#cause she was younger than me? cause she has an obituary to read? cause like my coworker it feels unfair and premature?

[dys-lexical-linguist]

Don’t mind me I’m just freaking out

[90363462]

Now he’s worthy of prison and most likely be somebody’s girlfriend..🤔

Male Ego Is Killing Black Women

A man recently murdered a woman after she beat him in a basketball game—a senseless and bizarre example of the dangers of all-too-common misogyny.

This article originally appeared on levelman.com

Of all the examples that highlight the dangers posed by the fragility of men, few have frustrated me as much as the story of Asia Womack, a 21-year-old Black woman who was murdered in Dallas last week due to a man’s bruised ego over losing a basketball game. Yes, you read that right.

“This was supposed to be a friend of Asia’s. She’s eaten with the man,” Asia’s mother, Andrea Womack, told Dallas’ Fox 4 News. “She’s fed him, and he turned on her and killed her in a vicious way.”

In her obituary, the family notes the young woman affectionately referred to as “Fat Baby” had a lifelong love of basketball. She was also an active churchgoer who participated in the youth ministry at the Gospel Tabernacle Church in neighboring Mesquite, Texas, and studied kinesiology at Texas A&M Commerce. The obituary indicates Asia was known for having “a big heart filled with so much love, joy, and laughter” and describes her “smile that could brighten your day.” 

The circumstances that have caused Asia’s loved ones to never see that smile again center on a pickup game she played last Monday evening. “We’re taking it kind of hard because it was senseless,” Asia’s aunt Juanita Smith explained to another local affiliate, NBC DFW 5. “I just don’t understand why you kill somebody over a basketball game.”

Asia’s family members acknowledged to reporters that there was some “trash talk” involved, but that sounds like any other sports game played. There’s no reason for anyone to die over that. 

The Womack family’s pastor, Rev. John Delley, told CBS11 that he, too, had trouble understanding how a basketball game could result in this type of violence. “This is so senseless... you are embarrassed because a female beat you in basketball?” 

With respect to the pastor, the use of “female” here has a lot to do with the underlying sexism that undoubtedly motivated Asia’s shooter. 

I’m not saying the use of “female” alone makes a man a killer, but men who fail to see women as people deserving of equal respect often use that as a noun in place of “woman.” Asia might have been a female basketball player, but she was a woman. Women deserve that distinction for the sake of their humanity, not to mention proper grammar. 

Asia’s alleged gunman, 31-year-old Cameron Hogg, is said to have been unable to handle not only the loss, but the teasing and taunting that erupted in response to losing presumably a low-stakes game to a woman.

Nevermind the fact that she’s a decade younger than him. Or that she apparently was a skilled basketball player. All that matters is that she was a woman, ergo, less than. 

Based on the available reporting, Hogg seemed very intentional in allowing his frail ego and sexism to push him to violence. After he was said to have taken his kids and brother home, he returned to the park and shot Asia five times as she was walking home. His car is believed to have been captured speeding away by a nearby surveillance camera.

He left her dead on the sidewalk.

We live in a society that continues to instruct men to view women as not only weaker than men, but to see them as objects to be dominated by men. So men are told that they can’t lose anything to a woman—certainly not anything that requires physicality. When a man does, it’s not a testament to the athleticism of a woman but the perceived inadequacies of the man who lost.

It’s an attitude you often find in men who play sports, but it applies to men collectively in their broader treatment of women. And when it comes to Black women in particular, this mindset leads to a dangerous reality.

In “Black Women Deserve The Right To Be Free From Violence,” Alicia Nichols and Christina Jones write: “In 2020, every day in the United States, four Black women and girls were murdered by their husband, boyfriend, father, or another man they knew.  In 2019, Black women accounted for 14 percent of the female population in the United States, while 28 percent of the females killed by males in single victim/single offender incidents where the race of the victim was known were Black. Firearms were the weapon most commonly used by males to murder Black women in 2019.” 

As other Black women have expressed in response to Womack’s killing, the violence and attitude behind her death are common—and they can trace their own stories of men or boys losing their cool over “losing to a girl.” It makes me think of some of the little boys I’ve been tempted to stomp out for trying the same thing with one of my nieces.

None of this can change unless we confront misogyny at every level in every single person. Otherwise, we are complicit in the spread of violence against women. 

There are so many four-letter words I want to use to describe a man like Cameron Hogg, but punk feels most fitting. A bench warrant has been issued for his arrest, but at present, he has not been apprehended.

“Detectives are still working the case,” said Dallas PD’s Kristin Lowman in a recent interview. “No one is in custody at this time. They’ve been working it since Monday night trying to find justice for Miss Womack.”

Someone that violent, stupid, and Black will most certainly be caught in due time. And while I won’t meet violent acts with violent rhetoric, I hope the rest of his life is marred by misery and containment. 

And I want that misery to be spread to all men like him. Because women like Asia Womack shouldn’t have to die over a weak man and his pathetic ego. 

They should be able to celebrate their wins in peace.

Michael Arceneaux is the New York Timesbestselling author of I Can’t Date Jesus: Love, Sex, Family, Race, and Other Reasons I’ve Put My Faith in Beyoncé, I Don’t Want To Die Poor, and the forthcoming I Finally Bought Some Jordan’s.

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[torialeysha]

Cold Feet - Part 15

Shadow of doubt.

A/N: Hello my darlings! It’s been a while, too long a while, I know :(  What an absolutely awful year it’s been for all of us! I can only hope that you’re all well and keeping safe. Here’s a long overdue cold feet update to keep you occupied.

Song: Paramore - Tell me how 

A discordant racket sounded above the routine rumblings of the bakery. A muffle of raised voices and the righteous clicking of heels against the sticky floor mirrored by clumpier steps echoed down the cask laden hallways and seeped through the splintered wood of the makeshift door that separated Alfies office from the clamour of the distillery.  Looking up from the cluttered mess of his desk, Alfie run a hand quickly through his dishevelled hair and down his overgrown beard while awaiting the approaching commotion with hopeful intrigue. He groaned disappointedly when a Brummie brunette breached the door with a fumbling Ollie in tow, his long, clumsy fingers attached to the fur trim of her expensive coat.

It was wishful thinking on Alfies part that it would have been you who had stormed the door instead of the peaky lass. It had been well over a week since he had last seen or heard from you. And he had invested all of those torturous days busying himself to try and take his restless mind and it’s various crazed voices off of you and the recent revelation that had pillaged his plans to save you both from the Italian shit storm that had blown in from the other side of the pond.

Still his mind struggled to come to terms with the news you were with child. He couldn’t comprehend what was worse, the daunting idea of becoming a father or the sickening possibility that the baby might not be his. His crooked teeth clenched painfully together at the mere thought of you being intimate with anyone other than himself. Of course you had assured him on countless occasions that nothing of the sort had ever or would ever happen between you and Charles. And Alfie had believed you. Trusted that it wasn’t in your nature to lie. Foolishly so now considering you were the one who had also told him of the possibility that he might not be the father. One was a lie but which one? It drove his already unhinged mind insane thinking about it. He tried to stay out of his head and ignore the little demented voices that would taunt him in the quietest hours, reminding him of all the times you and he had copulated over the years and never conceived, which in turn highlighted how coincidental it was that you should now fall pregnant after sharing a bed with another man.

Plagued with doubt and unsure of what to do, he did nothing. Shunning the situation altogether and letting his selfish pride take over and stop him from reaching out and doing the right thing.

“I tried to stop her!” Ollie explained.

“It’s alright, Ollie. Let ‘er in.”

Ada tore herself from Ollies hold with a look that could kill.

“The one who’s too righteous to use the Shelby name, ay? To what do I owe the displeasure?” Alfie casted an unyielding gaze curiously upon Thomas Shelby’s younger sibling, filled with an over-brewed distaste.

“Have you seen this?” Ignoring his provocative comments. Ada pulled a newspaper from under her arm and threw it on his desk. The daily publication landed in front of Alfie with a rustling slap. His curious gaze wandered lazily from her to the paper. It appeared that Ada had left it open on the specific page, considerately saving him the trouble of rooting through. He grabbed his glasses, balancing them on the bridge of his nose before beginning to read.

Ollie slid closer to the desk, pulling his wistful gaze from Ada he peeked down at the paper to see what would have piqued Alfies interest. The headline read Announcements. A full page worth of biliously boastful declarations. Taking up almost a quarter of the page and catching both of their attentions immediately was a photo of you and Charles. The print underneath proudly stating the news of your engagement.

Alfie studied the photo. Looking past the image of Charles’ to focus on you. He couldn’t help but notice how the black and white portrayal did you no justice. You looked tired. Your sparkling eyes dull and lifeless. The only hint of happiness was in the slight upturned curve of your painted lips.

“Fucking ‘ell.” He exclaimed with a sigh. “A life with him should be under obituaries. Please send her my deepest condolences.” Alfie leaned back in his chair with a resigned shrug of his shoulders. The sound of creaking leather beneath his tight grasp on the worn arms of his chair was the only giveaway of his teetering disposition.

“That’s all you’ve got to say? Come on, Alfie, you’ve got to do something about this now. This whole charade has gone on for far too long.”

“And what do you think you know about it?” Alfie boomed. “Sticking ya ore in one last time before you fuck off back up the canal to that shit hole you call home? You Shelbies are all the fucking same, mate. Always making something your business that ain’t your fucking business.”

“Finished?” Ada sighed. Unfazed by his outburst.

“Yeah, I am actually - for now anyway...” 

A sceptical Ada waited for him to continue.

“...Take a seat then. Let me get you a drink.” Alfie pulls a bottle of whiskey from his draw. “Or do you want something softer? I mean, never can be sure if you’re up the duff again.”

“Alfie!” Ollie admonished.

“It’s alright, Ollie.” Ada assured him before turning her attention back to Alfie. “You can save the unpleasantries, Alfie. I know you can’t stand me and I can’t stand you either. But the truth is I’m not here for you. I’m here for Y/N. I’m worried about her. She’s in too deep with Charles. I’ve tried to tell her but she’s insistent on staying with him to protect you. You can’t let this carry on much longer, it’s too dangerous for her and the baby.”

Alfie’s eyes widened when Ada mentioned the baby.

