! I would have pegged you as a beer guy, is all,” Ace muses. “Maybe that's just the accent, though.”

“Sorry,” Felix apologizes. Now hyperaware of his bad pronunciation and extremely German accent, he tries to bury his face deeper into the blanket in embarrassment.

“Naw, hey, come on,” Ace turns toward him as much as the cramped space allows him to. “Your English is amazing! The accent only adds charm.”

Felix looks at Ace's encouraging smile and tries not to think too much about their thighs now pressing together. Ace is clearly waiting for him to say something, but all Felix can focus on is his warm body and striking features.

“Where are you from?” Felix asks instead, trying to place the hint of an accent he thinks he hears.

“Huh. Good catch,” Ace smiles, seeming surprised. “Guess!”

Felix flushes and looks at Ace's eagerly grinning face. It's nighttime, but Ace's skin seems darker than his own, and his features look Mediterranean, reminding Felix of countless business trips to Spain. But the accent…

“Italy?” Felix suggests, and Ace's smile somehow widens even further.

“Close!” Ace says. “Argentina.”

“Ehm…” Felix furrows his brow in confusion, thinking that surely, being a whole continent and world sea off doesn't exactly count as "close".

“My family hails from Italy, and it's my native language,” Ace explains. “So it was a really good guess!”

“Thank you…?” Felix says awkwardly.

“I'd ask what you were doing when the alarm went off, but…” Ace pauses, glancing up at his disheveled hair. “From your outfit choice and the bedhead, I'd put 50 bucks on 'sleeping'."

“You'd be correct,” Felix murmurs, self-consciously poking his hand out from under the blanket to run through his tousled hair. “I'm not very interesting.”

“I think I'll be the judge of that," Ace grins. “If, uh… you don't mind chatting to pass the time?”

“Not at all,” Felix says, hoping he doesn't sound too eager, happy Ace deems him interesting enough to talk to instead of whoever he was texting earlier.

They spend some twenty minutes chatting about mostly insignificant things. But as much as Felix usually hates small talk, he now welcomes it, because Ace is asking him interesting questions instead of just talking about the weather. He appears to genuinely care about Felix's story, and Felix might end up sharing a little too much, from the work stress and business trip he didn't even want to come to, all the way to his relationship that ended a few weeks ago.

Ace seems friendly and pleasant, taking Felix's awkward pauses and nervousness in stride, filling in the silences with stories of his own. Felix hears a lot about the different places he's traveled to, along with some hotel horror stories that make him feel much better about the current fire alarm situation. He manages a few laughs, some merely polite, but some genuinely amused at Ace's over-the-top storytelling.

Eventually, Ace's phone beeps again and he excuses himself and engrosses himself momentarily in the screen, and this time, Felix welcomes the brief break in socializing.

He realizes just how nice this is. It feels like a stroke of luck that only a few short weeks after ending his relationship with his ex-girlfriend and coming out in the process, he'd meet a handsome stranger this eager to cuddle up to him.

Not cuddle up—share a blanket, Felix mentally berates himself.

He glances at Ace out of the corner of his eye, seeing his side profile illuminated by the dim glow from the phone screen. Felix never really considered what his type would be, apart from the all-encompassing "men" that he'd only recently come to accept about himself. But taking in Ace's defined features and the smile that seems to be a permanent part of his face, he's starting to get an idea.

Quickly looking away before Ace catches him staring, Felix suddenly feels almost too warm. He shouldn't get ahead of himself; even though It feels like Ace is being a little too friendly, he hasn't actually made a move, seeming happy just with chatting to kill time.

Felix briefly toys with the idea of placing his hand on Ace's hip in a loose embrace, just to test the waters. He'd never be that brave, but if he was, he'd at least know for sure, even if it would probably end in Ace being disgusted and kicking him out of the blanket cocoon.

But… maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d smile even wider and return the gesture, just as eager as Felix to get even closer. Felix would wrap his arms around him, and they'd stand there cuddling and sharing even more body heat, maybe even kissing—

Shit. This is exactly what his therapist said he shouldn't do, the term "excessive daydreaming" flashing in his mind.

“Sorry,” Ace is saying, turning back to face him and pocketing the phone, completely oblivious to Felix's internal dilemma. “Where were we?”

“I, uh,” Felix stammers.

Was just thinking about kissing you.

“Did I tell you about the time a bunch of college kids decided to set off fireworks in the hotel room next to mine?” Ace offers, saving Felix from floundering for a topic.

“What—why would they…?” Felix asks.

“Well, I'd just gotten back from this extravagant New Years party—” Ace excitedly starts telling yet another story, and Felix keenly starts listening in.

Ace seems to be completely in his element, getting lost in talking about just how fancy the party was, followed by a dramatic retelling of some very incredulously sounding explosions that turned out to be fireworks. Felix keeps listening raptly, not entirely sure about the accuracy of the story, but enjoying seeing the other so happy. The blanket occasionally shifts as Ace tries to gesture with his hands to add to the narration, only to remember that he can't, looking sheepish every time.

Felix has never met someone with such effortless charisma. Ace's voice is rich and pleasant, and Felix briefly zones out while he imagines it talking him to sleep.

It's stupid, and he knows it. He's only known the man for half an hour, and even "knowing" him is pushing it. Felix is only in the country for two more days, and he’s very aware that pursuing anything would be pointless.

But he also knows that given the chance, he wouldn't say no to seeing Ace again. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation, the narrowly averted emergency, or simply being far away from home and realizing nobody would ever find out. Either way, he’s feeling more adventurous than usual, the adrenaline in his veins and butterflies in his gut keeping his tired body on high alert.

Too bad he's deathly afraid of rejection and would never dare to ask if the other is interested.

Suddenly, there's the screech of a PA system, and Ace stops mid-sentence, both of them turning to look at a firefighter speaking into a megaphone.

“The fire has been extinguished and the building is now safe. Please return to your rooms,” the fireman announces.

The horde of people immediately start flocking towards the hotel entrance at the same time, creating an annoyed crowd of freezing, grumpy people and managing to clog the entryway immediately.

“I wonder what the cause was,” Felix ponders out loud, not making an effort to move toward the commotion and get stuck between the shoving, complaining people.

“Who cares? We get to not freeze our asses off anymore!” Ace exclaims gleefully.

And Felix realizes they no longer have a reason to stay huddled up together. Reluctantly slipping away from under the blanket, he feels a disappointed pang in his chest over how happy Ace sounds to get rid of him.

“Thank you for lending your blanket,” Felix says, handing his side of the fabric back over to Ace and trying not to shiver as the cold of the night hits his warm skin.

“My pleasure! Thanks for keeping me warm!” Ace quips cheerfully, wrapping the item tighter around himself.

“Ehm… you as well,” Felix says, looking away so Ace doesn't see his face heating up.

“Come on, let's get you inside!” Ace prompts, and then he leans into Felix and shoves him lightly with a blanket-clad shoulder.

It's clearly in an intent to encourage Felix to move, but it still makes newfound hope blossom in his chest. They’re no longer forced to tolerate each other if they don't want to freeze, but Ace still seems far from repulsed by him.

“Right,” Felix says, starting the short trek to the hotel entrance that has thankfully cleared up from people.

“So…” Ace drawls, easily falling into step next to him. “Can I have your number?”

Felix glances at him and blinks in confusion. Is… is Ace asking him out? Or just being polite? Is he going to ask to be added on Facebook too, like all the weird colleagues Felix has met on business trips once and then never heard from again?

“For...?” Felix manages to ask when they arrive at the entrance, reaching for the door and holding it open for the man.

“Just wondering if you wanted to grab some drinks while you're still in town,” Ace says when he slips past Felix into the building. “I wouldn't mind getting to know you better,” Ace adds, looking him up and down with a smile that is definitely not just friendly.

Heat rises up Felix's neck from more than just the warm air of the hotel lobby. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one sensing the tension between them.

“Maybe,” Felix says, trying and probably failing to not seem way too enthusiastic.

“Oh?” Ace says, quirking an eyebrow. And then he's shrugging off the blanket, revealing a rolled-up, button-up shirt and—

Fuck. Broad shoulders and a lean build, that sure as hell doesn't make Felix's predicament any easier.

Felix definitely stares longer than appropriate while they continue walking to the elevator, Ace thankfully too busy with bunching up the blanket to notice his ogling.

“What…" Felix starts, making Ace look at him, cocking his head. "Uhm. What's with the sudden interest?”

“I mean,” Ace says, shooting him pointed look. “I was interested ever since I saw you there, shivering in your ridiculously tight T-shirt,” he winks.

Felix realizes that the shirt probably leaves a lot less to the imagination than the suits and blazers he always wears. He lifts a hand to his arm in a self-conscious manner, making an attempt to cover himself.

“But I didn't wanna freak you out,” Ace adds, giving a one-shoulder shrug. “Would have been pretty awkward if you said no, considering you were kinda stuck with me for a bit.”

That's… oddly sweet, and very much appreciated. Felix would probably have imploded on himself from embarrassment if Ace would have been this forward from the start.

“Thank you,” Felix says.

“No worries,” Ace grins, pushing the button to order the elevator. “So? Are you freaked out?”

Felix considers the question for a moment, only arriving at variations of "no", "I'm leaving in two days" and "help you're really hot but I've never been with a guy and don't know what to do".

“I think the word is…” Felix pauses in thought, trying to ignore his brain screaming insecurities at him. “'Intrigued'.”

Proud of managing to be smooth for once in his life, the ding of the elevator arriving is almost lost on Felix, because he's so focused on Ace's now downright lecherous grin.

But he obediently steps into the elevator, not wanting to keep the few hotel customers still lingering behind them.

“What's you floor, gorgeous?” Ace asks with a flirtatious smile, after pressing the number four.

Wow. How the hell did Felix ever manage to think he was just being friendly?

“Three,” Felix says.

“Looks like you're under me,” Ace flirts while pushing the button for him, making Felix choke on his own spit from the suggestive comment, embarrassed yet curious.

And then Ace clears his throat and averts his eyes as a woman and her daughter walk into the elevator with them.

They stand awkwardly next to each other as the elevator doors slide close. Felix’s thoughts are a mess of excitement, nervousness and embarrassment, not sure what to do in this situation.

He discreetly glances at Ace—

And the other catches him looking.

Felix's heart skips a beat as Ace's lips spread into a lazy grin, eyes shimmering with unspoken promise.

He wonders what it would be like to wipe that grin off the smug man's face. Felix imagines pushing Ace up against the elevator wall, picturing how the other’s eyes would go wide, maybe he'd even gasp, taken off guard at Felix's sudden boldness. Maybe he wouldn't have time to say anything, because Felix would capture his lips in a passionate kiss, and Ace would groan and drop the blanket to tangle his hands in Felix's hair—

DING!

Felix is rudely snapped out of his daydream by the elevator arriving on his floor. He realizes he's been spacing out while staring at Ace's face, and the smirk is gone from the man's lips, but his eyes are somehow even more intense.

“Good night,” Felix offers stiffly, forcing himself to break the eye contact before he gets lost in his own head again.

He takes a step out of the elevator, mentally scolding himself when he notices his racing heart and heavy breathing, getting himself worked up over a dumb fantasy.

Tomorrow, he promises himself when the elevator doors start sliding shut behind him. Tomorrow, he’d go out with Ace and could maybe, hopefully psyche himself up enough to make a move. He'd just text the man in the morning—

Except they never exchanged numbers.

Shit!

#riconti #felix richter #ace visconti #dbd fanfic #dweetwrites #dbd #dead by daylight #prompt #felix x ace

[vtscasefiles]

Case File 762-4

Trigger warnings: Isolation, suicidal thoughts, violence, blood, depression, animal bites, animal injury, cops, racism, homophobia, conversion therapy mention

A note before reading: I am unsure if I have tagged all potential triggers properly. 

Case Begun: 2/07/20**

Case Concluded: 2/12/20**

Case Locale: [REDACTED], Washington

Marked as Closed, Payment Declined

This is one of the rare occasions where I am perfectly happy not to receive payment for a job. The value of a life always beats cash, period. 

It started a bit...underwhelming, to be honest. There’s a secret message board for Eliminators. It’s not easily accessed, and there’s a rigorous vetting process to even be allowed to view the posts. I was well into my sixth year working before I received an email invite. Since then, it’s become a welcome resource.

The first post on my feed was addressed to me, personally. This wasn’t new, I’ve built up something of a name for myself. I get regular work, but I still can’t afford to get out of this shithole apartment. I mean the door doesn’t even fucking lock. And the fucking “landlord” is so strung out on cocaine that -- 

[Editor’s note: Personal information revealing where VT lives followed. I have removed it for her safety.]

Anyway, the post was simple enough: a werewolf gone berserk. It’s not an uncommon thing, a new werewolf can take to the wolf too much. The wolf takes over and, feeding off of the human’s anger or indignation, attacks. First, it’s everyone who hurt them. Second, they attack their family. After that...it’s a bloody free-for-all.

Let me preface by saying I hate these hunts. It’s no different than putting down a rabid dog, honestly...the human is too far gone and the wolf operates entirely off of the residual rage. Even so, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I don’t like killing anything living, even if it’s lost it’s mind. 

I read the post three times before I sighed and closed my laptop. “This is why I like dealing with the dead.” I said, frowning. I’d be needing silver. Which meant spending money. The reward was good, though...so it’d cover any expenses. I packed up my gear (a wolf’s bane lotion, a femur from a dead wolf and a silver knife) and headed for my first stop: Ramona’s.

Ramona Torrez has been my best friend since...ever. She was born in the states to Mexican parents who’d settled here in the nineties. They’ve both returned to Mexico since, but they come to visit fairly often. Mama Torrez was more a mother to me than my own was, and she’s one terrifying lady. A powerful witch in her own right, she’d made her then boyfriend her familiar through a series of spells and incantations that bordered on the black. His physiology changed, as a result. Despite being in his mid sixties, the man’s barely aged. He’s stronger, faster and has more stamina than any human I’ve ever met...not to mention he’s an absolute sweetheart.

Ramona is possibly the most gifted witch I’ve ever met. If there’s a spell she can’t do, I’ll eat my boots. Her shop is a little hidden place. Right on the corner of [REDACTED], she’s very open about what she does. A small sign dangles over the door reading “Bruja” . I pulled open the door, hearing the cheerful jingle of the bell (despite there not being one in sight. Or a motion tracker.) “Welcome!” she called from the back. “I’ll be with you in a moment!” I said nothing, opting only to pick up my friend’s familiar and give her a stroke.

It always makes me laugh, honestly. A witch with a black cat as a familiar. How cliché can you get? Issy’s a sweet thing, though. Purrs like an engine if you so much as scratch her ears. “VT!” Ramona appeared with a wide grin on her freckled face. “Why didn’t you say it was you, dummy?”

I’ll preface that, despite my father being Hispanic, I never had the opportunity to learn Spanish. He was always busy on one hunt or another. Ramona’s tried to teach me, so that I could get in touch with my roots...but languages never came natural to me. Hell, I barely speak English.

Ramona rattled off her usual rapid Spanish, taking Issy from my arms. “You know I can’t understand a word.” I said as she turned to lead me into the back room. Her shoulders shook and she looked over her shoulder with a coy grin.

“Oh, I know. Payaso.” 

If Ramona hadn’t been my best friend, I’d likely be trying to get under her dress. She’s a curvy thing, with a heart shaped face and big brown eyes that’d melt even the coldest of hearts. She dimples when she smiles (something I’m immediately weak to) and does this adorable thing with her nose when she’s irritated. Her hair tends toward bushiness, framing her face like moss on a tree. (To my knowledge she doesn’t dye it, it’s just...green.)

“So, darling.” she chirped, stopping next to her cauldron to let Issy dash off through the fabric drapery that led into her kitchen. “What is the illustrious VT hunting today?”

“Berserk werewolf. Probably recently turned...and probably not by a pack. I’m thinking boyfriend or girlfriend. Which means -- “ She cut me off with an uttered curse.

“Which means that you’ll have to get in touch with the local werewolf pack.” she finished with a grimace. “Where’s the contract taking you?”

“Washington state. Little town called [REDACTED].” I answered, not expecting any miracles. I was granted one, none the less.

“Ah. That’s a Native American pack. I met their um...I’m not sure what the proper vernacular is, so I’ll just call her a witch, if that’s okay?” she said, worrying with her lower lip. Ramona’s always been very big on calling people their proper titles, and felt terrible guilt when she messed it up.

“She the Alpha? Or an elder?” I asked, seizing upon the thread before Ramona fell into self-deprecation.

“Well...yes and no.” she said, pouring something into the burbling cauldron and turning it a sickly puce. “She’s something of a Seer. She led them to an old, abandoned ghost town. They asked for witches from all over the continent for assistance in warding and rebuilding. Naturally -- “ “Naturally, Bleeding Heart Torrez helped.” I cut her off, again. She frowned and nodded. “Hey, Ramona, I ain’t saying you did the wrong thing. I’d have done the same. Are they friendly to outsiders?”

“Kind of.” she said, her frown relenting for a thoughtful expression. “You’ll likely be met by an envoy before you make it to the town line. I can call ahead, if you’d like. Let them know that I trust you so they won’t be on full alert.” she smiled, slightly. “Just don’t...shoot anyone that you don’t have to. Okay?”

“I’m not in the business of killing people just trying to live their lives, Ramona.” I said, pulling a frown of my own. “I might be trigger happy, but I’ve never shot anyone who didn’t come after me, first.”

“I know, I know...they can just be a little wary with outsiders. You can hardly blame them.” she said, carefully. I agreed with her, but I didn’t like the implication that I just ran in like some idiot waving my gun around and shooting at everything that moved.

I only do that sometimes.

I stayed long enough to catch up and have some lunch. Ramona’s cooking was always amazing. Her carnitas is to die for, full stop. With my belly full and my paranoia subsiding, I made for Ellie’s. It was time to see if the corpse had any silver.

Elinor Lyktor is a lich. She “died” at some point during the eighteen hundreds. Stomach cancer. She was already a necromancer by then, so when she felt her end approaching...she made a bargain with Death. The way she speaks about the “Lady of the Void” is how some people speak about their chosen deity. But how many of them have actually spoken with their god? Or had her over for tea? 