“Yes, I know about the baby.” Ada exclaimed through a frustrated sigh. “Y/N’s told me everything.”

“Then you will also know why I ain’t doing fuck all about it.” Alfie grumbled dismissively.

“What are you on about?” Ads asked bemused.

“Hmm, it seems that you don’t know everything then, do ya?... The sprog might not be mine.” Although he tried hard to conceal it, the words pained Alfie.

“What on Earth would make you think such a thing?”

“Because she fucking told me! 1 in 2 possibility she said. And this ‘ere, right,” he pokes the paper. “Tells me exactly what horse she’s backing.”

“And you believed her?” Ads scoffed, shaking her head. “She hasn’t even slept with Charles, so how could it be his?”

“Well if that’s so then why would she tell me otherwise, ay?”

“...It doesn’t make sense...” Ada’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at him. “...You must have said something to her to make her spew a lie like that?”

“Well, lie or no lie, it’s done me a favour to tell you the truth-“ Alfie replied nonchalantly, deflecting her question.

Adas eyes narrowed further at Alfie’s flippant reaction before a bleak realisation washed over her.

“-Oh God! That’s it isn’t it. You told her you didn’t want the baby didn’t you?” Ada’s heart sunk at what she hoped was a wrong assumption.

“Not in so many words.”

“For crying out loud, Alfie. I can only imagine how hurtful that was for her to hear.” Ada paused for a moment. “Haven’t you stopped to think for a moment that that may have been the reason why she said you might not be the father? To hurt you like you’ve hurt her?”

“Listen ‘ere, right. You might be, but I ain’t no fucking fool-“

“-No.” She interrupts him. “You’re just an ignorant pig who doesn’t know Y/N as well as you think you do. She’d stop heaven and hell for you...I used to think you’d do the same for her - maybe I was wrong. Your judgment is cloudy, Solomon’s. Clear your head and come to your senses before it’s too late.”

Alfie stays silent, his thumb and forefinger fiddling with the overgrown scruff that decorated his jawline.

“Y/N’s under the illusion that you have a plan-“ Ada continues.

“Don’t dare come in ‘ere and fucking patronise me!” He erupted, slamming his fist on the desk. “I have a plan, right. It’s not a fucking illusion and it’s none of your fucking business either.”

“Then what the hell are you waiting for? Go to her. Beg for her forgiveness and when she takes you back- if she takes you back, get the hell out of here, both of you.”

“And tell me, sweetie, where does that leave your brother and his little starling problem?” Alfie eyes Ada curiously.

“He’s a Shelby. He’ll handle it.” She replied flatly.

Alfie graces her with an impish grin, the cockiness of her statement amusing him.

“Yeah, he’s done a brilliant job so far, ain’t he?” He muttered sarcastically.

“Just give Y/N the benefit of doubt, Alfie. After everything you’ve put her through, it’s the least you could do.” Ada waited for Alfie to reply but he stayed silent. His arms now folded stubbornly across his chest.

A defeated sigh left her ruby lips as she decided regretfully that her visit had been in vain.

“I’ve said all I’ve come here to say, I’ll be leaving now.” She grumbled, turning towards the door.

“Let me walk you out.” Ollie offered quickly, stumbling to her side.

“That won’t be necessary.” She declined. Blushing at their clashing of hands which have both reached for the door handle. A fleeting moment ensued between the two but Ada shook it off swiftly.

“I don’t need a man to open the door for me.” She sighed harshly.

“No, I remember that.” Ollie gave her a sad smile and withdrew his hand, leaving Ada to open it.

“Think about what I said.” She turned back to address Alfie who just grunted a dismissal.

“Where is she?” He asked suddenly.

“Arcadia.” Ada told him, her voice thick with hope.

Alfies eyes fell to the floor as he gave a subtle nod.

Resisting another glance at Ollie, Ada left wordlessly with her head held high.

Ollie loitered by the door debating wether or not to follow her. An abrupt bang shook the room, so loud it caused him to jump. He turned to Alfie whose pencil was now protruding from the photograph in the paper, piercing what would have been Charles’ face.

“I think Ada’s right, Alf.” Ollie approached his boss carefully.

“Yeah? And I think you’re just blinded by the peaky tart and that you’d think shit smelt like roses if she told you it did.”

Not wanting to get a wallop, Ollie gritted his teeth and said nothing.

“...So what if she is right, ay? Nothing changes. I can’t be who Y/N needs me to be.” Alfie confessed coyly.

“What you on about?”

“Being a dad. How could I be a fucking dad? I mean, who did I have as an example? My old man was a waste of space.” Alfie eyes his fathers hat hanging obnoxiously on the coat stand in the corner of the room. “Never ever saw the cunt.”

“Oh come on, Alfie. You ain’t your old man. You’d be a great dad. Look at what you’ve done for Goliath.”

“He’s a grown lad though in’t he. I didn’t raise him.”

“What about me then? You’ve pretty much raised me since the day my dad passed. And I turned out alright.”

A hundred and one sarcastic remarks crossed Alfie’s mind but he silenced them and instead agreed begrudgingly with a grunt.

“All you got to do is look at everything you’ve done for Y/N to realise that you’re nothing like your old man.”

“Yeah, waste of fucking time that all was.”

“Oh, Come on Alfie! If you really felt that way you wouldn’t have bothered whipping up a nurser-“ Alfie’s seething scowl stops Ollie abruptly.

“... I know it’s none of my business, boss.” Ollie gulped, continuing more cautiously. “But I don’t think Y/N would have come here and told you about the baby if there was any doubt in her mind that it wasn’t yours.”

Alfie jumped up from his desk causing Ollie to cower, fully expecting Alfie to chin him one for interfering in his personal business.

“There’s only one way to find out, in’t there. Get my coat.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

For you, daytimes wasn’t the problem. Daytimes you could spend time with Ada or occupy yourself with the odd job at Arcadia. It was the nighttimes that haunted you. When the parties were over, the doors closed and you had to curl up beside Charles with another mans baby growing inside of you - a man who had shattered your heart a second time.

You had left the bakery that day numb, exactly like you had the last time he had broken your heart - ironically within the same four walls. It took all the strength you had to put on a brave face and lie to Ada afterwards, to tell her how overjoyed Alfie was about the news you were carrying his baby and that it wasn’t the train wreck it actually was. It just felt easier that way and it also gave Ada one less reason to hate him. It angered you that even after all the hurt Alfie had put you through, you still possessed that unabating need to defend and protect him. Which was the main reason you were still here and hadn’t fled London like your wounded heart had wanted to.

You had thought, or more so hoped, like you had done the first time he broke your heart, that Alfie would have come round by now but almost a fortnight later and still no word. It seemed you would have to somehow come to terms with the inevitable and try as best as you could to move on without him. Just the thought of that tore your sewn up heart back in two. You’d lay awake at night thinking about it, licking your wounds and drowning in a turbulent sea of misery as you tried to work out your next move. You wouldn’t be showing properly for a few more weeks, which should hopefully give you enough time to bring Tommys plan to fruition and help him put a stop to the Changrettas’ before it was too late. It’s what you would do next that had you stumped. One thing was sure, you would have to leave town. The thought of sticking around and raising Alfie’s child in London knowing he didn’t want to be a part of either of your lives was too gut wrenchingly painful to endure. So where would you go? You still had family you could turn to but your stupid pride would stop you from going back to your Aunts or turning up on your mother’s doorstep pregnant. What you needed was a fresh start. Birmingham was an option - a rather appealing one considering your connection to the peakies. You could be certain that Tommy would see you right and make sure you settled in. However, Tommy’s business relationship with Alfie could pose a problem. Another option, a more drastic one, was America. Ada would spend hours telling you about America and how much she adored it. She said she would be returning there soon, maybe you would go with her.

“That’s the last of the gin, Miss.” The glass bottles clinked a merrily enticing tune as the delivery man set the last crate on top of the other one at the bar, effectively stealing you from your reverie. He slid a docket under your nose for you to sign and with your signature and a tip of his flat cap he took his leave.

You had begun replenishing the bar with the gin when a sudden, eerie feeling crept over you. Shaking it off, you quickly dismissed it as fatigue and continued unpacking the crates...but the feeling lingered. Maybe it was the huge club that was bereft of the nightly pandemonium which caused your unease and emphasised the strange silence as it pressed in on you. You glanced around, the presence of the few workers dallying doing little to ease your imagination as it began to run wild: What if Sabini had found out who you were? Or even worse, what if Luca had done some digging and found out you had been spying on him and Charles? Either one could be lurking in the many shadows of the club waiting for the right moment to strike. It was an alarming possibility that caused a shiver to run down your spine.

Feeling paranoid and vulnerable, you were overcome with a staggering urge to get out of there as fast as you could. You left the bottles of gin on the bar top and made a hasty retreat from the grand hall to retrieve your coat and purse from the office. You moved briskly to the golden pillars which adorned the entrance of the large hall and masked the narrow stairway to your little office. No sooner had you breached the golden barrier were you pulled behind one of the pillars. Your mouth opened on a scream but closed when you came nose to nose with Alfie.

“Alfie, what are you doin-“

“-You’ve lied to me, ain’t ya? You haven’t fucked the Yank.” His grip tightened on your wrists.

“That’s none of your damned business!”

“Anything to do with you is my business.” He growled. “This is my business.”

He let go of one of your wrists to gently caress your stomach. You stilled at the unexpected gesture and melted against the column you were pressed up against. Enraptured completely by his touch that you hadn’t felt for days. Reminding yourself of the reason for his absence, you snapped out of his spell and batted his hand away forcefully.

“You’ve changed your tune!” You spat bitterly, pushing past him.

The sound of his footsteps and cane hitting the marble floor behind you told you that he was following you.

“Leave me alone, Solomon’s.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me.” He grabs you again before you can ascend the stairs to the office.

“Tell you what?” You turn on him.

“Tell me the truth!” He hollers indiscreetly.

“You can’t handle the truth.” You whisper shout. Escaping once again, desperate to get away from him and the ear-wigging workers scattered around you. You make it to the sanctuary of your office, trying to shut the door on Alfie but he’s too close behind you. He pushes through, catching you as you lose your balance and stumble backwards.