Elinor’s shop was in the dead center of town. The signboard above her shop proudly proclaimed “Ellie’s Emporium”. Her front was an antique shop (all her possessions from when she was alive litter the front of the store). When I entered, her bespectacled gaze caught mine. Even indoors, if she was minding the shop, she wore sunglasses.

“Valerica.” she greeted, pushing from her stool and smiling, marginally. “Lock the door.” I obeyed. What else do you do in the face of a being that could force your skeleton to come clawing out of your body?

“Elinor.” I responded with a nod. “I’m looking for silver ordinance. .44 if you got it.”

“I do. Got a werewolf problem?” she pulled off her sunglasses. Her eyes were pitch black. The only light in them came from the faintly glowing, multicolored runes that slid across them like leaves on a still pond.

“Not a problem.” I responded, coolly. “Ramona’s got me an in. I just don’t have the identity, yet.” I paused, thinking that maybe I should be a little warmer to my primary ordinance merchant. “How’s the lady?”

“Which lady to you speak of?” she asked, grinning cattily. “The woman I will make my wife, or the Great Lady of Dusk?”

Fuck, she loved her puffery.

“Do you just make up these titles or did Death give you a list?” I asked, grinning. It got a laugh, so I’d say that Operation Butter Up the Lich was a success. 

“No, I only use them to annoy her. She’s teaching me a lot, VT. I’d love for you to come over and meet her someday. Isali is a rather sweet woman, if you can get past the fact she’s Death.” she said, earnestly. “Did you know she has a son? And he has children, too? I wasn’t even aware she could reproduce.”

That was enough to get my attention. “Death...has a kid. Okay, I’ll bite: what’s his name?”

“I don’t know. She only refers to him as “my darling boy”. The only thing I’ve figured out is there has to have been a point in history in which no one died. The only way I think she could have had a child is if she took on mortal guise and -- are you even listening?”

I was. Oh, I was. I admit that I was wrapped up in the thought of how DEATH had a SON. He must be one terrifying, austere motherfucker, that’s for damn sure. “Sorry, I was just thinking about what kind of man her son has to be. Gotta be some kind of...demigod or something. Having a mother like Death.”

Elinor shrugged “She described him as being an absolute goof. Dotes on his kids, overtly friendly. I’d like to meet him, someday. It looks like I’ll go wanting, though. He lives in a world beyond ours. An extra dimensional being.”

Now it made sense. I wanted to follow that rabbit hole down to the end. I still want to. But business beckoned and I had no choice but to end this intriguing line of thought. “As interesting as this all is, I still need bullets for something more mundane. Can you cut me a deal?”

“Depends on the volume, Valerica. If you want an armory’s worth, I can’t help you...but if you’re just looking for a few boxes, well...” she smiled. “How does fifteen bucks a box suit you?”

“It doesn’t.” I responded immediately. “I’ll give you five.”

I left her store after securing my ammunition. She drove a hard bargain, but I managed to talk her down to ten dollars a box. I had five boxes, each containing twelve bullets. If I couldn’t finish the job with that, then I was in the wrong line of work. 

Now, it’s a little known fact that a werewolf and a rugaru are two separate entities. They both conjure the vision of this half-wolf, half-man meat tank that tears through the opposition like so much wet paper. That particular creature is a rugaru. Not all werewolves are rugaru, but all rugaru are werewolves. The rugaru transformation is only possible under two circumstances: complete acceptance of the wolf that dwells within, or the complete degeneration of the werewolf’s human mind due to unchecked homicidal urges. It isn’t a fine line or any of that bullshit that other people have perpetuated. It’s a simple matter of willpower. If I was dealing with a rugaru, it’d mean real trouble. I could only hope this werewolf was still on four legs.

As Ramona had promised me, I was barely five miles down the dirt road that led into our little werewolf commune before I was stopped. He was a tall, impressive specimen. Fine bone structure, inky black hair brushed neatly into two, thick braids that were decorated with beads and feathers...what really threw me was his smile. It was welcoming. Not a normal sight for me. I killed the engine and stepped out into the morning air, then man walked forward and extended a hand “You must be VT. It’s a pleasure, truly.”

I took his hand and shook it. I felt the tell tale calluses on his palm in the shape of paw pads and smiled, this was the right place. “Glad to be of help. I hear there’s a berserk wolf on the loose.” his smile faded.

“Yes.” he replied, simply. “My son’s boyfriend.”

Swish. Called it.

“That’s unfortunate.” I said, bowing my head in respect. “Is there no hope of helping him cope?”

“I’m unsure.” he responded, looking thoughtfully at the thick forest that shadowed the road. “We’ve tried, but...he’s so angry.” he paused, his gaze returning to me. “I apologize, VT. I haven’t even given you my name: folks around here call me Thunder. You’re welcome to do the same.”

I nodded and smiled “Anything you say, Thunder. If you have another name that you’d prefer to go by, I’ll do my best not to butcher it.” he’d laughed, a booming sound like his namesake.

“Thunder suits me just fine.” he said, kindly. “We can continue our discussion back at the compound. Would you mind if I rode with you? I can tell you about our lifestyle while we ride.”

I gathered that Thunder was the Alpha of this particular pack, given how he spoke about his friends and family. The pack had started on a reservation, but wanted a place of their own. The reservation was abandoned in favor of the Seer’s word there was a place of their own. They all turned in the dead of night and disappeared. No one knew where they’d gotten to, save for the SC. They were completely self sufficient. Hunting and fishing for food, growing their crops in soil blessed by their spirits and making their own clothing. Back to basics, he’d said. I could see the appeal.

“You got a free house I can post up in or...” he’d laughed at me.

“We don’t have internet, power or running water. You might get sick of it pretty fast, hm?” he’d nudged me and broke into that same booming laughter that caused my eardrums to ache.

He’d stopped me just outside of town, where two, tall totems stood on either side of the road. “Stop here. Your car will die if you cross.” he said, stepping out of the car. “I’ll introduce you to my son, VT.”

I killed the engine and stepped out, reaching behind the seat to sling my backpack over my shoulder. One of the two totems stood out. Each of them was carved with delicate care and beautiful in their own right, but the one on the left was the most interesting to me. It was Ramona’s work, I knew the feel of that anywhere. “Torrez did this, didn’t she?” I asked, brushing my fingers against the carvings. “Not the design, but the ward.”

“You’re close to Miss Torrez?” Thunder asked, pausing to look at the totem. “Yes. Spent a week solid working on it. She even refused payment, only asked for one of my wife’s blankets in return.”

“Do you...deal with cash?” I asked, feeling the slightest bit insensitive.

“Rarely.” he responded, eyes still on the totem. “Some of us have work in a town nearby, certainly...there are a few things that trading can’t get us. Gasoline. Generators.”

That threw me and I frowned “Thought you said you didn’t have power.”

“We don’t.” he responded, simply. “The generators are for the Elders who didn’t leave the reservation.”

Well, good to know I’d been here all of twenty seconds and already taken a big bite of foot pie. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think -- “ “You don’t live like us. Why would you?” he responded with a somewhat bitter smile. “No reason for me to take offense or for you to feel guilt, VT. Though your apology is...appreciated.” the last word felt forced, but I said no more.

The town was pretty enough, each house painted in accordance to the occupant’s taste. Designs swirled and jerked in eye catching beauty across the wood or brick. Thunder led me to a single-story ranch type home and beckoned me inside. He called for his son in his native tongue and a beanpole of a boy appeared. I say boy, but he was at least eighteen or nineteen. “Introduce yourself.” Thunder said, sternly. “You’re the cause of this mess.”

“Thunder.” I broke in, sensing the tension between father and son. “You know better than anyone that the change is unpredictable...it isn’t his fault.”

Thunder’s stare turned on me, and that friendly gaze was gone. If I’d been made of gentler stuff, I might’ve even backed away. “I’m not upset he changed his lover, VT. I’m upset because his lover is giving us a bad name, and he doesn’t seem to care.”

“Excuse me for caring about my boyfriend, Father.” the boy spat. Even in children, or teenagers...there’s always respect for the Alpha Wolf. To hear the vitriol in the young man’s voice told me one thing: there was going to be a power struggle here one day. “VT, I heard about you from Ramona Torrez.” he said, with much less anger in his voice. “Please...Dorian never meant to hurt anyone. He didn’t even know what I was doing and...please, don’t kill him!” tears were welling in this young man’s eyes. I couldn’t help but be sympathetic...but I still had a job to do.

“Dorian’s his name?” I asked, humming beneath my breath. “I might be able to call him out using that information. But I’ll need your name too, kid.”

Thunder’s son puffed up “I am no child! I am a man grown!” he said, indignantly. 

“A grown man doesn’t make decisions for his loved ones.” I shot back. “He makes decisions with his loved ones.”

He deflated marginally. “My name is...Crow Flies. He called me Crow...” he said, no longer able to meet my eyeline. “Please, VT...I...”

“I get it, kid.” I said, softly. “I won’t kill him if I don’t have to. I promise.”

Thunder took me from his home and introduced me to the rest of the pack. They were a kindly people, if a little wary of an outsider like myself. Thunder’s presence helped with their misgivings, but only slightly. “You did well with Crow Flies.” he said, softly. “Miss Torrez had described you as a hot head, but even so...you were very patient. And there was wisdom in your speech.”

Despite myself, I flushed. “Well, ah...I’ve had good teachers.” I said, trying not to grin. “Say, Thunder. After all this unpleasantness is done, could I come back? Just to visit. I like it here.”

That seemed to surprise the Alpha, he looked at me and then smiled “I think that I would like that. I think the pack would, too. Once they see that you are here to help, of course.”

I had dinner with the pack, as they all dined together in the center of town (or the old town hall, when the weather was foul). It was a raucous affair, full of song and laughter...Crow sat off by himself. Alone. I thought it best to leave him be. The boy was going through all kinds of heartbreak. The last thing he needed was another lecture.

It was late by the time dinner wrapped up, and I’d gathered a bit more information about Dorian. He’d been cast out by his family due to his sexuality, and taken in by the pack. They’d kept their lycanthropy secret from him...that is until Crow Flies turned him. Thunder had even had a family portrait taken of the three of them. Dorian had to have been at least Crow Flies’ age, if not a bit older. He was dark skinned, his hair styled into a small afro. What struck me the most was his smile...there was such...kindness. Love. It twisted my stomach into tight knots.

I made a promise to myself then and there: there were enough gay, Black men dead. I was not going to contribute to that number.

Even if it killed me.

No one “hunts” a werewolf. You see these self-styled vampire/werewolf hunters enough these days...and they’re all absolute pricks. Worse than that, they’re murderers. I’ve had to kill a couple of them, to save an innocent life...but when you murder someone just for their differences, you’re the monster. The point is, no matter how many berserk werewolves you’ve encountered it all boils down the the same fact: they’re the hunter, you’re the prey.

I applied a thick layer of the wolfsbane lotion to my skin. It wasn’t going to stop a werewolf as much as it would overwhelm their sense of smell and taste. Silver weaponry only works because of a simple fact.

Have you ever heard of a tulpa? It’s...a sort of group hallucination made real. The basic principle is if you believe enough in something, it manifests as reality. The more people who believe, the more stable a tulpa is. Silver is a sort of pseudo-tulpa. A mass belief of silver being a weapon against lycanthropy has made it reality. That’s the power of belief.

Problem being is I didn’t know whether the mass belief here was that silver kills...or simply incapacitates or weakens. I had to be careful. I had to leave Peace behind. If I wanted to save Dorian, I couldn’t rely on firepower to do it.

[Editor’s Note: A rarity for VT. Coherent thought.]

Dorian’s hunting ground had been, as of late, his own home town. His first victims were his parents...hardly a surprise. Poor guy had to have felt betrayed, and was angry for it. Researching the case, they hadn’t been eaten. They’d only had their throats ripped out. That was a good thing and a bad thing. If Dorian wasn’t eating his victims yet, that meant there was humanity left in him...but he’d tasted blood, and he’d want more. I didn’t have time to dally, I had to act.

I drove straight to his former home.

The house had been cordoned off by police tape. As anyone sane does, I ignored the warnings put forth by the police and ventured inside. The carpets were stained with blood...it meant there was a struggle. A vicious one from the looks of things. Dorian might not have even been in wolf form when it started.

I ventured deeper into the house, searching for any kind of clue. There was Christian iconography all over the house, which explained why he was thrown out. It was getting harder and harder to feel anything but repulsion for the dead, sanctimonious pricks. Throwing their own son out just because he’s gay...I related entirely too much.

I found Dorian’s bedroom without much struggle. Posters of his favorite sports teams hung on the walls, along with musicians and actors. I felt a creak in the floorboard beneath my foot, so I crouched and tried to pull on it. It came up effortlessly.

Hidden within was a notebook, a small bag of cosmetics and a pressed flower. Probably from Crow, I thought. I didn’t read a lot of the journal, but from what I did read it was a chronicle of his self discovery. I admired him for the bravery he showed in facing who he truly was, but the thoughts were private. I closed the journal and replaced it, along with the other items. Those were his and not mine to take. If...things went badly, I’d come back and give them to Crow.

I approached the bed, and got a deep whiff of wet dog for my trouble. He’d been here. Recently. I pulled the sheets back and found what I’d expected: fur. He’d even been sleeping in his own bed. This was good. This was very, very good. If he still sought out human comfort, he was still in there.

A sudden creak and the sound of footsteps sent my heart into my throat. I had no weapon, no way of defending myself against a hungry werewolf. The air was probably thick with the scent of wolfsbane by now...I did the only thing I thought I could.

I stood and waited.

It wasn’t Dorian. It wasn’t even a werewolf. I felt my stomach drop into my shoes as a uniformed police officer appeared, flashlight in hand. “Who the fuck are you? This is a police investigation zone, bitch.”

My hackles raised, but I raised my hands, showing I was unarmed. “I’m a Private Investigator. My license is in my jacket pocket. I’m going to reach for it now.” I tried to keep my voice calm, but clearly this pig thought I was being belligerent. 

“Keep your fucking hands where I can see them!” he snarled and approached, stepping forward to shove his hand into my jacket. Thankfully, he went straight for the pocket instead of feeling me up, like I’d been dreading. He looked at the fake license with his mean, piggy little eyes. “They hand these out to anyone, huh?” he said, pure malicious glee in his voice.

I said nothing, keeping my hands raised and waiting for an actual question. “So, you think you can do this job better than us?”

“No, sir.” I responded, shaking my head. “I’m only looking for their son. He has a right to know, even if he hasn’t been living here. I was hoping to find a clue and didn’t want to trouble the police department for something that’d only take a few minutes.”

He laughed, cruelly “Well, that’s earned you an arrest, Valerica Torianna.” he said, gleefully. “For interfering with a police investigation. You have the right to remain -- “

The next thing I heard from the officer was a scream. I hadn’t even heard the wolf enter. The wolf, lean and black as pitch, leapt atop the cop and dug his fangs in. Blood sprayed my face as the pig’s throat was torn from his neck. The wolf didn’t chew. Didn’t swallow. Just spat the flesh and sinew clean out. Then it turned it’s eyes on me.

“Dorian?” I asked, softly. It’s hackles raised. “Dorian, I’m a friend of Crow Flies. You know who Crow Flies is, don’t you?” it backed away, and I took a step towards it. “Dorian, I don’t want to hurt you. I’m not here to hurt you. I only want to help...Crow asked me to help you. Please.”

It snarled...and it lunged.

For anyone wondering if I’ve turned lycan: no. It’s not as...simple as just a bite. I don’t quite understand it, but it has to be an actual, conscious thought. Dorian would have had wanted to make me a werewolf. It didn’t seem he was quite accustom to the change to be able to make conscious decisions. He was only defending himself from a perceived threat.

That didn’t stop his fangs from tearing my forearm open, though.

“Fuck!”, I yelled as it’s teeth dug in deep and ripped my flesh. I had my fair number of scars, but this one would be a doozy. That’s alright. Girls dig scars...well, my type does. Not trying to generalize or anything. Anyways, I was bleeding. A lot.

“Dorian, let go!” I yelled, feeling my bones practically screaming in his jaws. “You’re gonna break my fuckin’ arm!” I balled my fist and started to hammer on his nose with all my might. Nothing. “Dorian, brother, I’m real fuckin’ sorry about this!” I grabbed onto his throat with three fingers and squeezed. He started to choke.

I released him the second his jaws released me. “Sorry.” I croaked, holding my arm against my chest as the wolf wheezed. “Will you -- “ he was gone. I’d blinked and looked at my arm for a half second and he’d up and bolted...leaving me with a dead cop, and his blood all over my face. It wouldn’t matter that he had lupine saliva in his wound, it’d mattered that his corpse would be discovered next to me. So, I bolted.

I returned to the pack’s commune and staggered past the totems. Blood loss was already making my head spin, and I needed medical assistance. Problem was I still had cop blood all over me...so a hospital was out.

I passed out before I could even get to Thunder’s door.

When I woke up it was still night...or night, again. Ramona’s heart-shaped face, her hair sticking up all over the place was looking down at me. “Ah. An angel.” I wheezed. “So, I’m dead.”

Ramona flushed and slapped my chest “Idiota!” she squeaked. I laughed weakly. “You scared me! Thunder called and said Crow Flies found you half-dead! Your veins were torn to shit, VT! You could have died!”

“So just another day at the office then?” I sat up and my head immediately began to swim. “Shit.”

“Lie down, VT. I did what I could, but you still lost a lot of blood. I’ve dealt with your clothes, and Issy brought back your fake PI license. Sloppy, Valerica. Very sloppy. You would’ve been caught if not for us.” she said, standing from my bedside and straightening her dress. “You owe me.”

“Add it to the tab.” I said, pushing to my feet, doing my best to ignore just how sick I felt. “Dorian’s still out there. I can’t let him succumb, I can’t. The world has enough murdered Black men...let alone gay Black men.” my conviction was strong, but my body...

I was wrecked. I could barely stand, let alone run or fight.

“The pack is dealing with him, now. He’s...becoming unstable. I’m sorry, VT, but there’s nothing left for you to do.” Ramona said, hanging her head. “He’ll be killed before sunup.”

Like. Hell. I knew where he was nesting, now. I knew what I had to do. I had to go back. I had to beat them to Dorian’s old home. “Ramona. Think you can drive really, really fast?”