“Tell me the baby’s mine.” He demands, glowering.

Your eyes travel across the menacing features of his face so close to yours.

“You really need me to tell you?” You smirk.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Of course it’s bloody yours!” You scream, pushing free from him.

“Why did you tell me otherwise then, pet?” 

It may have been your imagination but he sounded relieved.

“Do you blame me after the way you reacted?”

“What did you expect? Dropping a bombshell like that? I was in shock.”

“I expected more from you, Alfie! I realise now how naive that was of me.”

“Now listen ‘ere-“

“- No you listen. Before you say another word I want you to know that I’m keeping the baby, and that you’re completely free from obligation. I’m assuming that’s why you’re here? Well, be assured, I don’t want or need anything from you, Alfie Solomon’s. Least of all your pity.”

“Pity?” He scoffs.

“It’s written all over your face. You’ve made your choice. I’ve come to terms with that now. I can do this on my own. We don’t need you.” You told him, trying your best to sound convincing.

“Right.” He gives you a half amused, tight lipped smile. “Well, after seeing that stomach-churning announcement of your engagement in the times, it appears that you have also made your choice. But I am curious, Virgin Mary, about how you’re going to explain all this to lover boy?”

“Mock me all you like, Solomons. But I have no intentions of staying with Charles. Although I have accepted his proposal - for yours and Tommy’s sake, may I add. On the contrary to what you believe, once this is all done and dusted I will not be marrying Charles. In fact I’ll be gone as soon as this is over.”

“And where exactly will you be going?” He asked. All amusement now gone from his gruff voice.

“I’m still working it out. But you haven’t got to worry about me or your bastard child cramping your style. We’ll be far away from here and far away from you.”

“You and my child ain’t goin’ anywhere. I’d track you down. Follow you to the ends of the fucking Earth if I had to.” His inflamed temper and seething threat shocked you silent. “I acted like a cunt the other day, I hold my hands up but I’ve since seen the error of my ways... Just give me another chance.”

“How can I give you another chance? How can I believe that this is what you really want after everything you said? I can’t do it. I can’t live in doubt like that. I’d rather not be with yo-“

“- don’t say it!” He interrupted suddenly. “I fucked up. I thought I’d be a shit dad. That I’d let you both down. But this is what I want. Let me prove it to you. Another chance, a shot at redemption is all I’m asking.”

“You’ve already let us down...I’m sorry, Alfie, I can’t-“

“-Don’t fucking say it!” He warned again. Grabbing you and pulling you to him. You stood rigidly in his arms. Your stinging eyes unable to meet his.

“I can’t-“ you try again but he cuts off the rest of your sentence with a rough kiss.

You pull away, slapping his face hard before colliding back into him and kissing him as if it was the last time.

The sound of the door handle rattled and you tore yourself from Alfie instantaneously. Less than a second later Charles burst through the office door.

“Dar-ling.” seeing that you wasn’t alone, Charles drawled a protracted greeting upon his entrance.

“Hello, my love.” You smiled. Quickly going to him and hoping that your flushed cheeks and heaving chest didn’t arouse his suspicions anymore than they possibly already were.

“Mr Solomon’s. What are you doing here?” He looked past you to address Alfie.

“We were running low on rum so I called Mr Solomon’s, who went out of his way to personally deliver us some. Wasn’t that kind of him, sweetheart?” You quickly answered on Alfie’s behalf.

“Yes.” Charles mumbled “too kind.”

You risk a glance at Alfie. His jaw was tense. His penetrating gaze falling from Charles to you.

“Well I should be on me way now then. As always it’s been a pleasure, Y/N.” He grins, striding towards the door and ignoring Charles completely. “Think about what I said.” He tells you before disappearing, purposely leaving you and Charles with an elephant in the room.

“And what exactly is it you have to think about, my dear?” Charles asks tightly.

“Extra protection on the doors.” You lie, swiftly coming up with a cover up. “He thought it would help deter the riff raff.”

“I see.” He utters mindlessly. Catching you off guard when his fingers caught your chin and lifted your reddened face up to his. You tried not to fold under the scrutiny of his leering gaze.

“You have that rash again.” He sounded accusatory. His thumb and forefinger tracing roughly around your mouth and jawline where your skin had been chaffed a pale pink by Alfie’s coarse beard.

Your heart pounded loudly in your ears.

“Do I? I haven’t been well lately, have I? It must be to do with that.” You shrugged free from Charles and leant across the desk to retrieve your coat and purse.

“Take me home, my love. I’m famished.” You looped your arm through his to encourage him towards the door but he didn’t budge.

“Tell me, how do you know Mr Solomon’s again?”

Your settling heartbeat once again started to race.

“He was the landlord of my uncles shop. I used to work there and he’d pop in now and again to collect the rent. Why do you ask?”

“I was just wondering. I remember you telling me he was an old friend. However, I just can’t help but think that it’s a bit of an unusual alliance.”

“I’d hardly call it an alliance. Maybe friend was too familiar of a term. He’s more of an acquaintance.”

“I see. Well, acquaintance or not, I don’t know if I’m comfortable with you doing business with Mr. Solomon’s anymore. In future, any dealings with him will go through me.”

“I’m fully capable-“

“It’s not about capability!” He erupts, startling you.

“It’s about him.” He carries on more evenly, regaining his composure. “I simply don’t trust him. Any business with the Jew now goes through me. Do I make myself clear?”

You nodded compliantly, hoping he’d drop the matter.

“Good. Now let’s get you fed and watered.”

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[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, leninille!

For @leninille. These are the first three chapters and a complete story within a new storyline I've got several chapter outlines for. All of this came up during development of this Secret Santa Exchange gift, and as more familiar faces are revealed, the tags will be updated accordingly.

Read On AO3

*****

Health Tonics and Love Gardens

Chapter 1 - The Stiles In The Garden

Stiles has been working on this garden for months. It is colorful now, with tiny bushes he'd groomed into shape and the better airflow they get without the other plants strangling the light and air from the garden. He's been restoring this garden to what it might have once been, and tried to keep remembering what his mom told him about the garden back home.

"These flowers may look nice, but they can also cause healing or harm." He thought in his mother's voice.

This specific phrase stuck with him, and usually when he's daydreaming and not paying attention to what he's saying, he'll speak the words and try to recall the exact details of the garden as it was when his mom was caring for it.

"Why?" he again remembers asking, and he says the same thing aloud every time this happens.

The details of the answer vary, probably because his child mind wasn't really any better at staying on target for even half the time his adult brain can do now. That means that his mom's voice answers the questing with different words, and the theme generally was: "Sometimes a little of a plant can help a person heal from an injury. Give them too much, and they will suffer, may come to harm, and could die."

It's the stinging nettle that his mother is indicating to him today. He looks at the plant in the present and gives it side-eye.

"A good cook can turn this nettle into a healthful tea."

Little Stiles can feel himself interrupt her. "I've made tea, mom. It's easy!" He used to be so excited about stuff. He was what... maybe eight years old when this happened?

He favors his mother's memory by having her always say something that humors the younger him.

"Yes! You can make very good tea. And thank you for doing it! But some teas we can make require very good care. A good cook like me knows how to prepare the stems, or the flowers, or pieces of the root all cut up into tiny pieces of any of these plants." She makes tickling fingers at him and he smiles at the recollection.

"What if the cook uses the wrong pieces?"

"Then instead of healing, maybe nothing will happen. But with some plants, you can make someone worse. They can be hurt forever, and might even die."

Little Stiles did not want to make that kind of tea, and he considered not ever being near tea again.

"Promise me, Stiles, that you will not try to make tea from anything that comes from this garden."

That was an easy promise to keep. The Stiles in his 20s, having these memories, appreciates how well his mother understood how he thought. Under her brief guidance, Stiles cultivated a voracious curiosity and analytical mind. He got over the worries about tea, eventually, but it wasn't until after this gardening thing started that he want and tried to learn more about exactly what were these plants in the plot and what kinds of tea could be made with them.

As he found out later, after many hours and days of looking through cookbooks and materials online, he started to feel like this was a medicinal garden instead of an herb garden for actual cooking.

"And never make tea with anything outside the garden without talking to me first, okay?"

Little Stiles nods again. At that age he loved strawberries, and he thought he might not worry so much about tea if he had some of the best tea with his mom right now. "I want to make the strawberry tea!"

"Oh! That sounds good."

Little Stiles helped Claudia put the tools away and gather the strawberries and lemon and sugar from their places in the kitchen. They talked about his day at school, and the memory always fades from there.

It is well more than ten years since that day and it's one of his favorite memories of his mother. Many memories stick because they sucked, or because he thinks about them so much he can't tell if they're real or if he made them up.

He does think it's odd that every week, at least once a week, Stiles is at this old burned house in the Beacon Hills Preserve, working on this garden, talking to himself to review what he's learned about these different plants, and making threats at the plants who he still can't identify or which are giving him troubles that day. He's still just as wary of the nettle, but they've got a grudging agreement not to bother each other. For the rest? He'll unlock their secrets soon enough.

It's fair to say that he lets his guard down at this point. Nobody's ever been around here. He expected there would be graffiti on the house or whatever, but no, it's just been the house and this garden, and Stiles taking care of the latter.

He clips a sprig of lavender and adds it to his bag with the rosemary, adds some heather blossoms, and mutters "Calluna" as he snaps them. It's their genus, and they're in the same family as rhododendrons. There are two of those in the yard, not close to the house.

His thought withers as he turns to the house and takes it in with a slow breath. It always seems like the house is watching him, but not seeing him. It's never felt threatening, just... omnipresent, he thinks.

This house was full of the potential of these many lives. The family suffered, and in his investigation into public records and police records ("Heya, daddio... Can I ask you a question?" being only the most direct route to the files, and not the only one he took), he had learned that the family's absence left some big holes in the town at the time.

Curiously, it was hard to find photos of any of the family members. Even social media didn't have much. The kids weren't in school yearbooks he could get hold of, and he's gone through everything he could find in the school archive, even the old student newsletters.

He had found a photo of Talia Hale. She was the mother and as far as he could tell, the kind of person everyone in town seemed to know and most respected. He had no idea that Talia's spouse looked like, having seen only the name "Blake Hale" and having no idea who that was.

The dusty family obituary Stiles found in the paper printed after the fire listed several dead. But the count doesn't match what the police logged, and that doesn't match the fire inspector's. The insurance company itself gave a third number in a quote taken by a reporter.

The situation didn't make sense to him, and it bothered him that nobody seemed to know what really happened here. How many Hales were impacted by the fire? Did any escape? The body counts ranged from fewer than ten to the low 20s. Nobody knew if there was a party that night because despite all the fresh vehicle tracks at the scene, there were very few vehicles in the driveway. So where did those other visitors go? The firefighters' work destroyed the scene and they couldn't find any tire tracks that might lead them in a useful direction.

And weirdest of all: He's still not found anything that even hints that his mother and the Hales were affiliated. So this garden and the exact matching one at home, which Stiles and his dad have somewhat neglected after many years of close attention, Stiles still doesn't know why he cares so much about this plot at the Hale house.

He'd explored the ruins many times in his months of gardening. The house sits still and aging, creaking wearily in the winds as it always does. The only trespassers seem to be him and the squirrels.

He tugs a threatening vine away from the garden and trims it back. It's probably a volunteer left by some bird.

On his first day here he didn't go in the house, but walked slowly around it, walking his blue bike as he walked the perimeter. It was coming around the back of the house when he caught the scent of a familiar combination of herbs and he discovered his garden out here in the woods.

It is exactly the same layout as at the Stilinski house, but these plants were overgrown and struggling, and the vines were getting close. As he got on his knees and started his first concerted effort at gardening the plot, he started trying to find answers to these two questions: "Why does this garden layout look identical to ours at home?" and, given that the garden does exist in both places, "How did the Hales know his mother?"

Derek doesn't know how to respond. He had never been an alpha, and would never be, so he'd mostly ignored those lessons when his mom and Laura talked about them. His alpha and sister in one being swore to him years ago that no matter how much they'd already lost, they'll always be near each other.

"Are you alright? Did you hear me?" she glances at him and pokes him. She feels the sensation of being mentally stunned, then gives him an annoyed look. "Why is this weird for you?"

He blinked at her. "You don't think it's weird that for years we've not even talked once about Beacon Hills and now you say that you've spent weeks fighting an unidentified and suspicious pull to return home for a few weeks?"

"No, I said a few months. Three or four, maybe. Who cares? It's still a calling."

Derek looked at her and asked the obvious. "Couldn't this be hunters?"

She shook her head. This wasn't aggressive magic, and she wasn't sure how she knew that. It was more than intuition, though... it was certainty. Werewolves are often sensitive to many kinds of magical activities that may happen around them or to them, and her enhanced abilities told her that this just wasn't like any of that. She considered an odd possibility.

"Maybe it's my wolf?"

Derek rolls his eyes. "We are werewolves, Laura. It's a gift of a greater life, not a spiritual possession."

"Hey, I know that there's no separate little spooky spirit inside any of us beyond what most people seem to think they have. But this is like..." She searches the room until her eyes land in the opposite corner. She points at the TV and clarifies, "It's like I'm getting a new channel, and it's focused on the wolfish instincts, not the human side. Can't you feel it, too?"

He shakes his head. There has been zero sensation of compulsion in Derek to return to Beacon Hills. He would be happy to never return. It was once a beautiful place, but that's lost with everything else and he doesn't want to find any of it again.

"Can you check the pack bond and tell me what you see?"

He glares at her, already tired of this conversation. The alpha sees different things in pack bonds than each member sees. Laura likes to learn what Derek sees, and tells herself that it'll come in handy when she's got a bigger pack. They haven't even tried to connect with any werewolves despite there being many free-roaming supernatural family hanging around. The Hales are a duo that nobody can mess with.

She's persistent, so he focuses and listens with his inner senses and finds the same pack bond with her that he's seen for years. It's identical to how it was before. Nothing new, nothing seeming magical beyond the usual. It's hard to believe her about this when he's got no evidence it's happening.

"Damn. I hate this. I wish I had an emissary to ask."

Derek doesn't know what to think about emissaries, and leans toward not-in-favor since theirs failed to protect them from the hunter assault that lead to his family's near-annihilation. This emissary was newer, replacing their former emissary who had died of a normal, terrible cause like brain cancer. Derek met the new guy once and hated how he smelled of animals and cleaning supplies. The man's day job was as head veterinarian at the Beacon Hills Animal Clinic.

Last time they talked about him, Laura recalled that he was mostly a quiet man, didn't like giving full answers, and Talia mostly found him annoying, though useful at times.

Derek stewed on the fresh thoughts of the vet being partly responsible for what happened. Now he's feeling some kind of pull to return, to demand answers, at the very least.

Magic, as far as Derek was concerned, has been far more bother than it's worth.

"I never liked Deaton, but he's all I know." Laura suggested.

"Oh, then all of this was your fault," Derek said in an attempt to lighten the mood. It took a second to realize that he just accused the emissary of letting the family come to harm because he and Laura didn't get along.

"No emissary and no wolf was responsible for what happened, Derek." That left only the implication of the hunter woman he'd let get too close.

With regard to that person, Derek only ever harbors stabbingly angry thoughts about what should happen to her. She'd lied, she'd taken advantage of his life inexperience, and in the end of it all, she failed to murder him with everyone else, and he simmered deep inside from a wound that hadn't healed. His eyes flash.

Laura doesn't look away. He's upset, and he's not great with expressing himself on the best of day. She doesn't flash her eyes back at him. She's not angry, she's sad that he keeps blaming himself.

Derek reads this on her face and understands. "Fuck!" he mumbles a disappointed apology. "It wasn't your fault." He punctuates the air more softly with a mumbled repeat of the exclamation.

"Derek." She has come to a conclusion and in that tone she's warning him to prepare himself for something he is going to dislike. "I think we need to go back. We'll be careful," she says as he gives her an irritated and skeptical. "We'll stay in another town, sneak in as wolves and investigate the Preserve and the house. Maybe check out Beacon Hills and," she said, conspiratorially, "get some donuts before we leave."

"Leave?"

"We don't have to stay. I just need answers."

He considers this. It's not a demand or a request, it's just what she's going to do and she knows he's coming with her. But the confectionary he'd not thought about in years comes back to him. "I forgot about the donuts! And because of you," he glares at her, "now I have to have one."

"Perfect!" she says. He makes a good show at faking indignation, but he's heading into his room and looking around. They weren't likely to come back, so he shoots a message to his boss about a family emergency and he starts packing.

She's looking from the main room at his back as he starts sorting things out. He's always the scaredywolf, and she starts to pull snacks together that they'll want for the long drive.

Chapter 2 - These Wolves Are Here To Play

"Iiiiiiiiiiiiiii've been working on the raaaaaaaaaaailroad!" the man shouts. "All the live-long daaaaaaaaayGAACK!" Choking sputters and spitting follows the interruption. The approaching wolves still and listen.

"What the crap?! I'm working on your stupid habitat here!" A triple spitting sound. "Leave me alone you big dumb m-moth!"

The wolves glance at each other and share a look that says, "This guy's got worse problems than his big, stupid voice."

Laura steps ahead, leading them closer, keeping the shrubs and other undergrowth between them and the person in the distance. This guy doesn't scream "Threat!" to anyone but himself, but even well-meaning people can lead to tragedy. It would be best, of course, if the guy happened to take off before they got near him.

But if he did, she warns herself, that could mean he knows they're coming. That would make him either a super or a magic user. If he stays for too long, they'll need to scare him out of there so they can take a look around.

Derek made a subvocal growl. He's always preferred the hostile approach to any conflict and she nudges him with a low-pitched growl of denial.

Derek huffs. He actually huffs at her.

What a whiny puppy.

"Rodzina," Stiles says to the wolf the second he realizes he's not alone.

And then he slaps his hand over his mouth, uncertain why he's speaking Polish. The wolf regards him, unflinching. "It's Polish for family." This creature is huge! Larger than any dog he's ever met, and it's broad and got a defined mane around its neck. It's a really beautiful and terrifying wolf. Oh, oh god. It's a freaking wolf.

The wolf glances at his chest and tilts its head at him. She seemed to know that word, somehow. How could that even happen? Well, he's happy she hasn't been all growly and dipping her head down and being mean.

"I'm sorry, but there's no food here, and I can't take you home and get you any." With real sorrow, since having a wolf pet would be totally awesome, but a really bad idea, he adds, "You're beautiful, but I can't can't have a pet."

The wolf chuffs at him.

What? A chuff! That's practically falling over with laughter in wolf terms, as far as Stiles is concerned.

"Hey! Don't chuff at me!" He's wiggling a finger at her. It's 10% aggression and 90% cowardice. He focuses on forgetting everything except that 10%. He nervously walks through his thoughts aloud because he can't help his mouth moving of its own accord at this moment.

"Okay, so fine, let's see... I'm gardening here, that's legitimately all I'm doing. No looking for secret treasure at the house or anything. You're coming here passing through or whatever, even though there haven't been wolves in this part of California in decades. I know you understand me, and you're pretending not to. But why don't you talk back?"

He is looking directly into her eyes before consciously realizing he's taking her measure. This is a specific thing he definitely remembers promising himself he'd never do if he were being challenged by a large predator in the wilderness. And yet, he's challenging this alpha wolf—

"You're an alpha wolf? How can there be alpha wolves when the whole scientific hypothesis was proven to be wrong?" He wants to ramble the name of the research article on the subject, and about the way the article was written, but manages to catch hold of his thought trains and redirect. "That's not important right now. It's crazy enough that I somehow know you can understand me clearly."

She's a smart wolf. Human-equivalent intelligence, for sure. She tries not to tilt her head in an approximation of doggy confusion, but it's a projection. Odd how that he's here gardening and along comes this alph—

"WEREWOLF?! You're a werewolf?!"

Stiles describes this later to his father as, "when all hell breaks loose."

The alpha wolf lifts her lips and growls at Stiles, who is immediately cowed. She's joined half a second later by another large wolf, slightly smaller than her as he is a beta, but he's also got very long and sharp and they're massive and this is a very bad place for him to be right now!

"Shit! I'm not delicious! Don't eat me!"

The alpha stops growling again, and seems to be shaking. The other wolf snarls at her. She snarls back.