“VT...”

“I’m not taking an L on this one, Ramona. I won’t. I know how Dorian feels, I’ve lived his life. I won’t let it end like this.” Ramona looked at me, tears in her eyes. “What? What is it?”

She smiled and wiped her eyes on her forearm “Who’s the bleeding heart, now?”

Ramona broke just about every traffic law in existence getting me back to Dorian’s home. I’d been unconscious for two days. During that time the pack had met and decided that the only way they could stop Dorian was to kill him. He’d gotten more violent, more reckless. His kills were happening in broad daylight, now. Three cops, a high school teacher and a pastor. None were eaten, but all were killed, viciously.

“He’s attacking those that wronged him.” Ramona said, softly. “He has the power to fight back...he’s losing himself in it. I’m afraid the pack might be right...if he keeps going like this...”

“He won’t.” I snapped shut the cylinder on my weapon. “Crow will never be able to look his father in the eye, let alone forgive him, if the pack kills Dorian. If there’s going to blood spilt...I’d rather be the one hated.” I said, softly. “But I’m going to try, one last time, to get through to him.”

I didn’t go beneath the cordon tape, this time. I went through it. Thunder didn’t know where Dorian lived, thankfully, only the town he lived in. Ramona had agreed to go and ask them to give me my last chance. I had to make it count.

“Dorian!” I bellowed, the instant I rammed through the tape “Dorian! My name is Valerica Torianna! I’m like you! My mother cast me out on my own when I came out to her!” I shouted as I sprinted towards his bedroom. “I know you’re angry! You deserve to be! You deserve your revenge, but you’re going to be killed if you don’t -- “

There he was. Eight feet tall, jaws dripping with blood. He’d lost the plot. He’d lost his humanity. He was a berserk rugaru, now.

“Shit.” I cursed as lupine eyes met mine “Dorian? Dorian, please...I can’t fight you. I won’t fight you. Please.” 

I was thrown, bodily, through the drywall. Luckily, I didn’t hit a stud or wiring...but I could feel shards of something embedded in my back. Peace was still in her holster, so I pulled her free as I struggled to my knees. The rugaru kool-aid’d through the wall after me, eyes full of bloodlust and rage. I aimed my weapon and pulled the hammer back.

A second rugaru exploded through a window and slammed Dorian bodily to the floor. The pair rolled, biting and snarling and clawing across the floor. More than once I had to scurry out of the way of the battle to avoid catching a flying claw or misplaced bite.

Who the fuck was the second rugaru!? Was he a friendly? Was *he* enraged? Fuck me sideways, I had no idea what was going on anymore! All I knew is I was suffering from blood loss and losing energy by the second.

CRRRRRRRACK.

I turned, just in time to see the second rugaru, deep brown fur covered in blood and wounds, ripping Dorian’s jaws apart and ripping his heart from his chest. “NO!” I screamed, feeling tears streaking my face. “Goddammit, no! Fuck!”

When a werewolf dies in lupine form, it’s body shrinks. The wolf leaves its body, free to roam the great hereafter, while the human husk remains. All that was left of Dorian was a pale skinned...wait. Dorian was(?) Black...this mutilated corpse was white.

What the fuck.

The second rugaru threw it’s head back and howled in victory...and turned on me. “Who the fuck are you?” I said, voice trembling. “And who the fuck did you just kill?”

The rugaru was shrinking, but collapsed before the change was through. I tore my jacket off and draped it over him. When you lose mass that rapidly, you lose body heat, too. If a werewolf doesn’t have something to warm them after a rugaru transformation, they could easily suffer from hypothermia. I rubbed the dark skin that was rapidly loosing fur. “Dorian? Dorian, is that you?”

“Yeah.” came the soft rasp. “Yeah...my name’s Dorian. Who the fuck are you?”

“My name’s VT. I was hired to -- “

“Kill me?” he cut me off and glowered at me with hate filled eyes. “Just like my parents wanted?”

“No! Fuck, no! I was thrown out by my mother after coming out. Like hell I’d kill someone suffering from my same pain.” I said, quickly. “I was hired to try to help you. By Crow Flies’ dad.”

Dorian stared at me, untrusting...but soon looked back to the corpse. There was such hatred in his eyes...it made the glare he aimed at me look positively tame in comparison. “That thing was a pastor. A pastor at one of those...those...” he wretched.

“Conversion therapy...” I hissed beneath my breath. Suddenly, I was hoping the corpse would get up, again. Just so I could have the pleasure of killing him, myself. “You gave him what he deserved.”

I successfully returned Dorian to the pack. He wasn’t ostracized, but welcomed. He had gone berserk, just as the job posting had claimed. He’d killed his parents and their pastor, but no one else. After he’d had his vengeance, he regained himself. He hid, feeling such guilt in his heart that he never wanted to see anyone again. 

Poor kid.

His reunion with Crow was a sweet one, they’d wept and kissed and held each other so tightly I was sure I could hear joints cracking. I couldn’t help but feel accomplished for what I’d done. The rugaru he’d killed, one Peter Edwards, had been a werewolf for years. Hiding in plain sight...and killing those that couldn’t be “saved”. He couldn’t nail down Dorian, so he tried to frame him. He’d be martyred...if not for one, little thing.

“Oh, I burned his corpse with the rest of the house.” Ramona said, forcing a cup of coffee into my hands. “What went on there was no one’s business, anyway. No one’s but the pack’s. And yours, I guess.” she’d said, cheerfully. “Thanks.” I sipped the coffee. Possibly the best tasting coffee I’d ever had. “Dorian saved my life. I don’t think I can accept payment for this one.” I said, smiling. “I’m happy it turned out the way it did...still...it’s impressive that a new werewolf found the rugaru so easy to control.”

Dorian broke away from Crow and approached me. “Miss VT?” he said, timidly. “I just...I wanted to say thank you. Crow said that...that you wouldn’t kill me. That you were against it from the outset.” he stuck out his hand “I...thank you.”

I took his hand, feeling those same calluses I’d felt on Thunder’s. “I should be thanking you, Dorian. You saved my ass.” I grinned and squeezed his hand. “You have a family now, brother. You’ll never have to feel alone again.” he smiled that same smile, so full of kindness and love, that was in the portrait. “Take care of yourself, Dorian.”

Thunder caught me as I was climbing into my car. “You forgot your payment, VT.” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “Ramona said you wouldn’t accept, but...” “But nothing. All I did was run around in circles. Dorian’s the hero here, Thunder.” I said, pushing my sunglasses onto my face. “But hey...if you really wanna give me something...this job ruined my jacket.”

I received a gorgeous, handmade jacket in the mail a few weeks after. My initials emblazoned on the back in golden thread. I wouldn’t be wearing this thing on jobs, but...maybe I can get it framed.

Yeah. That’d be pretty killer.

Case closed.

#tw: isolation #tw: suicidal thoughts #tw: violence #tw: blood #tw: depression #tw: animal bite #tw: animal bites #tw: animal injury #tw: cops #tw: racism #tw: homophobia #tw: conversion therapy mention #VTverse #OC #writing #horror

[therainroguefanfiction]

🔥 ℝise Ⱥbove I̾t ◈ [Thanksgiving Special! 🦃]

📑 Table of Contents | ◂Backward

Word Count: 4,439

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

〈“Oh, oh, oh, it’s Thanksgiving, we’re gonna have a good time. With the turkey ey! and mashed potatoes ey!. We are gonna have a good time. It’s Thanksgiving~” Nicole Westbrook, “It’s Thanksgiving”〉

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

Oh look, the Author’s Note is at the top this time. I bet you’re thinking, ‘Well shit, this can’t be good!’ And you’d be right 😂 Okay so, I wanted to write a special for Thanksgiving right and I had these plans to make it this shit fest of just absolute crack and humor right. WELL if you know anything about me you know that I go back to angst by default. Like, you know how when you play online games, sometimes your settings just reset on their own and then you gotta go and turn off the music and turn the subtitles back on and why the fuck is PVP ticked on?? That’s basically me okay. I auto default back to angst unless I changed the settings again lmfao

So, I started this off, full fucking intent on being funny right. Yeah, no. Runaway while you fucking can. It got so fucking heavy in the middle and it’s just… I’m sorry bro. That’s all I can say. It might make you cry? I mean, I’m a sensitive lil bitch and I cried while I wrote it sooo~ But fear not! I gave it a cheerful, happy and somewhat enlightening/inspiring ending?? At least I think so anyway… Also, you don’t have to celebrate Thanksgiving to enjoy this! Oh yeah, and don’t @ me about facts, I literally used Wikipedia because I’m an uncultured fuck that knows nothing about Thanksgiving even though I live in the USA lmao Don’t fucking @ me about the song I chose either 😂 I ain’t adding that shit to the playlist tho.

So yeah! Read this shit, cry into your snuggie or your dog that looks like a mop and then go enjoy some turkey or hug your mum. Don’t forget to reblog this chapter because I’m a hoe for them reblogs ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

☔ Rain

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

The door to class 1-A slammed open with so much force, it bounced off the wall and came back, stopped only by a gloved hand. An obnoxiously loud voice filled the room, “Are you ready, kids?!”

“Aye aye, captain!” I jumped up, automatically answering only to curse myself a moment later when he smirked. “Bitch, this ain’t Spongebob!!”

He clicked his tongue and gave me double finger guns. “But you responded!”

I slumped into my seat in frustration.

Present Mic approached the board, picking up a piece of bright orange chalk before writing a word on the board in English: Thanksgiving. He slapped his palm under the word, making several pieces of chalk fall to the floor. “We’re going to be talking about the meaning of Thanksgiving in Western Countries, most notably in the United States!”

“Sir!” Iida’s hand shot into the air.

“Thanks for calling, listener! What is your request?!”

Iida stood tall. “With all due respect, sir, we don’t celebrate Thanksgiving in Japan, we celebrate National Labor Day.”

“You’re correct… almost! Many people consider National Labor Day to be Japan’s Thanksgiving! Plus, I’m your English teacher, so why not take this time to talk about a wonderful holiday where you get to stuff your face with as much food as you can handle without being looked at like a weirdo?!”

“It doesn’t matter what you do,” I commented blankly. “People will always think you’re a weirdo, cockatiel.”

“Hey, aren’t you American, Winchester?” Kaminari questioned, tilting his head back to look at me.

I shrugged. “My mom was American, but I was born in Japan. I mean, Gramps taught me English and we had a small dinner every Thanksgiving to ‘celebrate my heritage’ or some shit, but I don’t really know the details about the holiday.”

“Which is what I’m here for!” He slapped the board again, giving up a grin. “Now pay close attention, listeners! In America, Thanksgiving occurs on the fourth Thursday of November every year! In Western Countries, this holiday is known to be the moment to thank the Native American people for helping European pilgrims to survive their first winter in the United States! Typically, this is a day when families come together from across the country to be with their loved ones and feast!”

I hummed. “Gramps used to always make me watch these American pageants where grade-schoolers put on plays reenacting the interaction between the Pilgrims and the Native Americans. I remember one year, this kid was dressed in a fucking black trash bag stuffed with newspaper.”

“Plays are very popular in schools all across the states!” He nodded his head. “Can anyone tell me what year that Thanksgiving became a federal holiday in the USA?” He cupped his ear, but the only thing he got in response was a cricket that had snuck into the room a week ago to avoid the approaching chill settling over Japan. That fucker is really good at hide-n-seek because we still can’t find him and he’s at the back of the room so it’s like he’s in my fucking ear. “That’s right, the year is 1863! Before that, it was celebrated off and on since 1789 but the third president, Thomas Jefferson, just wasn’t feeling the holiday so he put a stop to it!”

“Seems suspect,” I responded.

“Now, who can tell me about the First Thanksgiving?!”

Chirp chirp chirp chirp chirp.

My eye twitched and I turned in my seat, eyes scanning the back wall. Where the fuck is that goddamn cricket?! I swear to Deadpool I’m gonna roast that bitch when I finally fucking find it.

“Right again, my impressionable listeners! The First Thanksgiving was created by the Pilgrims after their first harvest in the New World in October 1621! The feast lasted a total of three days and, according to one attendee named Edward Winslow, there were one-hundred-forty-three rockin’ attendees – ninety Native Americans and fifty-three Pilgrims!” He continued to drone on about the history of Thanksgiving in the states, listing off several different dates and names I couldn’t be bothered to remember.

I mean, History is cool, I guess, but when am I ever gonna need to know this stuff to function as a member of today’s society? Especially here in Japan, where American norms aren’t focused on at all? Plus, that fucking cricket is all I can think about!

“By the way, there will be a test on this and if you fail, you get remedial lessons with me, your chart-topping host!!”

Oh, fuck me.

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

I stepped out into the chilly night, my breath coming in puffs of smoke as I walked. Aizawa didn’t like us to leave the dorms after dark, but there was no specific rule about it as long as we stayed on campus. It was two in the morning, and I had been tossing and turning in my bed since I got there. It hadn’t bothered me at first when Mic brought up Thanksgiving, but now that it was just a couple days away, I’m starting to get restless.

This would be my first Thanksgiving without Gramps…

I fell onto the icy cold stone bench, letting my head fall back to stare up at the navy sky. It looked like ribbons of velvet, bright stars dotting across it like sequins caught under the light. The moon was a perfect crescent.

“Jen?”

I glanced over, seeing Zuku with his arms wrapped tight around his body. Even with the thick sweater he wore, it was obvious he was cold. I patted the bench beside me and he sat down, letting me throw my arms around his body. I focused on my quirk, raising my body temperature to warm him up. “Why are you awake?”

“I got up to use the bathroom and spotted you out the window.” He frowned up at me, his brow furrowed. “You look so… sad. What’s wrong?”

My grip tightened around him and I smiled sadly. “I guess I am a bit sad… This is my first Thanksgiving without Gramps, so… it kinda hurts, you know?”

“Oh, I see… I’m sorry…”

“It’s fine. Just something you gotta deal with, ya know? It’s life, and life is full of unfairness.”

“Will you… tell me about it?” He asked softly, playing with his fingers in his lap. “About what the two of you did each year? If it’s not too painful, I mean…”

“I’d love to,” I ruffled his hair and closed my eyes. “Let’s see – Gramps thought it was important for us to celebrate Thanksgiving because my mother was American. ‘It’s part of who you are, kitten, so we must celebrate!’ is what he’d always tell me. He spent the first five years learning everything he could about the holiday because he wanted it to be authentic and at age five, he started hosting a small feast for the two of us each year.”

“It sounds like he loved you a lot.”

“Yeah… Yeah, he did. We were each other’s world, the only two people we had in life. It was just us against the world!” I chuckled, but it held no humor. “Gramps was a hell of a good chef. He always used to attribute that to the fact that he worked for near six years in a restaurant with his father before the man died and the place had to be sold. Cooking reminded him of a simpler time, so he took pride in everything he cooked. Now that I think about it… that was the first time I met Skye and Heather.”

“Friends of yours?”

“Nah, they made my life hell growing up.” I waved my hand. “I don’t think they remembered this, but I met them once when I was seven. They lived a couple blocks down from us and Gramps had met them on several of his midday walks. Skye was half-Japanese on her mother’s side, while her dad was American and Heather was full American but her family moved to Japan just a year or two previously. Since Gramps wanted to make Thanksgiving as authentic as possible, he went to them for advice. Sky’s father had asked his grandma back home to send a few of her recipes for the holiday and that’s when I met Skye for the first time. He stopped by on his way to work to drop them off and she was with him, but she took one look at me and turned her nose up.”

“You were bullied?” He asked softly, lowering his head. “I never would have thought that.”

“Yeah, but it didn’t start until I was twelve.” I chuckled. “Anyway, we didn’t have much money to work with, but he saved up with every paycheck for months in advance. Just small amounts from each check and then the week before Thanksgiving, he’d take the money he saved and go all out, buying a Turkey, potatoes, pumpkin pie, the works. Some of the shit he couldn’t even get in our town, he had to travel to specialty shops or order the ingredients online from overseas. I kept telling him it was too much work, but he was a stubborn old man.”

Izuku shifted in my arms, his head on my shoulder. “Tell me more about him,” his voice was soft and growing husky as sleep started to claim him.

I hummed softly. “He liked what the day symbolized – families coming together to be thankful for the people in their lives and for the things they were gifted with. To be honest, I often wondered as a child if he regretted raising me, but I knew that was wrong as I got older. It was almost like… raising me gave him a purpose, a reason to face every day with a smile. And I guess in a way… he was the same for me. I remember it so clearly, waking up at one in the morning on Thanksgiving day to sounds in the kitchen. I’d sneak down the hallway, careful of that stupid ass board on the right that always creaked when you stepped on it. And there he was, seeming to radiate warmth and happiness as he bustled around the kitchen getting all the dishes ready for that day.”

I smiled, my hands fisting around his jacket as I took a shaky breath. “He always wore that stupid ass apron I gave him on his birthday in fifth grade. It was this god awful snot yellow color with lime green stripes. If you stared at it too long, you’d go fucking cross-eyed. And it had this… hell, even to this day I don’t know what it was. I think it was a Rhino in a chef’s hat but I guess it coulda been a hippo? Or a fat giraffe with a short neck. He was convinced it was a Thanksgiving Zebra, but I still think he’s nuts. There’s no way that was a damn Zebra, and I would literally list the reasons why it couldn’t be, but he’d just listen intently with a bright smile, nodding his head to show that he was listening. And once I was done ranting, he’d pat my head and simply say, ‘Thanksgiving Zebras are quite special’. I swear he was batty.”

Zuku chuckled. “What makes a Zebra a Thanksgiving Zebra?”

“They have to be fat as fuck apparently. And orange. At least I think it was orange. It coulda just been a really dark yellow. I’m telling you, this apron was all kinds of wrong! I will never understand what I was thinking when I looked at that thing in the store and was like, ‘This is feckin’ awesome, he’s gonna love it!’. But he did love it, wore it every time he cooked, even on the rare occasions we had guests over. He wore it without shame and always with a smile.”

“Because it was from you, so it was special.”

“Hmm, probably, yeah.” I sighed deeply. “Come on, let’s get you to bed, you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I wanted to hear more stories,” he pouted, but he was clearly having trouble holding his eyes open.

“I promise to tell you some more later, okay?” I stood up, putting my arms under his body and lifting him into my arms. He snuggled closer, mumbling something under his breath before sleep finally claimed him. I held him closer, feeling my eyes sting with tears, but I forced them back. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t cry, not until I’ve earned the right to do so.

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

“Hey, Jen, wait up!”

I paused in the hallway, glancing over my shoulder. Ryuu was dodging students as he headed toward me, smiling brightly. When he finally reached me, he threw his arms around my neck, pulling me into a hug. I chuckled, hugging him back. “Hello to you, too. What’s up?”

“Are you busy?” He questioned, pulling away.

“Uhh, I got a shit-ton of homework that I probably won’t do and might accidentally burn but that’s about it.” I grinned.

He huffed, putting his hand on his hip. “You better not! You’re not allowed to get kicked from the hero course because you refuse to do your work.”

“Yes, mother.”

He nudged my shoulder but I didn’t miss the way his lips twitched up. “What do you say we hang out at the library for a bit and work on it together?”

I hummed. “Why, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to lure me away, Hiryuu Rin~”

“As if,” he teased, tugging on my hand. “Come on, let’s get to it!”

“But learning is so boring~”

“You won’t be a hero with that attitude~”

“Last time I checked, pros don’t have to go around dividing letters with numbers to defeat villains,” I grumbled, throwing my head back.

He hummed. “True, but what if you come across a math villain?”

“Punch him in the dick.”

He sweatdropped. “What if he has hostages and he’ll only release them if you solve his math problems?”

I looked at him blankly. “What are the actual chances of that fucking happening, Ryuu?”

He huffed, puffing out his cheeks. “It could happen!”

I poked his inflated cheek with a chuckle. “Anything is possible, I guess.”

Ryuu led me to the back of the library, settling down in the corner. The next few hours were spent taking turns on our homework assignments. I was able to help him with a couple subjects, while he had my back for some of the harder ones, like math. And then there was physics, which left us both fucking stumped.

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

The librarian peeked her head around a large bookshelf, her tired, dull eyes landing on us. “Library’s about to close. Time to leave.”

I glanced out the window and clicked my tongue. “Damn, we were here for a while. It’s dark out.”

He nodded, stuffing his books into his bag. “They say time flies when you’re having fun, but…”

“We weren’t having fun at all,” I pointed out and he shrugged, stifling a yawn.

“Can I come back to your dorm?”

“Ho~? I didn’t know you were so forward, Ryuu.” I wiggled my eyebrows at him and he rolled his eyes, rubbing his arms as we stepped out into the cold.

“I was thinking more along the lines of hot chocolate and a movie.”

“Well, that’s no fun.”

“Just what were you thinking…” he muttered under his breath before shaking his head at my grin. “Nevermind, I don’t want to know!”

The walk to 1-A’s dorm passed in comfortable silence, Ryuu practically glued to my side as he soaked up the warmth from my body. I wonder if his body reacts negatively to the cold because of his reptile-like quirk. I should ask him about that later.

We stepped inside and I immediately froze in the doorway, my eyes wide.

Ryuu took his shoes off, looking back at me curiously. “Jen? What’s wrong?”

“I, uh…” I swallowed hard, covering my mouth and closing my eyes. As soon as I stepped into the building, the smell of food had wafted to my nose, almost as if it were waiting at the door to tease me. It smells just like… like the house did every Thanksgiving morning. It’s the exact same smell.

A hand rested on my shoulder, Ryuu looking at me with worry. “Do you feel sick?”

“No, I just…” I took a breath, forcing a smile as I tried to ignore the smell. “Sorry, just remembered something.”

“Are you sure? You look pale…”

I chuckled, pushing past him. “I was born pale. You up for grabbing the hot chocolate and heading to my room for the movie? Not really in the mood for socializing.” I stepped into the kitchen and froze for the second time. What the fuck?

“If you’re not in the mood for socializing, that might be a problem, Winchester.” Kirishima grinned.

“You better fucking get in the mood, bitch!” Katsuki scowled, his face twisted up.

“Welcome home, Jen.” Izuku greeted, brightly.

“Huh, class A certainly loves going over the top for everything, don’t they?!” Monoma laughed, but it didn’t have its usual mocking undertone to it.

“I hope you don’t mind us joining you guys,” Kendo smiled, tilting her head.

My eyes scanned the faces of classes A and B, all stuffed into the kitchen around the table that had been covered in various dishes of food – turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole… Am I dreaming? I don’t… I can’t…

Ryuu embraced me, his hand finding my cheek. “You’re crying…”

“What? No, I -” I lifted my hand, wiping at my eyes. I am crying. I’m crying in front of both classes. They’re supposed to look at me and be reassured and feel safe, how can they do that if I’m crying my eyes out? Why am I even crying?

Momo and Ashido rushed over to me, pushing Ryuu away as they fussed over me, squishing me between them. “We’re sorry, we should have asked first!”

“Yeah, don’t cry, Jen!” Ashido squeezed me tighter.

“I don’t… know why I’m crying…” I sobbed, rubbing at my eyes furiously but the tears wouldn’t stop coming.

Izuku smiled sadly as he approached, pulling my hands away from my face. “All Might thinks you haven’t properly grieved for Gramps. That’s why I thought it would be a good idea to do this, to give you a chance to… to… properly grieve and to realize… to realize that you’re not alone!” His shoulders shook as his eyes filled with tears.

“Damn it, Deku! You’re supposed to make her feel better not start crying with her!!” Katsuki slammed his hand on the table, the silverware rattling.

“Can I… have a minute, please?” I asked softly.

The two girls exchanged a look before hesitantly pulling away. I bowed my head and stepped out of the kitchen, heading back out through the doorway. As soon as it clicked, I leaned back and slid down, my body shaking from the effort it took to hold back the rest of my tears.

‘Remember, kitten, life isn’t always easy. More often than not, you will face hardships and pain that will be so bad, you will begin to question why it has to be that way. However, just as happiness is often fleeting, so, too, is sadness. You may think that crying makes you a weak person, but I assure you it does not. Crying is a sign that you’ve been strong for too long, and there is no shame in it. Don’t be afraid to show your emotions, kitten. They are not your weakness, they are your strength.’

“Young Jen?”

“Toshi…” I sobbed, tears flowing down my cheeks as my body shook.

Warmth flooded me as I was brought into a strong chest, arms wrapped tight around me. A tired voice sighed from somewhere behind him, “I told you this was a bad idea.”

“Shouta…”

He kneeled beside us, his hand gently rubbing the top of my head. “Sorry, I should’ve stopped them.”

I shook my head. “No, I… I just…”

Toshi rubbed my back comfortingly. “When young Midoriya came to me and told me about his conversation with you the other night, I saw this as a teaching moment. He wanted to get together with the rest of your class, as well as class B, to have a Thanksgiving dinner in honor of your Gramps. I knew this would be hard for you, but I was sure that it was the right thing to do. You accepted the fact that he was gone, but you never grieved for him, did you?”

I shook my head, clutching his sweater between my fingers.

“When we lose someone we love, closure is important for us to heal and move forward. And… I worry that you might feel alone in this new world, but you have impacted those around you, even those from class B. They were more than happy to help out when young Midoriya explained things to them.” Toshi pushed me backward, grasping me by the shoulders and giving me his signature smile. “You are surrounded by people who love you, my dear Jen. Never forget that.”

And I smiled back, even with the tears still falling from my eyes.

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

When I returned to the kitchen twenty minutes later, several worried eyes snapped to me, no doubt noticing my red and swollen eyes, but I smiled brightly at them to ease their worries, stepping aside to let the two teachers inside.

“Hey, All Might made it!” Kaminari cheered.

“And Aizawa-sensei, too!” Kishima grinned.

“Does that mean we can eat now? I’m fucking starving,” Katsuki complained, his arm thrown over the back of the chair as he glared at the ceiling.

“Yes, let’s dig in!” Momo clapped her hands excitedly and the room sprung to life, everyone squeezing into the chairs around the table. Not everyone could fit, of course, and they ended up sitting off to the side or on the counters. All Might himself took up two and a half seats as he sat at the head of the table, laughing and chatting with the students as he told them stories from his youth.

I sat at the opposite end, between Shouta and Izuku, both of whom kept glancing at me with worry, though the greenette wasn’t trying to hide it like our teacher was. I chuckled, taking each of their hands with my own. “Thank you for this. It really means a lot to me.”

“Of course!” Izuku squeezed my hand, giving me a bright smile. Aizawa didn’t say anything, but he squeezed my other hand.

“You Sparky fuck, that turkey leg was mine!!”

“Huh? I don’t see your name on it, Bakugo.”

“Do you wanna die?!”

“Ahahaha! What deplorable manners class A has! Pathetic!”

“Be quiet, Monoma!”

“So many beautiful girls packed into one room, I just wanna touch them…”

“You’re disgusting!”

“Can you pass the cranberry sauce? Ribbit.”

“Here you go, frog girl!!”

“You’re too loud, Tetsu!”

“Hey, All Might, what was your favorite thing about America when you lived there?”

“That’s easy, young Kaibara! I loved seeing the -”

“Hey, you guys started without us!!” The room turned their attention to the doorway where Midnight, Gran and Present Mic stood. Midnight, who had spoken, huffed in annoyance. “There better be a turkey leg left!”

“Itps mjinre!” Katsuki mumbled around the turkey leg that he had stolen from Kaminari.

“You little brat, give it here!” She demanded, nearly jumping across the table to tackle him. His eyes grew wide and he took off, yelling obscenities at her as she chased him around the kitchen.

Gran approached me, putting her hand on my shoulder and smiling kindly. “Happy Thanksgiving, deary.”

I looked around the room, watching the chaos that was ensuing around me. And I smiled, my heart full of happiness and warmth. Things haven’t been easy, and I’m sure the road ahead of me is far from clear, but I’m surrounded by people that care about me, that I care about. Gramps… wherever you are right now, I want you to know that I’m okay. You don’t have to worry about me. These idiots may not be entirely sane and they may drive me up a wall sometimes but… they are home. My home.

“Hey, hey!” Mic raised his voice, making the glasses rattle. “Let’s go around and say what we’re thankful for! Start us off, Uraraka!”

She pulled a surprised face at suddenly being called before tilting her head and smiling. “I’m thankful that we can all be here together!”

“Excellent! Iida, you next!”

“I’m thankful to be with friends during this time of giving thanks!”

“That’s the same as what Uraraka just said but good job! Let’s keep this train a-rollin’, folks!”

“I’m thankful for music.”

“Boobs. Definitely boobs.”

“I’m thankful Bakugo didn’t kill me for that turkey leg…”

“I’m thankful that everyone here is so manly!”

“I’m thankful I’m not sitting next to Mineta…”

“Anime and manga, definitely.”

“I’d be thankful if this bitch would stop chasing me!!”

“And I’d be thankful if you’d give me that turkey leg you brat!”

“I’m thankful that all of you dears are healthy~”

“Hah, I’ll be thankful when class A finally goes down!”

“I’ll be thankful when I don’t have to babysit Monoma anymore…”

“I’m thankful I got to meet Kirishima!!”

“I’m thankful that I sparkle so beautifully. I am magnifi -”

“I’m thankful for this awesome food!”

“What about you, Jen?” Izuku asked, curiously.

“Me?” I hummed as several people looked at me expectantly. I grinned brightly. “Ain’t it obvious? I’m thankful for tacos!”

Zuku sweatdropped. “I shoulda guessed…”

“Well, you stick to your guns, at least, young Jen!”

“Speaking of,” I looked Zuku dead in the eye, my expression deadly serious. “Where the fuck are my tacos, bro?”

His body tensed and he swallowed hard. “Um, I… I didn’t see any mention of tacos when I was researching Thanksgiving…”

I clicked my tongue. “That’s fucking shameful, Zuku. No holiday is complete without tacos.”

“I-I’m sorry!”

I grinned, ruffling his messy hair. “Make sure you don’t forget next year, ‘kay?”

His face lit up and he nodded. “Of course!”

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

「“Give thanks for a little, and you will find a lot.” – Hausa Proverb」

「“People cry, not because they’re weak. It’s because they’ve been strong for too long.” – Johnny Depp」

「“Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.” – William Shakespeare」

「“Love doesn’t make the world go ’round. Love is what makes the ride worthwhile.” – Franklin P. Jones」

「“We fall, we break, we fail. But then, we rise. We heal. We overcome.” – Unknown」

[pug gif]

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

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📜 Read more by checking out my masterlist 📜

#rise above it #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #thanksgiving #mha #bnha #anime #writing #creative writing #writeblr #scenario #scenarios #anime scenarios #anime scenario #fanfiction #fanfic #fanfics #anime fanfic #anime fanfics #first person #series

[asoulofstars]

——— BASICS! ♡

NAME! ♡ Jordan

PRONOUNS! ♡ She/Her/Hers

ZODIAC SIGN! ♡ Leo

TAKEN OR SINGLE! ♡ Single

———  THREE  FACTS! ♡

1! ♡ I am a natural brunette. Half of y’all probably didn’t know or remember this fact since I’ve been dying my hair consistently since like 2016.   

2! ♡ The main part of Riona’s backstory actually came from a MCU crack!fic that my friends and I wrote in 2013/2014. I’d been writing Riona since about 2010, but this is where I really started developing her how I wanted. This crack!fic is a 300 page block of text, because we decided chapter breaks and indentation were for losers.

3! ♡ I’m probably one of the weirdest “mutts” you’ll ever meet with my mix of heritage. Irish (25%), Lebanese (25%), Norwegian (not as much), Chippewa Native American (just a little tiny bit by the time it gets to me), as well as other white European mixed in there.

——— EXPERIENCE! ♡

PLATFORMS USED! ♡ Tumblr for writing; Tumblr & Discord for plotting/ooc chatting!

———  MUSE  PREFERENCE! ♡

GENDER! ♡ I really don’t care about the gender; I just get attached to characters.

LEAST FAVOURITE FACE(S)! ♡ Buttplug Cuticle 100%

MULTI OR SINGLE! ♡ Both! I know most people don’t vibe with my chaotic multi that is just. Hyperfixation based. But it makes it easier on me than to have five million blogs. Riona’s always been my main muse, though, so I’d never do anything but a single blog for her.

——— FLUFF / ANGST / SMUT! ♡    

FLUFF: I love fluff. It makes me happy. Sometimes, I just need to be wrapped up in fluff.

ANGST: I am a gremlin. We know this.

SMUT:  I am also a thot. We know this, too. XD

PLOT / MEMES!: I think it really depends. I love memes for quick interactions and not every meme needs to turn into something bigger, but I also love the way that memes can start something bigger. I love plotting, because the communication and collaboration is just something I really thoroughly enjoy about roleplay.

TAGGED BY: I stole it from @supervisories!

 TAGGING: You!

#cosmic intervention (about mun) #stardust (ooc)

[night-filled-mountain]

so forgive me if this is kinda a stupid question but i have an oc from Boston and I've never actually been there (I'm from the south so my experience with anything in the north is limited lol) but I was wondering if there are like... certain phrases/interests/general info that I could use to build up her character a little more?

Not a stupid question! An exciting question!

So, disclaimer: I’m not a native Bostonian. I was born and raised in New Jersey. If I have any followers who can swoop in and correct or add to any of this, please do! But I’ve lived here on and off for 12 years and married a local, so I’ll give it my best shot.

First of all: Where in Boston is your OC from? This is pretty vital to pin down. It’d be a hugely different experience growing up in, say, Beacon Hill vs. Mattapan. There are plenty of basic breakdowns of the different neighborhoods online, but my one strength in answering this question is that I’ve moved all over this city like an erratic Ping-Pong ball. So if you need inside information about any specific area, I’ve lived or worked in: the Theater District, Back Bay, Allston, Brookline (not actually part of Boston, but closely associated with it), Kenmore/Fenway/Longwood (that’s kind of all one neighborhood, but I’ve got all three parts covered), the North End, Lower Mills (part of Dorchester, which is huge), and Mattapan. I’ve also hung out a lot in Downtown Crossing, Chinatown, Beacon Hill, and Cambridge (which is also not part of Boston).

If you don’t know what part of the city your OC’s from yet, think about her economic background, ethnicity/nationality, what she or her parents did/do for work, the kinds of places you imagine her spending her time, etc., and see if you can find a good match.

Other Boston things:

The accent: The Boston accent (as in “We pahk the cah on Hahvahd Yahd”) is real, but not universal. It’s mostly a thing in working-class families who’ve lived around here (and remained working-class) for at least a couple generations. My mother-in-law, who’s from a blue-collar Irish family in Dorchester, has it. Her husband is straight from Ireland with a full-blown brogue. And their four kids--all raised in the suburbs, all educated at private Catholic schools, after which they all went to college--have no trace of either accent.

Phrases: I feel like you want to be really careful with regional words/phrases in general, lest a character come off like a walking parody, but here are a few tips:

Possibly the most stereotypical Boston (and general New England) word is “wicked,” which is used to modify adjectives, as in “It’s wicked cold out” or “I’m wicked hungry.” (A girl from Maine was playing with my hair once and told me it was “wicked pretty,” and it was, like, the highlight of my life.) This is NOT something I hear on the regular, but I wouldn’t balk if your OC used it once or twice over the course of a story.

A liquor store is called a “packie” (short for “package store”). Don’t ask me why. My husband calls them this every time without fail, and was previously unaware that it was not a universal term.

A milkshake is called a frappe (which is pronounced “frap,” and does not involve coffee). Or at least, the drink in which you mix milk and ice cream, which would be called a milkshake in any other part of the country, is called a “frappe.” Supposedly, if you ask for a milkshake, you’ll get a drink made of milk and syrup with no ice cream, but I’ve never attempted this.

You don’t make a U-turn here--you “bang a U-ey.” Again, I can verify this one based on the fact that My Husband Says It. (And he once yelled it while playing a multiplayer video game involving cars, and was horrified when none of his fellow players had any idea what he was talking about.)

Interests: You’re probably already aware of the sports teams (Red Sox for baseball, Patriots for football, Celtics for basketball, Bruins for hockey). This is New England, Land of the Endless Winters, so hockey is pretty big (including casual kids’ hockey teams). Ice-skating is popular in general; the Frog Pond on the Boston Common (which doesn’t actually have any frogs) is a favorite spot.