Of fucking course! "You're siblings?" Okay, that's it, you need to tell me who you are. Between cautiouswolf and hyperprotective wolf," indicating the alpha and the beta in order, "who the hell are you?"

The beta keeps growling but defers reluctantly to the alpha. She studies Stiles, looking at him and not laughing wolfishly anymore. There's no hint of threatening demise, just curiosity.

It would be too far to say it's quite trust, but it's the recognition that the confusion is mutual and that there is no threat.

Stiles also looks at this as another opportunity to try to talk himself out of the situation. He gives explaining himself another try.

"I was here by accident the first time, and then I found the garden," he waves over to it, easily seen from where all three wolves stood. The beta wolf didn't take his eyes off Stiles, but the alpha regarded his handiwork without apparent comment and resumed studying Stiles.

"Keep talking," was the obvious implication. Order. It was definitely an order, and Stiles agreed that he should continue.

"My mom planted a garden exactly like this one at home. So finding such a unique one out here, at the site of," he looks at the house and murmurs, "really bad stuff is just weird." He feels his cheeks tighten and get heavy and a tear slips down his cheeks. "She died before she told me what all the plants are for. As far as I know she didn't even know the family." He turns around, letting embarrassment at his own emotions put his unguarded back at risk of wolfish sneak-attack.

There's a shuffling noise behind him that tugs his attention back and he wipes his face. It's blotchy, and gross, he's sure, but he's looking at the wolves.

Something quiet happened here while he was turned around. The male wolf is looking almost... ashamed in some way, and the alpha turns back to Stiles after a staredown with the beta and seats herself a step closer to Stiles.

He decides not to mention that moving closer is just as terrifying than all of the other scary things they've done because the seated pose is probably just a ruse to get him when he's vulnerable, but...

Thump.

That was a tail. He looks around her sitting form as if trying to find her tail. Her expression reads as, most likely, "You seriously need to chill." Off to the side, the beta just looks mean as ever and ready to chew on his soft and fleshy neck.

He pulls his phone out and texts his dad. He holds up a finger to the wolf who'd risen to her feet again.

"No, just a minute. My dad's expecting me and I need to let him know that I'll be a little late. I'm not telling him about our little one-sided conversation, which you really should join, by the way." The wolves seemed mollified, if not satisfied with the answer. Neither rises to the bait and starts speaking, so the beta keeps his ears rotating around, listening for danger, and the alpha's ears are firmly oriented in his direction.

"Do you know this place?" The ear flick of the alpha and the glance at the house let him connect some dots. "The Hale family lived here and you knew them."

For the next several minutes, Stiles explains what he has learned of the Hales from his look into the school archives, the police and fire reports, the insurance report he'd acquired through a friend of a friend who shall all remain nameless. He tells of the obituary and the news stories and the details that don't make sense.

He's speculating and journeying down educational, if difficult to follow sidetracks, and mentions one detail that catches the wolves' complete attentions. It was about the catatonic John Doe found a few days later a short walk from the highway.

"Oh? Uhh, I just think maybe there's a connection between that John Doe and the Hale fire. There's too many weird details, things that haven't happened at any other time in this town or probably any town. It's tidy and messy at the same time. I don't trust that."

He's been looking at things on his phone that are pictures or notes or scans of things he's found and looks for the rest of what he discovered about that John Doe.

"Look," he says as he flips the phone toward them. "I found evidence that— Oh, I don't know if you even see in color, or if you can read this in your current shape. Hopefully you're better than other canines about that but you're not answering questions right now, so we'll park that for later.

He reviews the notes and continues.

"I snuck into the hospital and I think this guy really could have been a family member or friend of the Hales. He was scarred badly, as if from a fire, and though he wasn't near the Hale house, the paramedics estimated he'd already suffered two days in the cool air in probably this very state."

The sad whine of them both went unnoticed through the racing thoughts of the human.

"I still think he looks like an age-progressed version of the Beacon Hills basketball team player I found in this picture."

He makes the face as large as he can. It's just a face, and it's blurry.

The first wolf shifts back to human. She says, "Who is this?"

Stiles gasps and then tries to pretend a wolf didn't just shift in front of him to human form and start asking him questions.

"This is a picture of Peter Hale."

She turns to the other wolf. "Derek!" and she motions at him to stand up, but the wolf Derek declines. It wasn't an order, but a move of cautious excitement. Derek's keeping a wary eye in the human's direction even as his sister looms closer to the phone and examines the picture.

"I'm sorry, madam alpha, or whatever is the right title, but you appear to have no clothes on and I am not prepared to um... talk with you in this manner at this time. And stuff."

She looks at him, and then herself, and shakes her head. "When it comes to werewolves, clothing is as optional as it gets."

"Oh, your kind can't transform your clothing when you shift?" Something subconscious snags his attention. "Are you sure about that?"

She looks at him. Her hair is a little wild, and she's strong even in this form. "I know more about werewolves than you do."

He tucks his phone in his pocket.

"Okay, look, fine, you want to talk in the nude. You do you, but I really am just going to need to leave right now and clear my head and then I can... I can come back tomorrow, yeah?" He's not sure why he's excited to return. They did nearly eat him several times in this conversation, based on the number of flashes of teeth he caught in the last several minutes.

"Fine, come back tomorrow, but do not tell anyone we were here."

Stiles nods, distracted, and takes a few tries before he gets all his gardening things stuffed back into his bag and gets himself situated for the ride out of the preserve.

"I'll be here just after five tomorrow, alright? I've got work, but I'll be here, and I'll bring some stuff you can look at. Please try to get some clothes or this is going to be awkward and I am really out of awkward for the day.

"You're really not," the alpha says. Stiles sputters.

"Hey!"

"Hey, family man," she says, referring to his Polish of earlier. "I'm Laura. Who are you?"

"I'm Stiles Stilinski."

The other wolf looks at him and hruffs, almost laughing.

Cripes, these siblings are already annoying him.

"Hey, asshole, it's my name. You'd break yourself trying to pronounce my first name, so be thankful for my gracious manner."

Stiles leaves slowly, trying to go faster, but it takes a while to get his body to let go of the anxiety enough to punish his legs on the pedals and fly as fast as he can without crashing.

Kind of a tall order, some days.

"I cannot believe I just promised I'd come back to chat with those man-eaters!" He gripes at himself. "Do they eat people? How do you even ask someone if they eat people? Especially if they can change shapes and have fangs and sharp pointy parts?" He listens to his intuition. Of course they're not cannibals. Or maybe they are if they're not considered humans. "UGH! They are gonna answer so many questions tomorrow or else!"

Derek has followed him silently for maybe half a mile, listening to the bewildering blitz of self-talk ranging from werewolves to garlic naan bread and Derek just gives up and heads toward the house, where Laura is waiting for him.

Chapter 3 - The Interposing

The sun is low now, shining bright fingers through the shattered window frames and vacant doorways of the shell of this old house. By coincidence of timing and place, Laura stands in a sunny shape on the decrepit porch. Derek listens to her adjusting her stance and watches as her fingers push through a beam of sunlight and trace the crackled texture of the carbonized door frame.

"You didn't stop him and make him tell us where Peter is."

She catches his meaning immediately. "Yeah, there's something at work here keeping me from chasing him away."

"You failed," he says, gesturing broadly at her exposed form. "He can't handle this much woman."

"Well, Derek, I've got the supernatural hookup. We all do. He's going to have to get used to all this." She looks at the smudges on her fingers. "But why didn't you stop him?"

"I don't know. And I only just realized it when I said it." Now Derek looks as confused as she had been. He wasn't even feeling hostile toward the Stiles, and that is the most irritating thing about this.

She shifts her hand through beta shift and to full wolf, then back again. It's a difficult transition, but since she could just focus and do it, Derek just observed as she shifted from human form through partial beta and partial full forms, and then back to full human.

Derek was curious what she was doing, and noticed her smile as he held her fingers up.

Every finger still had dirt.

"I've never thought about how we take dirt and things with us through the shift, but not our clothes."

"Are you suggesting that he can teach us to take clothing or tools into our shift?"

She shrugged her shoulders and grinned. The pack bond resonated with satisfaction, and he rolled his eyes.

"We don't know anything about him."

"I know, but if you could feel it, you'd know that this place needs us, Derek." She looks into the house from across the threshold. "And gardener Stiles is part of whatever is going on here." They were all called here. It's magic that bound them, brought them together, and seems to be managing their introduction.

"Is he the magic user?"

"There is ample potential. Surely you could feel that by the time he left."

"I hate magic," Derek grumbles as he thinks about it. Yes, he could tell Stiles was ignorant of his own potential and that worried Derek more than the fact that this stranger happened to suddenly be part of their lives in a way that captivates his alpha.

Laura snaps her fingers. "Yo, how could you not have heard me?"

Derek raises an eyebrow in defiance. Not his best move, but now it's her turn to roll her eyes and she repeats herself.

"Let's go find Deaton. If he's around, maybe he can help us figure out who this is and what kind of magic is being worked here."

"Can we pass the hospital, too? I'd like to see if we might find uncle Peter."

She nods. That matters a lot to both of them, too. She resolves that before 5pm tomorrow, they'll have gotten at least one answer to the question of what's going on. She leans into a full shift and Derek follows, chasing her as they race into the forest for the long route to the vet's office.

"My dad is going to kill me when he finds out I was talking with werewolves at the Hale house." He nearly skids to a stop and releases his clenched brake. He isn't a Hollywood stunts expert and he would not have recovered well from a solo crash on the pavement. His ego would be only one of his many bruised parts.

He considers 14 different stories that seem plausible enough, dismissed half of them outright as abominations, and spend the next minutes thinking up some 40 more before settling on the best candidate.

He parked his bike along the side of the house and walked quickly to the front, nearly crashing into his patient and curious father on the porch.

"Hello Stiles. You didn't say why you'd be late, but—"

"I was watching the sunset!" he interjected. Dad glances toward the sun now, indicating that the sunset isn't done yet.

"Nope, you weren't. Do you want to tell me what really happened?"

"Yes!" he squeaks, and then rushes his dad inside with a glance over his shoulder that lacks any essence of subtlety. He's checking the few houses in view to see if anyone in a homes or yard or car or suspicious van might be spying on them. He closes the door quietly and pointedly locks it.