As someone who is Not A Sports Person, I can also assure you that whether you want them to or not, the Red Sox will affect your life as a Bostonian. You will find yourself almost smothered to death on the T by dense crowds of drunk people in Sox gear on their way to or from a big game. You will be casually shopping downtown when a deafening wave of noise approaches, confetti rains down from the heavens, and you are nearly trampled to death by a post-World Series parade. You will be unable to sleep a wink the night after a game if you live anywhere near Fenway. And do not set foot in a bar at such times. DO NOT.

Other things that Bostonians care about more than the average person, in my experience: SEAFOOD; St. Patrick’s Day (I’ve never been to the parade because of reasons, and honestly, I’d also recommend avoiding the bars, the T, and even the very streets if possible); the Boston Pops concert and fireworks display at the Esplanade every Fourth of July (ok, that’s actually pretty fun); and all things American Revolution (well, you may not be interested, but you probably studied it intensively in school and visited a lot of local historical sites).

Public transit: Boston’s train/bus system is called the MBTA (Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority), but literally everyone calls it “the T.” If you travel on the T regularly, you probably have a CharlieCard:

These are named after an old campaign song by a politician who promised to lower the fares. It’s absurdly catchy.

Knowing what neighborhood your character is from tells you which T stations she would’ve lived near, which is also super important to my Bostonian mind. Is she a Red Line kid? Green? Orange? Blue? Or maybe she mostly took Silver Line buses, or rode the Commuter Rail (a.k.a. Purple Line) to work. (I‘ve only ever lived on the Green and Red Lines and certain bus lines, so I have Biases.)

College town: Boston is a college town. It is lousy with colleges. That’s what first brought me here, and even though I’m a townie now, I remember the culture well. College students make up around 20% of the city’s population when school is in session, and the downtown neighborhoods in particular are crawling with them. They swarm the bookstores and museums and bars (with real or fake IDs) and trendy restaurants. They work in every cafe and perform in every theater. They smoke clove cigarettes and take Duck Tours and ride the Swan Boats. If your character is a local, she’s had annoying encounters with college kids at some point or another. I promise not to take offense.

The Emerald Necklace: This is the nickname for a giant string of parks and waterways that surrounds the city of Boston. No matter where you live, including the most inner-city neighborhoods (which is where I currently live and work), chances are good that there is a substantial amount of green space and water in your general vicinity. Complete with hiking/bike paths that, if you follow them long enough, will take you through literal woods where you can see nothing but trees and hear nothing but birdsong. This is possibly my favorite thing about the whole New England region. It’s so heavily forested that you can still find your way to a little bit of nature in the most unexpected places.

Miscellaneous:

Dunkin’ Donuts is not found only in Boston, but it is more beloved in Boston than anywhere else on earth. I swear there is one on every block in the city. It is the place to get coffee as well as doughnuts. Starbucks is around here too, but is scorned in comparison.

J.P. Licks is a local chain of ice-cream stores with locations all over the city. Everyone goes there. It is very tasty.

The annual Christmas tree on the Boston Common is donated by Canadians from Nova Scotia. There’s a story behind it. It’s pretty cool. (The tree lighting is a huge event with speeches, music, fake snow, and sometimes fireworks. They actually light up the whole Common, which is gorgeous at night. I could see it from my dorm windows in college.)

This is obviously just a tiny fraction of Boston lore, but it’s still probably more than you wanted, and I should wrap this up while the day’s still young, so...hope some part of this was helpful! Let me know if you have any follow-up questions. I’m happy to ramble about Boston all day (...which is probably obvious by now).

#asks from the askbox #boston

[h-styles-babes]

ONE

It had been a year since Anastasia had even been in the same room as him.

A year since he’d sat her down and told her that maybe them not being together anymore was for the best. His life was too crazy for him to even really handle, and he felt it was unfair to her to have such a strain on their relationship. Never mind that they’d been in said relationship for nearly two years already and had been friends for nearly a decade more. And at the time, she’d understood his want to not ruin their friendship with heartbreak and fights and nasty words that might come down the road. That didn’t mean her heart hadn’t broken when they’d said their final goodbyes to each other, sharing a last kiss before Harry left her flat. But it was the sort of heartbreak that she could live with because they’d agreed to still be there for each other when they needed it.

Of course, that hadn’t happened. She’d not heard a peep out of him since he walked out of her little home in the center of London.

She figured it wouldn’t have hurt so bad if she hadn’t seen the tabloids with his face splashed across them, his arms wrapped around a certain American model/reality TV star just a few months later. He’d not even told her of the hiatus the band was slated for, though there was no way he hadn’t known about it himself at that point. So, yeah, she was absolutely livid to see him having the time of his life on a yacht in St. Bart’s with the reality princess who thought she stood a chance in the modeling business because her family was famous for absolutely nothing and infamous for just about everything else.

If Harry had tried to get into contact with her after that, she wouldn’t have known, because she changed her number, and blocked him from her social media sites, and sent his emails straight to junk if he ever tried to reach her that way. She’d heard from her mum once around his birthday that he had been back to Holmes Chapel and was asking after her, but her mum knew how she felt about him. She’d been polite in saying that Sia was doing well, working in London and slated for a promotion. When he’d asked for her new number, her mother, bless her, had declined, citing that it wasn’t a good idea. She’d said he understood, but Sia wasn’t quite sure if that was the whole story. It didn’t matter, really.

Anastasia did end up with that promotion, which sent her to LA for at least a year. She’d panicked at first, knowing that Harry had a semi-permanent residence there, but she realized that the likelihood of them running into each other was just about as good as her meeting Elvis. LA was big and she was low man on the totem pole in her line of work—which just so happened to be pretty close to Harry’s—and she was sure she wouldn’t be trusted on projects with someone as big as Harry Styles, so there was no reason for their paths to ever cross.

Except they did, around late August. She’d had a blissful five months of living in LA without seeing hide nor hair of her ex-boyfriend/ex-best friend, and she had counted her lucky stars each day that she got by unscathed. But, when it finally came to the time where she saw him in a pub on a random Saturday night—the only respectable pub in a twenty mile radius of her home—she knew her luck had run out.

She froze as she entered the bar, seeing his recently shorn locks—which were a bit of a shock to her, since she’d avoided anything involving Harry Styles since she’d seen that God forsaken article about him on the yacht—tucked into a booth in the corner, surrounded by a few other lads who’s faces looked vaguely familiar. She had a feeling she knew one of them from a telly program she used to watch back in the UK, but she couldn’t be quite sure in the dim lighting of the room. She quickly contemplated walking right back out of the building and not looking back, but she’d be damned if she let him scare her from the one place she found solace on her weekends. She’d been coming here since she moved to America, and she’d drop dead before she let the likes of him run her off.

She shook herself out of it quickly, and made her way to the bar, slinking herself down into an empty stool, as far away from Harry as possible, not facing him, so on the off chance that he’d glance up, he’d not see her face. She ordered two shots of tequila right off the bat, the bartender, who she’d gotten to know pretty well over the last few months, raised an eyebrow at her request, but fulfilled it anyway. Sia was typically a pint sort of girl, from years of being around Harry’s bandmates and her own parents enjoying a pint on the weekends, but she needed something stronger to ease her nerves. Pints were for when she was ready to wind down from a long work week. Liquor was for trying to calm her nerves after seeing her ex for the first time in a year in a random pub in LA.

She threw back the two shots quickly, wiping the corners of her mouth where a little dribbled out. She pushed the two glasses back from her and the bartender shook a pint glass at her, asking silently if she’d like her regular now.

Suddenly hearing Harry’s boisterous laugh in the corner set her on edge all over again, her shoulders raising up protectively around her ears. She bore down on her teeth as she glanced over, seeing his head tossed back, mouth open in laughter. 

God, he’s still so fucking beautiful, she thought bitterly.

Turning back to the bartender, she shook her head. “Martini, please. Strong.”

“One of those nights, huh?” he asked, a sad little smile on her face as he poured the liquor in a tumbler.

“It wasn’t until about ten minutes ago,” she grumbled, throwing a pointed glare toward Harry’s table. They had quieted down again, but Harry was still grinning, that grin that used to set Anastasia’s heart into a tizzy and make her grin back at him, stupidly in love.

“You got a problem with those lads?” he asked, pouring Sia’s drink into a martini glass, spearing two olives into it. The bartender—Eric—was a Scotland native relocated to LA when his wife’s job called for it. He was the only person in LA who Sia had met that she could relate to when talking about home. Sure they weren’t from the same place, exactly, but he still held his roots, like Anastasia, as opposed to other people from the UK she’d met that would rather act like home no longer meant anything to them.

“Not all of ‘em, no,” she shook her head, offering him a wry smile as she accepted her drink. “Just the one at the end facin’ this way.”

“Old one night stand?” he guessed while pouring a beer for the customer next to her.

She shook her head with a scoff. “I wish. Best friend turned boyfriend, turned ex-boyfriend turned ex-best friend.”

“Ouch,” he hissed, making a wounded look with his face.

Anastasia gave a humorless chuckle as she sipped at the strong drink. “I know. Haven’t even seen his face in a year.”

“He’s that Styles lad, right? From that boyband?”

“The one and only,” she confirmed, nodding solemnly. “Told me it was better we weren’t together ‘cause him bein’ away wasn’t fair to me or our relationship. Few months later, I see his mug pasted all over mags lovin’ on that model girl. Proper kicked him out of my life after that.”

“Jesus, darlin’,” Eric whistled. “Surprised yeh stuck around after seein’ him when yeh walked in here.”

She sighed, pulling the speared olives out of her drink. “Me too, but this is my spot. He can’t have it.” She pulled one off and popped it in her mouth, chewing and swallowing before continuing. “Twat gets everything else he wants. This is mine, though. Long as he doesn’t see me, we’re good.”

Eric began nodding as Anastasia popped the second olive in her mouth. His eyes trailed over to the table her ex was sat at, only to see that the lad’s eyes were trained on her, brows furrowed and mouth popped open in some expression he couldn’t decipher. He didn’t want to burst her bubble, but he felt he owed it to her to warn her that there was a very real possibility that he’d be disrupting her peace.

“Hate to break it to yeh, love, but he’s looking right at yeh with this dumb expression on his face.” He watched from the corner of his eyes, pouring another mug of draught, as Harry craned his neck trying to get a better look at the woman sitting at the bar. “Think he’s tryin’ t’ decide if it’s actually you.”

Anastasia, against her better judgement, peeked over her shoulder, looking right into Harry’s searching eyes. She whipped her head back forward, hunching her shoulders again. “Fuck,” she spit, quickly picking up her glass and downing the rest of the drink. “Shouldn’t’ve done that.”

“He’s comin’ over here,” Eric warned, keeping his eyes on the glass he was drying in his hand.

“Bloody perfect,” she huffed under her breath. She fixed her gaze on the bar top, hoping that if she kept her head down, Harry’d get the hint and walk away without talking to her. She’d cut him out of her life for a reason, and he had to realise that. He was daft sometimes, but he wasn’t a fucking imbecile.

Anastasia felt when Harry dropped into the empty barstool next to her, the energy that he carried around with him washing over her and making the hairs on her arms stand on end. She could smell him, too, the same scent that always lingered on his skin—the same body wash he’d been using for years, the same laundry softener that she knew Anne had been washing his clothes with since they were kids, and the Tom Ford cologne he’d taken to around his nineteenth birthday. She hated that she knew so much about someone who felt like a perfect stranger to her now, but she couldn’t help all the innate knowledge she held about him. They’d known each other since primary, for crying out loud. She was bound to know all these things about him. It didn’t help the ache in her chest at being so close to him, though.

“Sia,” he breathed out, his deep voice startling her. She hadn’t heard his voice since this time last year, when he’d whispered one last goodbye against her mouth before walking out the front door of her flat.

“Styles,” she acknowledged with a single nod of her head, not looking up at him. She couldn’t. She wasn’t ready for that. She used his last name in greeting to keep things impersonal. She’d called him H or Haz for most of their lives. He didn’t deserve the nickname. She was sort of upset that he’d even used her nickname, the one he’d given her long before Sia the musician had become known. The first time they’d met, he’d said that Anastasia was a mouthful, and when she’d expressed her disdain of the nickname Ana, he’d started calling her Sia. Now everyone called her Sia, even her parents.

“What are yeh doin’ here?” Harry asked, confusion clear in his voice.

Sia snorted at his question. She nodded her head in thanks when Eric placed a full pint in front of her, obviously sensing that she needed more alcohol. “I’m having a few drinks. What are you doing here?”

“Didn’t mean the bar,” he quickly amended. “I meant America. LA.”

“I live here,” she shrugged, taking a sip of her beer, swiping her tongue across her top lip where some of the head had stuck to her skin.

“Since when? Last time I saw your mum, she didn’t say anythin’ about it.”

Sia finally peeked a look at him from the corner of her eyes, watching as he dragged his hand through his hair. It was a habit he’d had for as long as she could remember, but it was strange seeing him do it when his hair was so short. For the last four years of their friendship, he’d been growing it out, and now it was the shortest she’d seen it since their early years of secondary.

“When’d yeh last see my mum?” she asked, curious since her mother hadn’t mentioned anything about Harry the last time they’d spoken just a few days ago.

“About a month ago. Was filming near home and stopped in for the weekend. She was round my parents’ house when I showed up.”

Sia was slightly affronted that her mother hadn’t mentioned anything, but then, she thought it was maybe for the best that she hadn’t. Even the mention of Harry’s name out of anyone’s mouths made her a little uneasy, and she was sure her mother knew that.

“Been living here since March,” she supplied. She took another sip of her beer. “Working with a producer that’s based here. Choice was easy.”

She saw Harry’s eyebrows shoot up, his eyes sparkling with an excitement. He knew how much that opportunity meant to her, to be able to work with a music producer, doing what she loved and what she’d gone to school for. Her mum hadn’t said anything to him about Sia getting a job in the industry, so this was amazing news for him.

“Yeah? That’s great! Who’s the producer?”

She rolled her eyes at his enthusiasm. As far as she was concerned, he didn’t get to be excited for her anymore. When she’d heard from Anne about him landing the role on the new Nolan film, she’d rolled her eyes in her head and sipped at her tea, offering his mum a hum that she hoped didn’t seem too rude. She loved Anne, but she knew her son had broken something inside of the girl, so she wasn’t too surprised by her lackluster reaction.

“Does it matter?” she asked.

Harry’s face dropped instantly, brows furrowing, lips frowning. “I mean…”

“Just stop,” she urged, pushing back her barely touched pint. She grabbed her purse from her lap and dug around for some bills to cover her tab. “This is weird. Stop acting like everythin’ is normal.” She stood and tossed the money on the bar top, sending a nod at Eric, who was at the other end of the bar, tending to someone else but keeping his eyes on Sia. He nodded back, acknowledging her thanks and goodbye.

“I’m so—”

“Don’t apologize, Styles,” she warned, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “Little too late for that, don’t yeh think?” Sia turned to walk away from him, hating the way her heart squeezed in her chest. She clenched her teeth against the tears that were threatening to collect in her eyes. She’d been in his presence for two minutes, and a year’s worth of built defenses and hardened exteriors was crumbling. She hated him for making her feel like this.

“Wait, Sia,” he called, hopping up from his seat to follow after her. “Lemme walk yeh home. It’s dark out.”

“Don’t fuckin’ bother. Been gettin’ by fine on my own. Yeh don’t need to pretend to care now, Harry.”

The door to the bar slammed behind her before Harry could even open his mouth to form a rebuttal.

#Harry Styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles angst #harry styles fic #harry styles writing #the long road home #TLRH

[toxoiddiamond]

T H E B A S I C S Given Name: Jinan Rahaim Nicknames: Ji, JiJi Age: 36 Birthday: September 25th Zodiac Sign: Libra Birthplace: Henderson, Nevada Current Location: Amsterdam, The Netherlands Speaks: English, Arabic, Dutch Dominant Hand: Right Education: He graduated from Stanford University with a Master’s Degree in Social Work, and also minored in Psychology. Occupation: Human Services Coordinator, specifically working in housing. He helps homeless, underprivileged and indigent people/families get into cheap or free housing, whether temporary or permanent. Vehicle: He doesn’t have a car– instead, he has a bike he uses for any trips not within walking distance. He also has a little bike trailer for his daughter, in case he needs to take her anywhere while she’s with him. Worldly Possessions: Things They Own Pet(s): Jinan likes animals a lot and has had pets in the past, but he hasn’t had one since moving to Amsterdam. He does plan on getting another pet at some point, he just hasn’t felt like it’s the right time yet.

A P P E A R A N C E Height: 6’0” Hair: Soft and very curly. It can get a little wild sometimes, but it totally works for him. He occasionally shaves his head in the summer, but usually keeps it longer. Facial Hair: Jinan used to keep his facial hair very trimmed and short, but as he’s gotten older he’s been more inclined to grow his beard out. He does still shave it all off now and again, and trims it if it starts to look scraggly. Eye Colour: Brown Skin Tone: Very pretty, almost golden skin, with some cool undertones. He takes pretty good care of his skin, plus he’s just blessed with a great complexion, so it does have a bit of a healthy glow to it. Clothing: It depends on the situation. If he’s at work or going someplace where he needs to look pulled together, he’ll wear fitted slacks and a tucked-in button-down shirt, possibly with a blazer. If he’s going somewhere more casual, then he prefers wearing oversized sweaters or plain t-shirts and jeans. At home, he’s usually wearing sweats and some sort of comfortable shirt. Distinguishing Marks: In the summertime, Jinan gets some freckles on his face– faint, but noticeable if you get up close enough. Face Claim: Marwan Kenzari

H E A L T H Physical Health: Healthy as a horse. Jinan takes pretty good care of himself for the most part– exercises on a regular basis, eats fairly healthy food most of the time, has no underlying conditions, doesn’t tend to get sick much, etc. Physical Abilities/Limitations: He’s certainly physically fit, so he’s reasonably strong and also has a lot of endurance. He’s pretty decent at most sports, but is especially good at tennis, thanks to his excellent hand-eye coordination. He is also really good at wrapping gifts and making them look super nice– a useless talent, but one that he has received a lot of compliments on. Addictions: None, really? Although Jinan likes to get high pretty much all the time, he is able to go without when he needs to. He cuts way back when he has Billie, only getting high once in a while after she’s gone to bed, and only using edibles when he has her so she doesn’t get a headache from the smoke/the smell. Allergies: Acetaminophen and percocet both cause him to break out in hives and feel sick to his stomach, so he avoids those at all costs. Mental Health: Overall it’s good. He has anxiety, and it can get intense at times, but he figures that’s what weed is for. For the most part, he’s a happy person, and when the anxiety gets to be too much for him, he just gets high and then he feels better. Maybe it’s not the best way to deal with things, but it’s always worked well for him.