"Are you sure this is necessary, Stiles?"

"Dad, my world has been supernaturally rocked tonight, and what I'm about to tell you will do the same for you."

[winchesterbrotherstan]

Supernatural- Bloody Mary (1.05)

Pairing: N/A, Olive Winchester (OC)

Summary: An old classic rears its ugly head, Dean kicks into big brother overdrive mode, Sam and Olive each deal with hard truths

Warnings: Mentions of death, cursing, crying, blood, very brief mention of like kidnap/non-con or whatever you interpret it as. not specific but could definitely be seen at that, etc

Word Count: 6696

“Sams, wake up.” I shook the writhing boy.

He shot out of his sleep. He sat up and looked around before sighing. We had been in the hospital parking lot for the last fifteen minutes, and Sam’s nightmare persisted.

“I take it I was having a nightmare.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, another one.”

Sam shrugged. “Hey, at least I got some sleep.”

Dean and I shared a look and I turned to face Sam. “You know, sooner or later we're gonna have to talk about this.”

Sam ignored me. “Are we here?”

“Yup.” Dean popped the ‘p’ “Welcome to Toledo, Ohio.”

Sam picked the newspaper out of my lap and read over the obituary of Steven Shoemaker.

“So what do you think really happened to this guy?”

I grinned. “That's what we're gonna find out. Let's go.”

I pushed Dean, and he grunted, pulling himself out of the car. I followed, and Sam got out too. We smiled at each other before heading into the hospital.

                                                             ***

“Alright, room 114.” Dean shoved his hands in his pockets.

I pointed to the door labeled MORGUE. Dean grinned proudly and Sam ruffled my hair as he passed by, leading us in. There were two desks, the empty one with a name plate labeled Dr. D. Feiklowicz. There was a man at the other desk. He was bald and his eyes were creepily settled on us, eyebrow quirked as we walked in.

“Can I help you?” He asked.

Dean nodded. “Yeah. We're the, uh… med students.” He bullshitted through a smile.

“Sorry?”

“Oh, Doctor… Figlavitch didn't tell you? We talked to him on the phone. He, uh, we're from Ohio State. He's supposed to show us the Shoemaker corpse. It's for our paper.” He gestured to Sam and I.

“Well, I'm sorry, he's at lunch.”

“Oh well he said, uh… oh, well, you know, it doesn't matter. You don't mind just showing us the body, do you?” Dean grinned.

The tech shook his head. “Sorry, I can't. Doc will be back in an hour. You can wait for him if you want.” He shrugged.

“An hour? Ooh.” Dean sucked in air through his teeth. “We gotta be heading back to Columbus by then.”

“Yeah.” Sam added.

“Uh, this paper’s worth over half my grade, so if you wouldn’t mind just helping us out?” I smiled.

“Uh, no.” The guy mocked my tone, tilting his head at me.

Dean laughed a bit, then turned around, grabbing me by the shoulder and pulling me with.

“I'm gonna hit him in his face, I swear.” He was still smiling, and his tone was kind.

I shot Sam my version of a puppy look, and he sighed, hitting Dean’s arm. He fished his wallet out of his pocket, and stepped ahead of us, laying down at least five twenties on the tech’s desk. The tech eyed the money, then pocketed it, getting up and plastering on a smile.

“Follow me.”

I followed, arms crossed over my chest. Sam and Dean didn’t follow, and I let out a long sigh.

“You sure you’re a college student?” The tech stopped in his tracks.

“Yeah. I graduated high school early. I’m seventeen.”

“You must be smart.” His gaze became predatory and he took a step closer, eyes at my chest. “A little more skin would’ve gotten you what you wanted. Didn’t need a hundred bucks. And what are they? Your boyfriends?”

“She’s my little sister.” Sam appeared, stepping in front of me.

I had never felt so thankful for the boy’s towering height until now. The tech only swallowed and walked us back into the morgue.

“Now the newspaper said his daughter found him. She said his eyes were bleeding.” Dean shook as at my other side.

The tech pulled the sheet over Shoemaker’s face. I grimaced as the stench of death reached my nose. Sam noticed, and pulled me into his side.

“More than that. They practically liquefied.”

“Any sign of a struggle? Maybe somebody did it to him?” Dean suggested.

The tech shook his head. “Nope. Besides the daughter, he was all alone.”

“What's the official cause of death?” Sam asked, arm locked around my shoulders.

“Ah, Doc's not sure. He's thinking massive stroke, maybe an aneurysm? Something burst up in there, that's for sure.”

Sam and I looked at each other, and he spoke for me.

“What do you mean?”

“Intense cerebral bleeding. This guy had more blood in his skull than anyone I've ever seen.” He seemed gleeful.

“The… the eyes. What could’ve caused something like that?” I asked.

“Capillaries can burst. See a lot of bloodshot eyes with stroke victims.” He shrugged again.

Dean snorted. “Yeah? You ever see exploding eyeballs?”

The tech squirmed. “That's a first for me, but hey, I'm not a doctor.”

Dean and I looked at each other, and he nodded. I wanted the police report. He would be able to get it.

“Hey, think we could take a look at that police report? You know, for uh… our paper.” Dean inched forward.

“I'm not really supposed to show you that.” The tech grinned, and it was disgusting.

Sam scoffed and began to pull out his wallet, but I tapped his arm. I popped to my toes and grabbed the tech by the shoulders, pulling him closer.

“Pretty please or your boss can find out how you tried to get into a seventeen year old’s pants and then my tall ass brother can beat the shit out of you.” I whispered with a smile.

I could feel Dean’s obnoxious, again prideful, smile. Sam pulled me back by the shoulders and tucked me under his arms. He smiled, hand on his hip. Dean grinned, and it was endearing. The tech’s shoulders fell.

                                                            ***

“Might not be one of ours. Might just be some freak medical thing.” Sam offered as we walked down the stairs.

“How many times in Dad's long and varied career has it actually been a freak medical thing and not some sign of an awful supernatural death?” Dean arched an eyebrow.

Sam was defeated. “Uh, almost never.”

Dean grinned. “Exactly.”

“Alright, let's go talk to the daughter.” I tugged Sam’s arm.

                                                            ***

“Feel like we're underdressed.” Dean whispered.

Everyone was wearing black suits and dresses, and the three of us stood in a canvas jacket, a leather jacket, and a flannel. Sam rolled his eyes and forced us to keep moving. We walked through the house, into the backyard.

“I’m sorry, have you seen Donna?” Sam asked a man who was taking a sip of his drink.

The man only pointed to a group of four girls. Two looked alike, and sort of like Shoemaker. Dean took the lead as we walked toward them.

“You must be Donna, right?”

“Yeah.” She looked up, eyeing us.

“Hi, uh… we’re really sorry.” Sam offered a polite smile. 

“Thank you.”

“I'm Sam, this is Olive, and that’s Dean. We worked with your dad.”

Donna looked to her friend, then back to Sam, and then to me.

“I’m an intern.” I piped up.

“You really worked with my dad?” She asked.

Dean stepped in with a nod. “Yeah. This whole thing…” Dean shook his head. “I mean, a stroke.”

“I don't think she really wants to talk about this right now.” Her friend cut in, trying to defend her.

Donna shook her head, hand on her friend’s arm. “It's okay. I'm okay.”

Dean’s demeanor softened. “Were there any symptoms? Dizziness? Migraines?”

Donna shook her head. “No.”

The younger girl turned around, pouting. “That's because it wasn't a stroke.”

Sam and I perked up.

“Lily, don’t say that.” Donna chided.

“What?” Sam tilted his head.

“I'm sorry, she's just upset.” Donna tried to brush it off, but Lily persisted. 

“No, it happened because of me.”

“Sweetie, it didn't.” Donna shook her head again.

“Lily?” Sam came down on one knee, now eye level with the girl. “Why would you say something like that?”

“Right before he died, I said it.” She whimpered.

Sam looked at me and I bent by his side.

“You said what?”

She looked up at me. She couldn’t have been any older than twelve, and I felt a sense of panic spark in me. Is this what I would be like if we didn’t find Dad? Sitting with my brothers and blaming myself?

“Bloody Mary, three times in the bathroom mirror.” She paused, then looked back to Sam, desperate for belief. “She took his eyes, that's what she does.”

Donna dismissed it once more. “That's not why Dad died. This isn't your fault.”

“I think your sister's right, Lily. There's no way it could have been Bloody Mary. Your dad didn't say it, did he?” Dean came to our side and squatted too.

Lily shook her head. “No, I don't think so.”

                                                            ***

My hand went for the door handle, and Sam stopped me, pushing me back into Dean as he opened the door instead. I peered under his shoulder to see dried blood on the floor. I grimaced.

“The Bloody Mary legend...Dad ever find any evidence that it was a real thing?” Sam called back over his shoulder.

Dean and I looked at each other, and I shook my head. “Not that we know of.”

We followed Sam into the bathroom, and he stooped down, touching the blood.

“I mean, everywhere else all over the country, kids will play Bloody Mary, and as far as we know, nobody dies from it.” I shrugged.

“Yeah, well, maybe everywhere it's just a story, but here it's actually happening.” Dean opened the medicine cabinet and fiddled with the things inside.

“The place where the legend began?” I pushed myself up to sit on the sink.

Sam stood up. “But according to the legend, the person who says B-” He cut himself off, realizing he was facing the mirror. He shut it, then turned around, leaning against the sink, by my side.

“The person who says you know what gets it. But here…”

Dean nodded. “Shoemaker gets it instead, yeah.”

I nodded too. “Right. De?”

Dean shook his head. “Never heard anything like that before.”

“Still, the guy did die right in front of the mirror, and the daughter's right. The way the legend goes, you know who scratches your eyes out.” I mimicked the motion, fingers going for Dean’s face.

He smacked my hand away with a playful roll of the eyes, and Sam laughed before becoming serious once more.

“It's worth checking in to. Come on, down.” Sam held a hand out and I grabbed it, squirming off the counter and onto my feet.

Dean led the way out of the bathroom and down the hall.

“What are you doing up here?” The girl from earlier was in front of us, and Dean tucked me between himself and Sam.

“We… we uh, had to go to the bathroom.” Dean stumbled on his words.

“Who are you?” Her eyes narrowed, and Sam’s hand came to my shoulder.

“Like we said downstairs, we worked with  Donna's dad.”

She shook her head. “He was a day trader or something. He worked by himself.”

“No, I know, we meant-”

“And he didn’t have interns.” She looked at me. “And all those weird questions downstairs, what was that? So you tell me what's going on, or I start screaming.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Alright, alright. We think something happened to Donna's dad.” I broke.

“Yeah, a stroke.”

I shook my head. “That's not what a stroke looks like. We think it might be something else.”

She was taken aback. “Like what?”

Sam shrugged. “Honestly? We don't know yet. But we don't want it to happen to anyone else. That's the truth.”

“So, if you're gonna scream, go right ahead.” Dean wasn’t impressed.

“Who are you, cops?”

Sam and I looked up at Dean.

“Something like that.”

“I'll tell you what. Here.” I picked a paper out of Sam’s pocket, and he handed me a pen.

I scribbled my phone number down, followed by Dean’s and gave it to her.

“If you think of anything, you or your friends notice anything strange, out of the ordinary… just give us a call.” I offered a polite smile before Dean walked us down the hall, Sam’s hand never leaving my shoulder.

                                                            ***

“Alright, say Bloody Mary really is haunting this town. There's gonna be some sort of proof. Like a local woman who died nasty.” Dean spoke as we walked through the library doors.

“Yeah but a legend this widespread it's hard. I mean, there's like 50 versions of who she actually is. One story says she's a witch, another says she's a mutilated bride, there's a lot more.” Sam smiled at a librarian as he spoke.

“Alright, so what are we supposed to be looking for?” Dean asked.

“Well every version's got a few things in common. It's always a woman named Mary, and she always dies right in front of a mirror. So we've gotta search local newspapers, public records as far back as they go. See if we can find a Mary who fits the bill.” I explained.

Dean’s lips curled back into a snarl. “Well that sounds annoying.”

Sam and I smiled. “Nah, it won't be so bad, as long as we-” Sam cut himself off I followed his line of sight, met with computers stamped with Out of Order signs on them. I sighed, and Sam let out a chuckle.

“He takes it back. This is gonna be super fucking annoying.”

                                                            ***

“Why’d you let me fall asleep?” Sam’s voice was weak and crackly, and his eyes were still half shut.

I ran a hand through his hair. I had my legs propped up on the library table, which was cluttered with public records. Sam had slumped into my lap a few hours earlier, and Dean wouldn’t let me wake him.

“‘Cause I’m an awesome brother and Olive can’t stop me. So, what’d you dream about?”

Sam looked up at me and smiled as I ruffled his hair. “Lollipops and candy canes.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure.”

I picked up a pen and flung it at Dean, glaring at him. Sam scoffed from his spot on my lap and looked back up at me.

“You guys find anything, bug?”

I shook my head, and Dean spoke.

“Besides a whole new level of frustration?”

Sam went to sit up and I pouted. He dropped his head back against my lap as Dean flipped through papers.

“No. We’ve looked at everything. A Laura and a Catherine committed suicide in front of a mirror, uh-”

“A giant mirror fell on a guy named Dave.” I shrugged. “But no Mary.”

Sam groaned. “Maybe we just haven’t found it yet.”

“I’ve got Dean searching for strange deaths in the area. Ya know, eyeball bleeding, that sorta shit. There’s nothing.”

Dean shook his head. “Whatever’s happening here… maybe it just ain’t Mary.”

Sam’s phone rang before anybody could say anything else, and he fished it out of his pocket before putting it up to his ear.

“Hello?”

I couldn’t hear who was calling, but Sam sat up, a look of concern painted across his gentle face.

                                                            ***

“And they found her on the bathroom floor. And her… her eyes. They were gone.” Charlie sobbed, and I reached for her hand, feeling awful.

She took it as I looked over my shoulder at Dean. His eyebrow was arched, but he said nothing, balancing on the back of the bench. I shifted my attention to Sam, who looked pitiful.

“I’m sorry.” He offered, hands in his pockets as he stood in front of us.

“And she said it.” Charlie looked to me, and I maintained eye contact, feeling the boys look at each other. “I heard her say it. But it couldn't be because of that. I'm insane, right?” She cried again.

“No.” I shook my head and squeezed her hand. “Charlie, no, you’re not insane.”

“Oh God, that makes me feel so much worse.” She whimpered.

“Look.” Sam was, as always, gentle but firm. “We think something's happening here. Something that can't be explained.”

“We’re gonna stop it. But we could use your help.” I looked at her.

                                                            ***

Charlie opened the window, and I jumped in before Sam and Dean, taking the duffle bag and dropping it on the floor. Sam crawled in after me, and Dean came last.

“What did you tell Jill's mom?” Sam asked as I began to pull out the gear we needed.

“Just that I needed some time alone with Jill's pictures and things.”

I handed Sam the camera as Dean shut the curtains. Charlie shivered.

“I hate lying to her.”

“Trust us, this is for the greater good. Hit the lights.” Dean’s tone was, again, kind.

Charlie turned the lights off. “What are you guys looking for?”

“We’ll let you know as soon as we find it.”

Sam continued to fumble with the camera and sighed before tossing it to Dean. “Hey, night vision.”

Dean clicked a button and handed it back to Sam.

“Perfect, thanks.” The taller boy mumbled as he aimed the camera.

Dean pursed his lips and puffed himself up, turning his back to the camera and looking over his shoulder. “Do I look like Paris Hilton?”

I giggled as Sam rolled his eyes, moving to Jill’s closet door. Dean pulled out his EMF meter and paced around the room. I crept into the bathroom, trying to stay within Sam’s reach just in case.

“So… I don't get it.”

Dean looked at me and I rolled my eyes. Whenever I said that, he thought I meant I didn’t understand what was happening.

“What I mean is the first victim didn't summon Mary, and the second victim did. How's she choosing them?”

Dean turned away. “Beats me. I wanna know why Jill said it in the first place.” Dean scoffed.

“It’s just a joke.” Charlie defended, and Sam moved my way as Dean continued.

“Anything, bug?” He asked.

I shrugged. “Nothing obvious.” When I hunted with Dean, I was in Sam’s place, but now I didn’t know what to do.

“Alright, c’mere and help me.” Sam pulled me under his arm as he shuffled into the bathroom, camera up. He ran it around the mirror, and I saw a trickle down the wall.

“Look.” I pointed.

He squinted. “Hey.” He called to Dean. “There’s a blacklight in the trunk, right?”

Dean scrambled out the window as I took the camera from Sam. He pulled the mirror off, setting it face down on the bed. Dean came back in and threw the blacklight our way. I caught it with fumbling hands and held it as Dean closed the curtains again. Sam peeled the brown paper off the back of the mirror, and I clicked the blacklight on before handing it to him.

There was a handprint, and bloody letters spelled out Gary Bryman.

“Gary Bryman?” Charlie read, confused.

“You know who that is?” I asked.

She looked up at me and shook her head. “No.”

She sighed and Sam and I looked at each other, then to Dean, eyes wide.

                                                            ***

“So, Gary Bryman was an eight year old. Killed two years ago in a hit and run.” I spoke to Dean and Charlie as Sam and I came up from behind.

“The car was described as a black Toyota Camry. But nobody got the plates or saw the driver.” Sam sat down and I leaned against him.

“Oh my god.” Charlie’s eyes widened.

Sam and I looked at each other. “What?”

“Jill drove that car.”

Dean seemed exasperated. “We need to get back to your friend Donna's house.”

                                                            ***

“Linda Shoemaker.” I read, sighing as the handprint lit up next to the name.

Sam looked up at me, and we looked at Dean. He sighed.

“Shoemaker killed his wife.”

I shrugged. “Or knew something about her death.”

“Either way.” Sam shrugged and got up.

We followed him downstairs.

“Donna, do you know a Linda Shoemaker by chance?” Sam asked.

“Why are you asking me this?” She squinted.

“Look, we're sorry, but it's important.” Sam pressed.

Donna sighed, but spoke as Charlie nodded at her. “Yeah. Linda's my mom okay? She overdosed on sleeping pills, it was an accident, and that's it.” Charlie’s eyes widened, and the boys and I looked at each other. “I think you should leave.”

Dean put a hand out. “Now Donna, just listen.”

“Just get out of my house!” She pushed past Dean and around the stairs.

“Oh my God. Do you really think her dad could've killed her mom?” Charlie crossed her arms over her chest.

“Maybe.” Sam tilted his head.

“I think I should stick around.” Charlie winced.

Sam nodded, and Dean sighed. “Alright. Just whatever you do, don’t…” Dean made a face.

“Believe me, I won’t say it.” She shook her head.

                                                            ***

I was running through the records again, sitting next to Dean, slumped against his arm as he stared at the laptop, mouth set into a pout and eyes wide and focused.

“Wait, wait, wait, you're doing a nationwide search?” Sam turned from the papers tacked onto the wall to us.

“Yep. The NCIC, the FBI database. At this point any Mary who died in front of a mirror is good enough for me.” Dean’s eyes remained strangely wide.

“But, De, if she’s haunting the town, she should’ve died in the town.” I looked up from the papers in my lap.

“I'm telling you, sweetie, there's nothing local, we’ve checked. So unless you two got a better idea…”

“The way Mary’s choosing her victims, it seems like there’s a pattern.” Sam scratched his head.

“I know, I was thinking the same thing.” Dean looked to him.

“With Shoemaker, and Jill’s hit and run,” I started

“Both had secrets where people died.” Dean caught on with a nod.

“Yeah. I mean, there’s a lot of folklore about mirrors. That, that they reveal all your lies, your secrets, that they’re a true reflection of your soul, which is why it’s bad luck to break them.” I rubbed my eyes.

Dean took his arm back and threw it around me. “Right, right. So maybe if you've got a secret, I mean like a really nasty one where someone died, then Mary sees it, and punishes you for it.”

“Whether you're the one that summoned her or not.” Sam concluded.

Dean turned back to the computer. “Take a look at this.”