H I S T O R Y Summary: Long or Short Job History: His first job was in a small corner store when he was a teenager. He worked there for several years until he left for college. In college, he did a lot of tutoring, both for fellow students and for middle and high school students, and also had a part-time job in the school cafeteria to help reduce his tuition. Once he graduated and moved to Amsterdam, Jinan took a job in a used bookstore while he looked for something more permanent and in his field of study, until he finally found a job as a social worker. After a couple of years as a social worker, he was eventually offered the position he currently has, which he took, of course. Fondest Memories: Trip to Canada Worst Experiences: Trip to Canada??

C O M M U N I C A T I O N Speech Pace/Style: Jinan is a pretty smooth talker, honestly. He hardly ever stumbles on his words, always very confident in what he’s saying and seems to know just how to words things. When needed, he can sound very authoritative, which makes it easy for him to step into any role as a leader. He can also be quite charming when he wants to be. Accent: Basically an American accent, though slightly influenced by the fact that he grew up mostly speaking Arabic. When he speaks Dutch, his accent is pretty good, though it’s obvious he isn’t a native speaker. Favorite Phrases or Words: Like ‘Jiminy Christmas!’ Usual Curse Words: Jinan doesn’t swear a ton, but he isn’t shy about curse words. He usually goes with “fuck” or some variation of that.

P E R S O N A L I T Y, M I N D S E T, A N D B E L I E F S Personality Type: ENFP-A Sense of Humor: Funny or Lame Habits: Nail Bitter or Something Quirks: Something Fears/Phobias: Something Strengths: Something Flaws: Something Hopes/Desires: Something Wildest Fantasy: Something Self-Esteem: Something Religion: Jinan grew up Muslim, though his parents were never very strict about it and took more of a casual approach to the religion. Nowadays, Jinan doesn’t practice any kind of religion and doesn’t believe in god.

R A N D O M Sleeping Position: When he sleeps alone, he’s usually sprawled out on his back. If he’s sleeping next to someone else, Jinan really likes being the big spoon~ Boxers or Briefs?: Boxer-briefs Day or Night?: Depends on the situation. If he has Billie, he likes daytime, because he gets to spend time with her. If he doesn’t have her, he prefers night because he can get together with friends, go to parties, or just chill at home and get high. Top or Bottom?: Either. Partying or Relaxing?: As much as Jinan likes a good party, relaxing is really more his speed.

R E L A T I O N S H I P S Closest Friend: Something Relationship History: Jinan has had several relationships. One in high school which got fairly serious, but ended abruptly (his choice) when they both left for college. A relationship in college that lasted almost three years, and also ended abruptly when Jinan proposed and was rejected. A friends-with-benefits situation with Trinity, which resulted in them having Billie. A year-long relationship with a man who ended up cheating on him. A short-lived relationship that seemed to be going well until suddenly they broke things off with Jinan. And, finally, there’s whatever the hell is going on with Zeke. Jinan has always considered Zeke to be “the one that got away,” if he’s honest. Sexual Partners: Like, a lot. Jinan is no stranger to casual sex, FWB situations, flings, etc. Thoughts About Sex: Jinan really enjoys sex and doesn’t really have any hangups about it. He considers himself to be pansexual and enjoys sex with people of all genders, and doesn’t think sex needs to be limited to the confines of any sort of relationship. Of course, he’s more than willing to be in the confines of a monogamous relationship, and is a very faithful partner who would never cheat. But when he’s not in a relationship, one night stands are not out of the question for him– if it feels right in the moment, then he’ll go for it.

P A R E N T S Name(s): Mom and Dad Age(s): Ages Social Standing: Blue collar, white collar, whatever Occupation(s): What they do Religion: What do they believe Quality of Relationship With His Children: Is good or bad? Living/Deceased: Maybe they dead

S I B L I N G (S) Name(s): First Last Age(s): Ages Social Standing: Blue collar, white collar, whatever Occupation(s): What they do Religion: What do they believe Quality of Relationship with Character: Is good or bad? Living/Deceased: Maybe they dead

C H I L D Name(s): Wilhelmina “Billie” Rahaim-Clark Age(s): Six Social Standing: She’s a good kid, so I would say her social standing is good. She goes to a good school, has a lot of friends, likes to talk to people and help people, so she takes after both of her parents in that way. Occupation(s): Soon-to-be first grader, and she is very excited about that. Religion: Billie doesn’t know much about religion. She’s been raised without any sort of religion, so she only knows bits and pieces about different faiths. Quality of Relationship with Character: Billie absolutely loves her dad, and they are very close. Jinan always has her during the summer, plus they see each other often for day trips, regular lunches and dinners (at least once a week), and random times when Trinity has to go out of town and Jinan takes care of Billie. She knows that if she ever wants or needs Jinan, he will be there for her in a heartbeat. Living/Deceased: Very much alive.

D A I L Y L I F E Living Arrangements: Where they live

#character: jinan rahaim #ship: zenan #character sheet

[rebellect-writes]

[SIZE=1][b]Name:[/b] Jess. [b]Age:[/b] 21. [b]How did you find us?:[/b] In the TARDIS’s swimming pool.

[b]Name:[/b] Drew Shamis.   [b]Nicknames & Aliases:[/b] Drew works as best as anything. Dew at a push. [b]Age:[/b] 27. [b]Date of Birth:[/b] May 11th 1984 [b]Gender:[/b] Male. [b]Sexual Orientation:[/b] Homosexual. [b]Occupation:[/b] Works at and owns Creature Comforts. [b]Powers:[/b] None.

[b]Face Claim:[/b] Ryan Kwanten. [b]Description:[/b] [IMG]http://www.blogher.com/files/Jason-sized.jpg[/IMG] [i]Height:[/i] 5’10 [i]Weight:[/i] 150lbs. [i]Eyes:[/i] Brown. [i]Hair:[/i] Dirty blond. [i]Build:[/i] Average. [i]Visible marks:[/i] He has a nasty looking scar circling his right wrist from where wire cut to the bone. Also, Drew has a tribal wolf [URL=http://th09.deviantart.net/fs15/150/f/2007/073/6/9/Tribal_Wolf_Bust_and_Paw_by_KMoongangSR.png]tattoo[/URL] on his right shoulder. [i]Style:[/i] Drew’s not the type to spend money on lots of clothes he’d wear once. So he gets and wears what he’s comfortable in. So jeans, t-shirts, boots. If he has to dress up, he will do but he always feels like a clown when he does. Jewellery isn't something he'd normally wear either. The exception to that rule is a gold crucifix that he's had since he was a kid.

[b]Special Skills:[/b] He's good at working on the fly, if that counts. He’s also pretty handy when it comes to slinging out drunks at the bar. [b]Personality:[/b]   At first glance, Drew’s the type that smiles and tries to be the friendly type of guy. He may not look it or come off it at times but he’s actually a smart one. He just hides it behind his sometimes dumb looks and useless comments. Drew wants people to be comfortable around him so if he can make people laugh and also laugh at himself, he counts that as win. Now he’s not exactly smart-alecky either, Drew knows when to hold his tongue and stop talking. It’s probably something that he’s picked up and harnessed while working at the bar, who knows.

He’s loyal, stubborn and persistent, and not always in that order. Drew will back friends no matter what because that bond means a lot to him. Former friends fall into his loyalty zone, even if they drag him into some kind of trouble. That’s not to say that he’ll let people walk right over him. He’s more than willing to give a little as long as he receives and if someone’s run out their fourth, fifth and sixth second chance with him, he knows when to call it a day and just walk away. While he may go out of his way to help people and be friendly, Drew’s not an attention seeker and won’t willingly search for it and he’s not exactly great when dragged into the spot light either.

Drew’s known love once, and he’s still in love despite having no idea if Eric is alive or dead. He’s held out hope since he was sixteen that Eric is alive though, and where most people would have moved on and found someone else, Drew hasn’t done so. One night stands don’t appeal to him; women at the pub get turned down or distracted by Ja-Mal while Drew can escape into the office out the back. It’s been over ten years, you’d think that he would have done the sensible thing and let things lie, but he hasn’t. Did I mention that stubborn streak?

On matters regarding the supernatural, Drew’s pretty loud. He doesn’t care if a person has fangs, fur, scales or feathers. They’re still human. He’s not about to go out and cause trouble just because he’s breakable. Drew knows for a fact that a lot of things could end his life, and he’s more than likely to end up in a deadly bar fight than eaten by a ‘monster’. And that’s another thing! He hates the word “monster” being used when referring to preternatural people. The only thing that Drew doesn’t tolerate is when someone kicks off in Creature Comforts, he does have human clients to and his ‘baby’ doesn’t need to be seeing none of that nasty Hollywood monster mojo.

Because people see him as a nice guy, they generally get a shock when he snaps. Drew’s not an angry person by nature and it takes a lot to make him so but when he gets angry, he also gets a little angsty and may slightly paranoid. He’s locked himself away in his office for hours before today and had to be dragged out by his best friend because a delivery had been messed up. He doesn’t like being angry, or scared, or any of those pesky negative emotions because then he can’t help but wonder why he tries so hard. [b]Likes:[/b] [LIST] [*] Cherry coke. [*] Playing video games. [*] Canines. Shush your faces. [*] Working so he doesn't have to think. [*] His baby, Creature Comforts. [*] Cooking. [/LIST][b]Dislikes:[/b] [LIST] [*] Thunderstorms and rain. [*] Dealing with drunks at the pub. [*] People demanding he does something. [*] Being stuck indoors. [*] The catholic religion. [*] Doctors, hospitals, anything medical. [/LIST][b]Strengths:[/b] [LIST] [*] Understanding and accepting of the supernatural. [*] Knows when to back down in a situation. [*] His stubborn streak. That’s saved his life. [*] Isn’t opposed to listening to others ideas. [/LIST][b]Weaknesses:[/b] [LIST] [*] Clowns, borderline fear. [*] Eric. [*] Sometimes he forgets to look after himself. [*] Smokes when he’s stressed. That’ll kill him one day no doubt. [/LIST][b]History:[/b]  

Back in the early summer of 1984, a young mum named Cheyenne gave birth to a bouncing baby boy. There wasn’t much room to celebrate though. Cheyenne had a ‘white boy’ according to her boyfriend at the time, Louis. He was Hispanic in origin; Cheyenne was only half Native American from her mother’s Hopi blood. The boy that she named Drew didn’t look like it at all; in fact he looked more like the beast that had taken her virginity in a brutal attack. Still, she didn’t hold that against her son and even though the colour of skin drove Louis away and left the small family broken, she did her best for almost two years before finally giving up and signing Drew away into the child protections services. She left no trail for Drew to pick up should he ever want to contact her, only a scribbled tribe name on a book store receipt and her cross.

Since he was too little to remember his real parents, Drew grew up in a small town house in the central business district of New Orleans. He hated it with a passion, his sister Anna made his life hell and Amanda and Nickolas his foster parents didn’t even notice, they were so wrapped up in their own respective work lives the majority of the time they barely even noticed their own biological daughter, their foster son was beyond them. It was basically a time where he brought himself up, if he fell down then he picked himself up, if he was hungry, then he made himself something to eat and avoided the family as much as possible by staying out as late as possible or locking himself away. It wasn’t like the bruises from Anna’s ‘lessons’ would have bothered his mom or his dad even if they had seen them when he was around.

By the age of thirteen, nearly fourteen, he’d more or less dropped out of school and spent a lot of his time on the streets avoiding things. He met another kid, just a little older than him called Eric and they started hanging out more and more. By the time he was sixteen, he’d developed a major crush on Eric but he was always scared that the other male would turn him away. He’d seen Eric’s parents once, and they in a roundabout way made Drew glad that he had foster parents even if he did want to deck Eric’s deadbeat dad. It was only a few weeks after getting a glimpse of what Eric’s parents were like that he finally admitted that he had feelings for Eric and got the shock of his life when Eric admitted the same thing.

They had a year together and it was great. Drew would always come up with something new for Eric and Eric would retaliate and surprise him. It was one of the happiest times in Drew’s life and not even his bitchy sister couldn’t ruin for him. Even his foster mom was a little more approachable, especially after she’d stumbled across him and Eric making out. The happiness was short lived though. Eric’s Ulfric caught them out one day along with the pack Bolverk. Ulfric Shane believed that wolves should stay with their own kind and wanted to deal with the ‘embarrassment’ that the boys had become before anyone within Eric’s pack got any bright ideas and tried something funny, so he set the evil doer on Eric to teach him a lesson.

While the wolves fought and tore into each, Drew was held back by Shane. He struggled, it was only natural, and the guy snapped Drew’s arm in two like a twig without even blinking. He was hauled away when Shane thought that he’d got what he wanted. Drew all the while thought that he’d end up as Gator bait or something worse, dinner for Shane. It was perhaps a stroke of luck that a rival pack decided to take over the territory because Shane wasn’t doing what he should’ve been doing. Drew never saw his boyfriend come mate again after that day, the only thing he remembers seeing was his Eric pinned by some shaggy Hollywood monster that smelt of wet dog.

Shane handed Drew off to the Geri and Hati, loyalists that believed in what Shane did. These pair weren’t none too gentle with the teenager either. The Geri threw Drew in the back of a car after clocking him upside the head and that was it. Bye bye Eric, bye bye New Orleans and hello Chicago. He fought against the two wolves, Julian and Warrick. If they thought that he was going to sit back and let them just walk all over him then they had another thing coming. Of course every time he resisted something that they said or did, they hurt him. After awhile it was like he became their pet, he stayed with them for almost three years before they finally let him wander around on his own. The first chance he got, Drew ran as fast as he could and didn’t stop until he collapsed and when he got up he ran some more.

Drew bounced around a lot after that, finding work when and where he could. Sure, he could’ve gone back to New Orleans and tried to find out what had happened. Instead something kept him away from his home. He tried getting a life for himself, and by the time he was twenty five he’d made his way across the pond and settled in the UK, Jackford actually. Instead of sitting on his thumb though, Drew hunted for a purpose and found a rundown family pub that was up for sale because the owner’s wife had passed on because of cancer after pouring her life into the business. Drew snapped the offer up with a promise there’d be a memorial for her. He’s made a good go at things at Creature Comforts since then and still stays somewhat under the radar. Just in case.[/SIZE]

[hvckleberried]

yeah, he’s smoking inside. fucking sue him. miles leans back against the countertop and watches these idiots actually work. he takes a long drag. blinks. are you gonna, like, help at all, man? his exhale’s elongated; he watches his own breath fade into the rafters. 

“ oh, does this bother you ? ” he asks, feigning concern. even cocks his head to the side for good measure. he lifts the cigarette in question to confirm their distaste. the other boy nods. miles’s forefinger taps against the cig and flicks ash onto his stupid west ham high shirt. and there it is. the smirk.

 “ my. bad. ”  

or, alternatively : ‘tis i, linc, with *dj khaled voice* anotha one !!  greetings & salutations to huckleberry jeremiah vernon. call him MILES or he actually might kill you. 

[   m   i    l    e    s        v    e    r     n     o     n      ––    OPEN   FLAME .

✔  oc + wc┊❝ ( aria shahghasemi. he/him &. cismale ) eighteen year old huckleberry jeremiah vernon was listening to "paint it, black” by the rolling stones when the field trip buses turned around. rumor has it he spent two years in juvie & is the unbeknownst father of becca’s child, but who knows if that’s true? what we do know is that their friends describe them as alluring & deft, even if they’re known to be a little anarchic & noxious from time to time.

( &&. general information )

full name: huckleberry jeremiah miles vernon

nickname(s) or alias: miles, vernon, fuckleberry finn ( west ham football team, freshman year ), that asshole, the scary one, the kid ( his foster parents )

preferred name: miles. call him anything else and it’s your funeral, fuckface.

current age: eighteen

astrological sign: scorpio

gender: cismale

preferred pronouns: he/him

sexual preference: bisexual

romantic preference: biromantic

home environment: the kiersney household. a manor-like three-story at the edge of west ham’s easternmost woods. it looks like ikea ate pier 1 imports and fucking barfed up its bones the next day. statement walls. matching furniture. modern art on the walls. his foster parents have a motherfucking sculpture in the front foyer. it’s sickening. suburban. tame. tidy.

current occupation: student. delinquent.

language(s) spoken: english. i’ll-wring-your-neck-with-just-my-eyes. spanish, barely.

native language: english.

current relationship status: his knuckles kissing your face.

( &&. background )

reason behind name: huckleberry jeremiah vernon won his name in the lottery of misfortune: at least, that’s what his aunt used to say to the young boy. he doesn’t know a lot about his parents. enough to know they were royal fuck-ups, crackheads with nothing better to do than fuck and get high and have an accidental kid. they thought it’d be a hilarious form of payback: this monster takes nine months of their precious time, so they’d make his life hell. simple. so when his parents died when he was just an infant, his aunt had the opportunity to change his name. shift the tide. but she couldn’t bring herself to go against her dead sister’s wishes, however fucking twisted up she got because of her bad-news boyfriend. she took huckleberry in and insisted on calling him by his birth name until, at three years old, he was sent home from school with a drawing of his aunt with x’s for eyes. “ my auntie if she keeps saying it ”. from that day forward, he was jeremiah. then miles. only miles.

birth order:  first and only for his biological family. the second-youngest of his cousins, when he lived with his aunt. they had a massive falling out after he returned from juvie. she chucked him out like he was rotten meat. the oldest ( or perhaps same age ) as his current foster brother.

ethnicity: what’s it to you. iranian-american

nationality: american.

religion ( tw: death, acts of violence ): fuck that shit. there’s no god. if there were a god, it’d be fucking him. this wasn’t always miles’s view; it started when he was 4, and accidentally killed his aunt’s cat in front of his cousins. they always hit people when they were doing something wrong in cartons! the cat was trying to steal his cheese stick. so... he hit it with a book. his aunt she made him go to bible camp that summer, where he was vilified for his name. “huckleberry’s a dingleberry! hahaha! where’s tom sawyer, huh?” whatever god there was wouldn’t let him have this name. or this life. he wouldn’t have let his parents die: huckleberry would later find the news clipping. “ bronx couple found shot dead in stolen vehicle, ruled double-suicide. ”  religion’s the opiate of the masses. it’s how pansy people sleep at night. young huckleberry wasn’t allowed back at church after he dropped one of those big candles and watched the altar go up in flames. fine by him. he started playing with fire. messing with the wrong people. getting wrapped up in sketchy city boy shit. any shred of faith left in his body was torn away when he and his older buds planned to rob a bank: miles was 12; his cohorts ( ty & presley ) were 18. miles did most of the electronic work: hacking the cloud, derailing the security system. they stormed the fucking bank of america. one of them whipped out a gun. miles... stabbed somebody in the shoulder, to get them off of ty. he watched that security guard die, that day. but not before his bullet ripped through ty’s head. juvie happened. two years. aggravated manslaughter. he got off easy, as a minor. presley’s still behind bars. so, yeah. there’s no motherfuckin’ god out there. and if there is? he can kindly suck miles’s dick.

political views: politics. are. bullshit. go cry to somebody else about your opinions. there’s 7 fuckin’ billion people on this planet and you think your thoughts on zoning laws and gun control matter? cry him a fucking river.

financial status: he’s secure, because of his foster parents. he keeps testing ‘em, to see if they’ll fuckin’ send him back. broken merchandise; we want a refund. but they don’t, so he... just keeps taking. stealing money from their wallets. selling expensive shit from the house to buy good shit. pocket knives. lighters. alcohol. a gun. 

hometown: bronx, new york city, new york. now it’s west ham. fuck that.

level of education: high school junior. because of his time in juvie, he entered school in west ham as a freshman at 15. he’ll turn nineteen before his senior year. not that it matters. he’s already planning his escape. he’s lifted enough money to skip town soon, go back to new york. avenge ty’s death. he’s got the other security guard’s details, from that day. it pays to be skilled with a keyboard. he’s brilliant, when he wants to be. sharp-witted. his idea of a prank last year was sending an anonymous tip in to the school saying the whole place might blow. hacking the database to make it look like it was sent from a real address. he’s still surprised people aren’t more fucking grateful. he secured them a stupid day off. he’s also known to hack into the cloud to get test answers, and sell ‘em to people that don’t completely make him want to punch them.

( &&. physical appearance )

looks like (or face claim, if applicable): aria shahghasemi. he’s got these midnight black curls. piercing gray eyes. 

height: 5′10. but don’t let that get your guard down.

figure/build:  lean and muscular. won’t be caught dead in west ham’s stupid gym, but he’s fit. his foster parents put in a whole boxing studio in their basement just for him. he’s been known to get into fights, throw punches. it was their way to kind of, like... get his anger out. joke’s on them; he’s not giving it up. that shit’s his. 

hair colour: black.

hair length: mid-length. curly, so it looks shorter than it actually is.

eye colour:  gray.

glasses?:  no. just shades.

skin tone: olive. smooth.

tattoos:  he got one in juvie, on the side of his right wrist. a cross. makes him laugh. irony. he’s in the process of self-tattooing fuck between his left forefinger and thumb, but only the jagged f is there right now. it’s a process. he can’t stomach the needle.

piercings: one diamond stud in his left ear. it’s about the side of a pencil eraser. stolen.

birthmarks/scars/distinguishing marks: a few faded cross-hatches near his hairline, from fights that resulted in stitches. a six-inch line across his chest. knife. a few patches of scar tissue from burns on his palms. all juvie.

dominant hand: left-handed. you can tell because that’s the hand he always uses to flick his lighter on and off, on and off. he’s always playing with that damned thing.

if painted, what color are their nails?: who do you think he is, fuckin’ bowie? jesus.

usual style of clothing: black on black on black. did i mention black? black t-shirts, leather jackets, denim jackets, dark jeans, boots. wouldn’t be caught dead in fuckin’ sneakers. failed gym because he wasn’t about to put on dowdy shorts and t-shirts just to run around a glorified prison for 30 minutes every day. oh, there’s a pep rally? we’re supposed to wear centurion colors? fuck you.

frequently worn jewelry:  he wears a thin gold chain around his neck every day. sometimes he’s got rings.

describe their voice, what accent?:  his voice is very punchy, low. cat-like. glimmers of some new york peppered in here and there.

what is their speaking style (fast, monotone, loquacious)?:  clipped. acidic.

describe their scent: amber. tobacco. smoky.

describe their posture:  he stands tall, defiant, aloof. chin always tipped up in the face of oncoming threats. his whole body’s a proverbial middle finger to the world: yeah, i’m here. bite me.

( &&. legal information )

any speeding tickets?:  yep. went 80 in a 25 zone.

have they ever been arrested?:  yes. at this point, the west ham police force is really tired of his shit.

do they have a criminal record?:  absolutely. various misdemeanors. cybercrimes. property damage, breaking & entering. shoplifting. aggravated assault. 

have they committed any violent crimes?:  hAs He CoMiTtEd AnY vIoLeNt cRiMeS ??? ( he’s laughing. )

property crimes?: affirmative.

traffic crimes?: should be the least of your concern.

other crimes?: don’t even get me started. the moral compass on this kid is... nonexistent. the answer to the world’s problems is fuck ‘em. anarchy.

( &&. medical information )

blood type: o negative.

date/time of birth: december 3rd. 3:32am. witching hour. ha.

place of birth: shitty hole-in-the-wall crackhouse. his parents dropped him at his aunt’s before freewheeling.

vaginal birth or cesauren section?: vaginal birth.

sex: male.

smoker? / drinker? / drug user?:  yes / yes / yes. what can he say? he’s an equal-opportunity employer.

allergies: grizz visser. fuckin’ ass. nosy people. pop music.

ever broken a bone?: his nose in second grade: the other kid got it worse. his hand in fifth grade. worth it. couple ribs in juvie. his arm, when he was a baby. his parents wanted to see if gravity was, like. real.

any physical ailments/illnesses/disabilities: nah. not that he’d tell you anyway.

any medication regularly taken: nyquil, sometimes. helps him sleep.

( &&. personality )

direct quote from them:  *blinks at you like you’re speaking swahili* 

positive traits: alluring, deft, crafty with computers. sly.

negative traits: anarchic, acerbic, explosive. heedless. noxious. 

likes: the flick of the flame. beat poetry. darkroom photography. scared glances. messing with the system. sidestepping boundaries. wintergreen lifesavers. blueberry slushies. ac/dc, the stones, lynyrd skynyrd, sting, the offspring, kansas. buttered toast. milk duds. history. cigarettes: he’s always got one tucked behind his ear.

dislikes: fucking football team. working on yearbook ( detention punishment ). catch him taking photos of those morons with his middle finger in frame. his roots. his aunt, for casting him out. his foster family, for giving him so many chances. he doesn’t deserve them. his name. bright sunlight, hurts his eyes. pistachios. remembering. weak alcohol. fraternizing with the idiots of west ham.

strengths: he’ll figure out your nervous ticks within two minutes of talking to you. he can go hours watching someone ramble and not say a thing, and not break his expression. making others feel small. digging his fingers into your dirt. finding back doors, loopholes, and getting through cybersecurity like a hot knife through butter. baking – but tell anybody and he’ll end you. tying cherry stems with his tongue. making sense of ginsberg. remembering stupid historical facts. pope gregory ix executed cats and that allowed rats to spread the bubonic plague in masses. still fuckin’ like your religion, asshole?

weaknesses: vengeful. his definition of justice is very much based in vigilante action; an eye for an eye. he’s got an aloof disposition, but his past wounds are still seething. empathy. expressing emotions other than anger. patience. impulse control. he can’t hide that you’re pissing him the hell off. swears in front of kids, often. probably slept with your aunt two towns over. can’t lose an argument, ever. even with authority figures.

insecurities:  what if he... caused ty’s death? what if that’s on him? is he worth shit? he’ll make himself worth something. he’ll get them back. all of ‘em. he’ll make ‘em pay.

fears/phobias:  hates needles. but fucks with ‘em anyway. fears oblivion, but puts up a front like he’s chill with it. fears he’ll never muster up... a purpose. or whatever the fuck people call it. fears this is all he’ll ever be: an eighteen-year-old fuckup with a record, hands that itch to fight, to crush, to destroy. 

habits:  playing with his lighter. chewing on toothpicks. popping milk duds like pills. glaring at everyone, no one, nothing. everything. laughing in the face of authority. making unprecedented digs at people, just because he can. propping his feet up on the desk in front of him when his teachers ask him to answer questions, twirling a pencil in his hands like he’s god. grabbing a slushie from 7/11 just to have something to do with his hands. messing with the popular kids’ social medias, just for fun. hacking the online lunch menu to see his classmates get fuckin’ pissed when mozzarella sticks are served on friday, not today, sorry. driving to neighboring towns’ parties and hooking up with chicks there. masquerading as a man with a reason. hitting up college parties often. lingering in shadow. living in gray areas. writing his own notes in the front of library books, on the title page, in sharpie. “ fuck you ten thousand ”  on the school’s copy of pride & prejudice. “ kindly die, thanks ” in gone with the wind. “ congrats, you’re literate ” in the front of catcher in the rye.

quirks: always sits in the back left corner of the room, near the window. he literally jumped out, sophomore year, when the school security officer tried to bust him for selling pills to a freshman in the hall earlier that day. popping his earbuds in during lectures. maintaining unbroken eye contact with teachers as he does so. getting ~very close~ and speaking ~very low~. purring threats. can never drink lightly. skipping school often, fabricating online attendance to avoid suspension. barely eating the food his foster parents prepare. leaving the table early, unexcused. digging into the leftovers after everyone’s gone to bed. severing ties. if he’s lucky, never makin’ ‘em in the first place. his new yorkisms come out when he’s drunk, or high, or tired.

hobbies: darkroom photography. reading poetry. burning shit. smoking. walking around the mini mart like he’s a hunter in the wild, just to make the clerks uncomfortable.   

guilty pleasure:  he listens to “lore” and “my favorite murder”. but he disguises that shit, saving the album covers of the podcasts as seether.

desires: to avenge ty’s death. get the fuck outta west ham. to find a reason to be here. a reason why.

wishes: his parents didn’t kill themselves. cowards. they deserved to deal with him. they deserved to be tortured, for doing this to him. he wishes he hadn’t pulled that knife on his aunt. then at least he’d still be in new york city, instead of here, with this stupid fuckin’ foster family that just won’t let him go.

secrets: killed a guy. the reason for his juvie sentence is redacted on his public record. he’s lonely, a lot of the time. and, oh yeah: he’s becca’s baby daddy.

turn ons:  no bullshit. sarcasm. intellect. no strings.

turn offs:  sentimentality. smileyness. too much perfume. caring.

lucky number: 1. he’s all he’s got.

pet peeves:  chewing gum: fucking pellegrino and his damned bubbles. bubbly people. cassandra pressman and the tree-sized stick up her ass. foot tapping. prying. school involvement. slow drivers. slow walkers. slow thinkers.

their motto:  “ fuck you very much. ”

( &&. favourites )

food: falafel. shut up.

drink: he brought vodka to school in a water bottle once. diet coke.

fast food restaurant:  wendy’s. he likes the chocolate frosties.

flavour: chocolate. 

word: fuck. for a vast array of reasons.

colour:  black.

clothing: his most worn leather jacket. touch it and he’ll end you.

accessory: the gold chain ‘round his neck. it was ty’s.

candle scent: smoke. tobacco. whatever that shit is, patchouli.

game: fuck games. fuck fugitive. leave him alone.

animal:  he has such a soft spot for caterpillars.

holiday: christmas. he likes baking shit. but if that ever gets out, he’ll flip.

weather: pouring rain, with patches of sun in between. it’s rare, but damn. it’s kind of beautiful.

season: summer. fast drives, windows down. no school. no bullshit.

book: on the road, jack kerouac.

artist: aerosmith.

band/group: ac/dc, kiss, guns ‘n roses, van halen, def leppard.

song: we’re not gonna take it, twisted sister.

movie/film:  star wars. fuck off, it’s good.

tv show:  history docs. he likes those decade pieces on the history channel.

sport: boxing.

possession:  his lighter.

number: 1.

person:  that’s the dumbest question he’s ever heard. himself. he’s lying.

( &&. skills )

talents: hacking. lying. breaking rules. testing limits. photography. playing people.

ability to drive a car?:  yes. recklessly.

can they ride a bike?:  yes, chooses not to.

do they play any sports?:  tonsil hockey. heartbreaking. boxing.

anything they’re bad at?:  empathizing. serenity.

do they have any combat training? why?:  yep. his friends in grade school. juvie.

( &&. firsts )

childhood memory: crushing a handful of cheerios in his tiny hands and feeling... powerful.

crush: ava watson. she said she liked his eyes.

email address: [email protected]

job: reception at a local gym in west ham. lasted a day; he punched a guy.

phone: flip-phone. now he’s got an iphone.

kiss: hanna parler. 6th grade. said she’d miss him before he left for juvie.

love:  HA. nice try, dick.

sexual experience: josie thwaites. 6th grade. they didn’t know what the fuck they were doing.

( &&. childhood )

best childhood memory?:  try again.

worst childhood memory?:  seeing ty’s eyes go dim.

what were they like as a child?:  angry. electric. not easily tamed.

any crushes growing up?:  some. he doesn’t do that now. crushing.

( &&. this or that )

expensive or inexpensive tastes?:  expensive.

hygienic or unhygienic?: hygienic.

open-minded or close-minded?: close-minded. his way or bust.

introvert or extrovert?: introvert. buzz off.

optimistic or pessimistic?: pessimistic. optimism’s dead.

daredevil or cautious?:  daredevil. caution’s an early grave.

logical or emotional?:  emotional.

generous or stingy?:  stingy.

polite or rude?:  rude. so rude.

book smart or street smart?:  both.

popular or loner?:  loner. notorious, though. everyone knows who he is. wonders what his deal is. he’s got this... dark magnetism. if you’re smart, you’ll stay away.

leader or follower?:  leader. follows his own path. likes disrupting order.

day or night person?:  night.

cat or dog person?:  cat. despite what his childhood mistakes might lead you to believe.

closet door open or closed while sleeping?:  open. come get him.

( &&. social media )

do they have a facebook? twitter? instagram? vine? snapchat? tinder/grindr? tumblr? youtube? yes to facebook and instagram. no twitter, no vine. has a snapchat, rarely uses it. yes to tinder.

if so; name on facebook: miles vernon.

instagram user: milesvernon.

snapchat user: milesvernon.

( &&. musical tastes )

theme song: paint it, black –– the rolling stones. 

makes them sad:  anything by the beatles. makes him think of his aunt’s apartment. and then he gets angry.

makes them dance:   nope. he wouldn’t be caught dead dancing in front of the likes of you. when he’s drunk, anything with a decent beat will make him sway his hips a little.

( &&. miscellaneous )

do they have a fake i.d.?:  hell yeah. a couple.

are they a virgin?:  ha. no.

describe their signature:  chaos. barely legible.

how long would they survive in a zombie apocalypse?:  he’d bite a zombie’s fuckin’ head off, if that answers your question.

do they travel?: nah.

one place they would like to live:  anywhere but here.

one place they would like to visit:  anywhere but here.

celebrity crush:  camila mendes. tell anybody and he’ll hunt you down.

what can you find in their pockets/wallet/purse: cigs. lighter. some form of tic tac. 

place(s) your character can always be found:  in the shadows. on rooftops. places he shouldn’t be.

when does your character like to wake up?:  7:03am. he doesn’t like rounded numbers.

how does your character spend their free days?:  reading. burning some stuff. driving out to other towns to do reckless shit.

what’s your character’s bedtime routine?:  read some poems. have a cigarette. knock out.

what does your character wear to bed?:  boxers, no shirt.

if your character can’t fall asleep, what are they thinking about?:  ty’s brains. that knife. juvie. getting back. making them pay.

what is their idea of perfect happiness?:  revenge.

on what occasions do they lie?:  on what occasions don’t they lie ?

most marked characteristic: his ghost-gray eyes. his smirk. his hair.

what is one thing they’d most like to change about themselves?:  only one?

how would they like to die?:  in a blaze of fucking glory.

do they snore? no.

can they curl their tongue?: yes.

can they whistle?:  yep. he likes doing that yoo-hoo kind of whistle. makes people uncomfortable.

do they believe in the supernatural?:  nope. bullshit.

has anyone ever broken their heart?:  no.

have they ever broken anyone’s heart?:  yes. on purpose.

are they squeamish?:  not at all.  

have they ever seen anyone die? what happened?:  see above: ty. that security guard. he’s sure they won’t be the last.

are they a lightweight?:  not at all.

#newhamhq: intro

[xfpornbattle]

Thicker Than Water

The opening chapters of an AU, for the fan fiction contest!

The open ocean was chaotic.   Currents and eddies, tides and storms all competed to push masses of water hither and yon.   But sometimes the forces of nature lined up just so, exerting pressure like the cupped hand of God and sent an extraordinary wave rolling towards shore.   And if you were there when it rose, glassine and swan-necked, holding itself proudly in the air for what seemed both an instant and an eternity too long before ending its voyage by crashing on an empty beach; well, it was as close to perfect as life for a luckless earth-bound fool could get.

…..

Kate didn’t know the first thing about surfing, but she knew beauty when she saw it.   The morning fog kept the air chilly and close to her skin, and she wrapped her sweater tightly around her slight frame.   The surf was breaking hard against the beach, rumours of a storm far out to sea that would not reach land for days yet.    She loved the ocean for its moods, and for its reticence.   You could not tell by looking at it what was going on beneath.  

Because of the violence of the waves, only a handful of surfers were out, and most of those were sitting or standing in small groups along the water line, waiting for a sign that the effort to paddle out would be rewarded with more than a torn leash.   Out towards the horizon, just before the break that signaled the reef that protected Bonares Bay, a figure in a black wetsuit bobbed on the heaving surface like an oversize cormorant.   She wondered if he was in danger, perhaps paddling out into waves he could not handle, but the surfers along the beach seemed unconcerned.

Enjoying the invigorating salt air and the sandy grit between her toes, she was late to notice the change in mood amongst the onlookers.   Those that had been sitting now stood, and those who had been standing craned their necks.   No-one spoke, and she heard the tone of the waves change as though the sea was moving from a major to a minor key.   Following their gaze, she witnessed a wave nearly twice the height of the rest begin its procession into land.  

The lone surfer was in perfect position, and he took full advantage.   As the peak of the wave began to curl, he ducked his head and crouched in the barrel.   Even from where she stood, she could see his right hand caressing the wall of water like it was a living thing.   His speed was remarkable, and it seemed mere moments before the wave carried him closer to the beach.  From that distance she could see the triumphant smile on his face before he sprang off his board, over the top of the dying wave, and headfirst into the water.   The onlookers let out a murmur of approval bordering on the devotional.  

She watched to see if he would paddle back out, but he was already waist-deep, carrying his surfboard towards shore near where she was standing, watching.   He met her gaze then, and his eyes were the exact shade of the water behind him.  He carelessly flicked his sea-soaked hair off his face and gave her a polite nod of acknowledgement.   Her heart stuttered in a truly adolescent fashion.   Angry at herself, she pursed her lips and started to walk in the opposite direction, refusing to look back for several minutes, by which point he was gone.

…..

The antiseptic neutrality of the hospital at UC San Diego exploded into a riotous circus of Mylar balloons and finger-painted wall art as she entered the pediatric ward.  Ignoring the glances of the ward nurses, she strode directly for the cozy doctor’s lounge.

“What’s the meaning of this, Daniel?”  She flourished her work iPad, too quick for him to actually read the damning words on the screen, but he’d know what she was talking about.   As professional colleagues at least they’d never had any difficulty communicating.

“Given your state of moral outrage, I imagine you know exactly what the meaning is.  And hello to you too, Katherine,” he mocked.

“You put me in charge of her care, Daniel.  I explained the course of treatment to her parents.  And then for you to countermand my decision and undermine my authority without so much as a…” she broke off, aware that she was bordering on the hysterical, which her mentor would no doubt call out.

“You never were aggressive enough, Kate.  Miss Sims is an excellent candidate for a more radical approach.  She represents the best chance we have to put my pediatric cardiology unit on the map, and..”

“She’s a little girl!” she interrupted, earning her a dark scowl.  “She’s a little girl, Daniel,” she continued more quietly, “and you are an arrogant man.”   She spun on her heel and strode back down the long hallway, not cheered in the least the tiny handprints and primitive suns in bright primary colours.

…..

Bonares Bay couldn’t really call itself a town, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t busy.  Stretched out over thirty miles of windswept pines, the majority of its inhabitants were members of the local Native American band, interspersed with a motley collection of hippies, hermits, surfers and outcasts.   The social hub of this odd assortment was the band community centre, and it was there that her office was located.   From nine until three on weekdays and anytime outside those hours when an emergency arose, her job was to tend to the medical needs, both mundane and calamitous, of the approximately two thousand people that called Bonares Bay home.  

She hadn’t given much thought to the details when she saw the small job ad at the back of a medical journal she subscribed to.   All she’d seen was a chance to escape an untenable situation, and she’d leapt before she looked in truly uncharacteristic fashion.   Now that she’d been doing the job for a couple weeks, it was clear that her role including everything from amateur psychology to delivering babies that wouldn’t wait for the ninety minute drive to the nearest hospital in Crescent City.   She could hear her father’s voice, bemoaning the waste of her top tier cardiology internship on the people of this forgotten coastline.  But for the first time in a long time, she slept soundly at night, her mocking dreams driven away by the murmur of the endless surf breaking outside her open window.

“Doc!  We’ve got someone here who needs you.”

The voice of Gerry, the social worker cum administrator whose office was adjacent to her own, intruded on her vagrant thoughts.   Looking towards the door, she could see Gerry and another man half-supporting, half-carrying a black-haired adolescent boy with an open gash across his temple.  The boy’s right arm hung oddly from its socket, and she diagnosed his dislocated shoulder before he was seated on her examining table.

“What happened to him?” She directed this at Gerry, who shrugged and looked at the other man, now standing in the door to her office.   Focussing on him for the first time, she realized with a start that he was the surfer she’d been watching the previous morning.  He was dressed in cut-off shorts and a technical t-shirt, his brown hair damp with sweat.   Despite his apparel and the situation, her first impression was that he seemed composed, and possibly even mildly amused.

“Well, I didn’t see the whole thing go down, but as I understand it, Noah here felt that he’d have a better chance of scoring a date to junior prom if he could do a backflip on his dirtbike.  So he was practicing on the BMX course out behind Old Man Stan’s.   I happened to be running by when I heard the crunch of bones meeting metal.”

“How’d you get him from Stan’s to here?” Gerry couldn’t help asking.

“Flagged down a delivery truck on the main road.”

Grunting, Gerry looked over at the teenager, who was now looking embarrassed as well as ashen, and made his way out of the room.   The other man grinned at Noah, and then seemed ready to leave himself.

“Excuse me …” she hesitated, not knowing his name.

“William.”

“Doctor Scully.”  He tipped his head towards the nameplate on her door, and she blushed, feeling unaccountably tongue-tied in his presence.

“What does the K. stand for?”

“Katherine.  Kate.”

“Well, Katherine Kate, I have a run to finish, unless you need me here for anything.  I don’t think there’s any paperwork that needs to be filled out for pubescent stupidity, otherwise Sheriff Long would be snowed under.”  He once again broke out in a lazy smile, and she had a flashback of his wetsuit-clad form leaping into the waves in joy.

“Actually …. I could use your help.   His shoulder is obviously dislocated, and it would be a lot easier to pop it back into joint if you were holding him.”

Noah has been looking anxiously between their two faces, but their conversation flowed around him.   William inserted himself between the patient and the office wall, bracing his back and clasping his right arm across the front of the boy’s chest, trying not to jar his injured shoulder.   Sensing his unease, the older man began to talk, as she prepared to manoeuvre her patient’s arm back into place.

“So, who’s the girl?”

“Huh?”

“Miss I’ll Date You If You Can Do A Backflip?”

“Oh, uh, Daisy.  Daisy George.”   Noah couldn’t concentrate on both William’s inquiries and the doctor’s preparations, and quite frankly, the inquiries were a lot more pleasant.   She shot a look of gratitude before moving purposefully to leverage the boy’s humerus so that it once again nestled against his scapula.   The grinding noise of bone against cartilage, a pop and a few muttered curses later, and the deed was done.

She began testing the reflexes of his right hand, checking for nerve damage.  Besides the heavy pants of the boy trying to stay on top of his pain, the room was silent, but she knew William hadn’t left yet.  She looked up from her iPad once she’d entered in some basic information.

“Thank you again…”

“William,” he reminded her with his perpetually bemused expression.

“Yes, thank you, William.  I’ll make sure Noah here gets a ride home.  You probably want to get back to your run.”

He nodded and made for the door, then turned back to Noah.

“Daisy with the three older brothers and the…” he gestured towards his chest as though he was about to juggle grapefruit.   Noah grinned and nodded.

“Best get used to pain then, son.”   And he left without another word.

…..

The water closed above his diving body like a silken envelope, clasping him in its diffuse embrace.  The air had been cool, but he was bare-skinned except for his trunks and flippers, not even a face mask to distort his view of the cyan world that admitted him without ceremony.

He descended, lungs already starting to burn as he worked against the buoyancy of his body.  He both hated and accepted the battle, understanding the toll it demanded.

The deeper he swam, the greater the call grew to return to the surface, and the more he longed to stay.  It was peaceful, in the womb of the ocean.  A place without noise, but not silent.  Without illumination, and yet not dark.  The birthplace of all things, and the grave of the one thing he held dear.

#Category: AU #fic contest #SFW

[otheroutlandertales]

A canon divergent story in which Bree and Roger go through the stones together.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

En Même Temps - Part 4

by @theministerskat

Boston, January 1971

Brianna read the passage in front of her for the fourth time, fingers gliding along with her eyes to ensure she processed every word and their meaning. Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, she thought, then smiled at the appropriateness of using her mother’s favorite exclamation. Her mind began racing with the possibility of it all. Could it really be the same?

She shifted her position on the couch, moving her long legs out from beneath her and stretching them out over the edge of the cushion. Her feet made contact with a pile of papers instead on the hardwood as she set her feet down. Scattered around the floor were sheets of notes with important historical dates, photocopies of 18th century maps, large tomes lying open to pages that may be pertinent to their trip into the past. It was all evidence of how much planning and thought they had put into the journey.

Bree was satisfied with the amount of research they had completed. There wasn’t much more for them to find, but feelings of uncertainty still plagued her. She pushed those thoughts from her mind, knowing all the what ifs would drive her mad if she dwelled on them, and instead she found something else to focus on. Usually, that something else was Roger.

She looked up from the mess at her feet, eyes darting around the room, searching for him. Bree hoped he would interpret it in the same way she did, confirm what she had been suspecting for the last few minutes.

She looked to the right, and her gaze finally fixed on him. He was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, book in one hand, the other in his trouser pocket, completely focused on what he was reading. She opened her mouth to call him over, but stopped before getting the words out. His hand moved from his pants pocket to turn a page, then returned to its resting place. She had noticed this small quirk he’d developed as of late, his fingers making small indistinct movements within.

Bree studied him for another moment, enjoying the view. Roger’s dark hair had grown out a bit, hanging just below his ears, and a week’s worth of beard growth spread across his face, it had just crossed the point from being prickly to feeling soft, especially against her own cheek. He had ditched the layered academia look for more casual attire; she hadn’t even known he owned blue jeans until their second day back in Boston when he had exited the bathroom, hair still wet from his shower, in a pair of jeans and an old faded tee.

Today he wore khakis that hugged his hips in all the right places and a grey Inverness Royal Academy tee that stretched across his broad shoulders. A warm sensation crept up her body and she let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding.

Bree squinted then, trying to see which book he was reading. She instantly recognized the worn cover and the rounded corners of the journal Fiona had sent from Scotland, The Grimoire. In it were the musings of Gillian Edgars, the self-proclaimed witch’s thoughts and theories on time travel, all laid out within its pages. Brianna wanted nothing to do with it for the most part, believing much of what was in it to be unwarranted speculation, but Roger had been fascinated, if not also a little horrified, by its contents, and would amble through it, time and time again.

The days were passing quickly, and she was thankful they had been able to find some time to focus on one another between packing and research. Bree had taken him on a tour of her own history in Boston, showing him the Harvard history department where she spent many afternoons after school with her father and the old brownstone the Randall’s had called home for more than 20 years. They had seen The Wizard of Oz in all of its Technicolor glory at a local theatre that prided itself on showing old movies. She had laughed until her cheeks hurt as Roger sat next to her in the empty theatre singing along to all of the songs; it was a favorite from his childhood, he had told her.

Then there were the quiet nights spent in her apartment. Just the two of them, eating food from take-out containers and laughing at some odd thing or another, their minds focusing only on the moment. They would perch on opposite ends of the couch, watching reruns of Dark Shadows and I Love Lucy, only to end up in each other’s arms late into the night. Hands would roam over clothed skin, then dip below hems of shirts and waistbands of pants to feel the warmth of bare flesh, lips connecting in passion and urgency, the television forgotten in the background.

Roger, with a heavy sigh, would always stop them before anything went further than they intended. He would slowly pull away from Brianna, brushing stray strands of hair from her face, and suggest they turn in for the night. She would kiss him one last time and head for her own room, leaving him behind to settle into the sofa bed. Sometimes, under the covers of her achingly empty bed, Brianna fought to steady her breathing, the lingering feeling of Roger’s touch still electrifying every inch of her skin.

Looking at him now, calm, cool, collected, Brianna felt the need in her rise again. It wasn’t just a physical need -- it was emotional, too. He told her multiple times he would be there for her, and with him she felt supported, protected. And here he was, turning his entire life upside down to follow her on a journey that might actually kill them both. She wasn’t even certain if she’d shown him just how much everything he had done, everything he was planning to do, meant to her.

He must have felt her eyes on him because he looked up from the small black journal. The green eyes that she could lose herself in looked at her, a slight question there, but mingled with love, always with love. It was a kind of loving look she had never experienced before Roger; not one of a parent or friend, or even a romantic fling. It held an air of pure and utter devotion, full of possibility.

Roger quirked an eyebrow at her and it snapped her back in to the moment, finally remembering why she had looked for him in the first place.

“Rog-” his name caught in her throat and she cleared it before starting again. “Roger, I think I found something.”

“What is it?” He set his book down on the counter behind him and crossed the space between them in a few long strides. He leaned over the back of the couch, his face close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath.

“It’s a book on the Native American tribes of North Carolina,” she told him. “You said mama and Jamie were in the backwoods of the region. They must have some dealings with them. I thought it best to know, right?”

“Aye . . . are they in there?” he asked, pointing to the book in her hand.

“Well, no. But there’s a section on the myths and legends of the region, and, well . . . here, see for yourself.”

He took the book from her and began to read aloud from the section she had pointed to.

“The island of Ocracoke, called Wokokkon by the native people of the region, was primarily used as a hunting and fishing ground. It was not permanently settled until Europeans arrived in the new world, but evidence suggests that temporary camps were established for occasional use throughout the year.” Roger looked up, an unsure look on his face.

“Keep going,” Brianna said to him with a nod.

“Oral history suggests it was also used as a ceremonial site for many of the tribes. A circle of standing stones is located on the island and it is believed to have been used to celebrate the quarterly equinoxes and solstices.”

He didn’t say anything as he finished reading aloud, but Brianna saw his eyes moving up and down the page once more, just as she had done. She watched as he took one long deep breath, his chest rising, then he let it out slowly.

“The notebook Fiona sent,” she nodded towards the journal that lay on the counter, forgotten for only a moment. “Geillis’ journal,” speaking the witch’s name sent an involuntary shiver ran down her spine, but she continued, “She- she speculated that it’s possible other circles of standing stones may have the same kind of . . . properties, as Craigh Na Dun.”

“She did,” Roger agreed, flipping the pages of the book on Native American tribes back and forth. “She listed out all the sites across Britain where there are standing stones, and the mysterious deaths or disappearances associated with them.”

“So, maybe the standing stones on Ocracoke would work the same way?” She could hear the  small inflection of pleading in her own voice.

“Possibly . . .” He handed the book back to her and straightened up, his brows furrowed.

“Roger, don’t you see? We could go through sooner. And here, in America.”

“Aye, it may be the same type of thing.” He ran of his hands through his hair, letting them come to rest atop his head as though to keep all the information in.

“We wouldn’t have to risk an ocean crossing. And we wouldn’t have to travel very far over land. It would put us right there, in North Carolina!” Her thoughts were pouring out of her, she finally allowed herself to feel excitement at the prospect of not having to wait another two months.

Roger paced between the kitchen and living room, hands stuffed deep into his pockets once again.

“When’s the next fire feast?” Brianna asked him, impatient, setting the book down next to her, and rose from the couch to move towards the kitchen where a calendar hung on the refrigerator.

Roger answered her without having to think about it. “February 1st . . .Imbolc. But Bree, that’s just two weeks from now. Ye think we’ll be ready?”

The apprehension in his voice stopped her and she turned to him. His face was a mix of emotions, but worry dominated all others. She went to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him close to her.

“I don’t see why not,” she said in a reassuring voice as their eyes met. “We’ve already been through the majority of Daddy’s collection of books on life in the colonies, and the ones his colleagues recommended. And we won’t be there for long, shouldn’t have to know everything.”

She felt his body relax in her arms, releasing tension. She relaxed herself, thankful that she could give him the same type of comfort that he gave her. Bringing his own arms around her, he smiled.

“Aye, yer right.” He kissed the top of her forehead. “Alright then. We’ll try it.”

She smiled in response to his words. Moving her hands up to cradle his face in reassurance, she slowly lifted her chin and brought his face down to hers. His lips felt hot on her own, all the excitement and worry of the last few moments released in the connection between them.

Roger’s hands ran along her back as he pressed her tighter against him, the usual passion and urgency building between them. Her eyes were closed, allowing herself to be completely consumed by the feeling of him, of the two of them. When he pulled his lips from hers, she instinctually sought them out again with her own mouth.

“Bree . . . Brianna . . .” The way he said her name sent a warm wave rolling over her body and she opened her eyes, trying to catch her breath. “There’s one more thing I think we need to do before we go.”

“Oh?” She pressed her lower half into him in a suggestive way. “And what would that be?” She was teasing him and could feel the effect it was having on him.

“I want you, Brianna. All of you.” He took a breath to fortify himself and continued, “Will ye marry me before we go? I don’t want to risk this without making ye mine, before God.”

She felt her heart pounding in her chest, or perhaps his heart, pounding against her own. She didn’t need to think about it this time, it was exactly what she wanted, her way of comforting him, showing him how much he and everything he had done meant to her.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, of cour-”

His mouth was back on hers because she could finish. She moaned softly into it and let her entire body melt into his. They weren’t urgent or hurried kisses, but long and slow, worshipping each other with their mouths.

After a few moments, she felt the loss of warmth as he removed his hand from the small of her back, felt him fumbling in his pocket against her own hip. Bringing his hand back up, he took her left hand in his and slid a silver band onto her ring finger. A simple emerald was set in the middle of it, a color that was a perfect match to his eyes. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the ring there. Her chest felt heavy with emotion, filling her so that all she could do was stand there and look at him.

“Come on,” Roger said, and before she knew what was happening, he grasped the back of her thighs and lifted her into the air. She instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist, as he set off down the small hallway, to her bedroom.

Continue to Part 5.

#outlander fanfiction #otheroutlandertales #mod kat #pair: roger x bree #ch: bree #ch: roger #canon divergence #book: DOA #catergory: mf #en meme temps #oot #*