There was a picture of a woman lying in front of a mirror, in a puddle of blood. I wrinkled my nose and sighed through my nose.

Dean printed two pictures, and Sam took the first one. I grabbed the second, sighing. It was a handprint, the letters Tre by the side. I got out of my seat and pushed at Sam’s arm. He moved it and let me drop into his lap, putting the picture side-by-side with the ones we had taken of Jill’s and the Shoemaker’s mirror.

“Looks like the same handprint.” He nodded.

“Yeah, her name was Mary Worthington. An unsolved murder in Fort Wayne, Indiana.” Dean looked at us with lips pursed and eyebrows raised.

                                                            ***

“Why do I have to stay?” I pouted.

“Because you still have to go to school. We’ll be back before school lets out, promise.” Dean patted my head.

I scowled and ducked away from his hand, glaring at Sam. “This isn’t fair.”

“Bug, come on. We all grew up like this.”

“Yeah, but before I had at least one of you! Now you’re just gonna leave me here in Toledo while you guys drive all the way to Indiana?” I gestured with my hands.

“Sweetpea, it’s only two hours. You’ll be okay.” Dean put his arms in his pockets and I stomped my foot, feeling like a child.

“Sammy, what if something happens?” I turned to him.

“Sweetheart, you can handle yourself. It’ll be okay.” Dean reassured.

I groaned, then looked over my shoulder at the high school. I turned back to my brothers and sighed. “Can’t believe you guys.”

“Alright, hey, bug, look at me. We’ll be back before you know it. I promise.” Sam held his pinky finger out for mine. I sighed before hooking them together.

“Anything happens, you call me. Okay? We’ll turn right around. Dean’s driving, so we’ll be back, quick.” He kissed the top of my head.

I closed my eyes and sighed again. I wasn’t keen on being separate from my brothers. Elementary school had been the worst, because Dean was in high school, and Sam was in middle school. When I got up to middle school, Dean was already out, and he was the one to drop me off and pick me up, and if he couldn’t, Sam could sneak out of high school to come get me. But now, in high school, alone? It was like being five all over again.

“We promise. Everything’s gonna be okay. Alright? We love you. Be good.” Dean kissed my forehead.

I hugged him, then kissed his cheek. He winked at me and I hugged Sam, sighing.

“It’s gonna be alright, bug. I promise.” He stressed.

I rolled my eyes and kissed his cheek. “Love you guys.”

“We love you too.”

                                                            ***

I sighed as the bell rang. I had skipped out on my art class, because Donna was in it and she gave me a lethal glare the moment I walked in. I was hiding in the bathroom, propped up on the toilet, balanced on my feet. I had my head in my hands. Being apart from the boys was stressing me out more than I had anticipated, especially with Dad being gone. I was beginning to think that Dean and I, and after Jessica’s death, maybe Sam too, were dangerously codependent. Not that any of us had addictions or an awful mental health, but we literally could not stand to be apart, and without each other, we all fell apart.

“I mean, you bring these strangers into my house and they ask me things like that?” I heard Donna, and I winced.

“They were only trying to help. Please, Donna, you have to believe me.” Charlie followed.

“What? About Bloody Mary?” Donna hissed.

“Please, I know it sounds crazy-”

“Crazy doesn’t even begin to cover it! I mean, it’s one thing for Lily to believe this shit, she’s twelve. But you?”

“Think about the way your dad died, okay? And the way Jill died.” Charlie pleaded.

“Okay, so. Bloody Mary.”

I dug my face into my hands and tried to stifle a groan. Chances were, that if I stepped out to stop Donna, she would sock me in the face.

“No!” Charlie tried.

“Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary.” She finished, and another pause followed. “See? Nothing happened.”

“Oh my God.” Charlie whimpered. “Why would you do that?”

“Jesus Christ. There really is something wrong with you.” Donna scoffed before storming out.

I bounded out of the stall, running straight into Charlie.

“What’s gonna happen now?”

“She’s gonna kill someone with a secret.” I panted, looking anywhere but the mirror. “Just have to make sure we don’t look at anything with a reflection.”

“You’re scared. Oh my God, you have a secret!” She shouted.

“Charlie, please!” I shushed her, dragging her out of the bathroom.

“What the fuck are you not telling me?”

I sighed, closing my eyes as we stood against the lockers.

“When I was twelve… Sam was at school, Dean and my dad were at work.” I swallowed. “There was a guy. H-he-he was probably in his thirties. I was walking back from the laundromat, and…” I whimpered.

“I’m sorry.”

“I fought back before he could do anything, and I kicked him in the head. I didn’t mean to kick as hard as I did, and… he died. I ran home, and I never said anything to anyone until now.” I shuddered.

“I’m so sorry, Olive.” She frowned.

I shook my head to clear it, then grabbed her by the arm again. “It’s fine. I’m fine. We just have to wait for my brothers to come back. They’ll stop this.”

                                                            ***

“Elements that lose electrons become positive ions, which are smaller than other atoms of the same element.”

I rolled my eyes. Chemistry was the worst science class I had ever taken. The teacher kept going, and I took off my glasses, cleaning them. I rubbed my eyes before putting the glasses back on. They were now clean, and the reflections were clear. May was standing behind me, covered in blood. I ripped the glasses off, letting them slam onto the desk. Charlie screamed from the row beside me, and she threw a compac at the ground.

“Shit.” I hissed, getting up as she sprang from her seat.

The other students backed away from her, and the teacher shouted her name. She stopped in front of the window, and I caught Mary’s reflection, albeit a tad fuzzy, along with everything else. Charlie stood, frozen. I picked up her stool and threw it through the window, breaking Mary’s reflection.

“Miss Winchester!” The teacher shouted at me now.

Charlie ran, and he grabbed her. I ran to my desk, grabbing my phone, my glasses, and my journal.

“Charlie, stop it! What’s wrong? Just calm down!” He ordered, but she looked at his glasses and screamed again.

“Let me go!” She tried to escape his grip.

“Fuck.” I growled, hitting his wrists until his grip loosened.

I grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her along with me as she continued to scream.

                                                            ***

“Sam!” I shouted, crying.

“Bug? Babes, what’s wrong?”

“She said it. Donna said it.” My eyes were burning.

“Shit. Are you okay? Where are you?”

There was a rush of air, and my breathing evened a bit when I heard Dean’s gruff voice.

“Sweetpea, what happened?”

“Donna said it, and Mary came after me and Charlie.”

“Son of a bitch. Where are you?”

“Motel room. Broke all the mirrors I could find, shoved my glasses under a pillow. Don’t know if I got them all. De, I’m scared.” I whimpered.

“Alright, sweetheart. I’m giving you back to Sam. We’re almost home, promise. Just keep your eyes closed.”

“Okay.”

“Bug, we’ll be there in ten, okay? Make sure Charlie keeps her eyes closed too.”

I nodded. “She’s right next to me.” I squeezed her hand. We hadn’t let go of each other since we ran out of school.

“Okay. It’s gonna be okay, ug. I swear.”

“Sams, I’m scared.”

“I know, honey. But it’s gonna be okay. I promise you.”

“Sammy?”

“What is it, bug?”

“Can you stay?”

“Of course I can, baby girl.”

                                                            ***

“Ollie, we’re coming in.” I heard Sam and I let out a strangled cry.

The door clicked open, and I was pulled up. I wrapped myself around Sam and cried, burying my head into his shoulder.

“It’s okay. We’re here now, bug. It’s okay. I promise.”

“Sammy, help me out here.” Dean called him.

“No! Sams, please.” I tightened my arms.

“Bug, he can’t reach the last mirror. Here, he’ll take you.”

Before I could protest, I was shifted off and sat in Dean’s lap.

“S’okay. Promise.” Dean whispered.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. Hey. You guys can open your eyes now.” Sam whispered, kneeling by the side of the bed.

I slowly opened my eyes and pulled back. Dean’s freckled face was visible in the dark. Sam’s hand came to my back and I squirmed away from Dean, throwing myself at Sam. He caught me against his side with a grunt. He pulled me up and sat on the other side of the bed.

“Now, listen. You two are gonna stay right here on this bed. And you’re not gonna look at glass, or anything else that has a reflection, okay?” Sam instructed, rubbing my back. “As long as you do that, she can not get to you.”

There was a long pause, and I buried my head into Sam’s neck, again closing my eyes.

“But I can’t keep that up forever.” Charlie broke the silence. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?”

“No. No. Not anytime soon.” Sam shook his head.

“Alright, Charlie. We need to know what happened.” Dean’s voice was gentle, and I couldn’t help but look up at him.

“It’s like Olive told you. We were in the bathroom. Donna said it.” She whimpered.

Sam sighed, arms tightening around me.

“That’s not what we’re talking about. Something happened, didn’t it? In your life… a secret. Where someone got hurt. Can you tell us about it?” Dean coaxed.

Charlie began to cry, and the boys looked at each other. “I had this boyfriend. I loved him. But he kind of scared me too, you know?” Her breaths were shuddered. “And one night, at his house, we got in this fight. Then I broke up with him, and he got upset, and he said he needed me and he loved me, and he said ‘Charlie, if you walk out that door right now, I'm gonna kill myself.’” Her voice cracked, and Dean looked to Sam. “And you know what I said? I said ‘Go ahead.’ And I left.” She whimpered. “How could I say that? How could I leave him like that?” She looked to Dean, and then Sam. “ I just...I didn't believe him, you know? I should have.” She buried her face back into her knees and began to cry once more.

There was a long pause, and then Sam looked down at me. I began to cry, and I ducked my head back into his shoulder.

“Bug.” He whispered.

“No.” I whined.

“Bug, look at me.”

“No, Sams. Your eyes always have a reflection in them.” I whispered.

He sighed, then stuck his mouth by my ear. “Okay. Then talk to me.”

I shook my head, crying.

“Bug, please.”

“No, Sams.” I repeated.

“Baby girl, please. Whatever you did, I’m not upset with you. Dean won’t be upset either. Right?”

“Of course not.” I felt the bed dip as Dean moved next to me.

I cried, shaking my head.

“Bug. Please.” Sam whispered.

“Promise.” I whispered.

“Swear on my mother’s grave.” Dean’s voice was soft.

I looked up at him, then put my head back down, again crying.

“Babes. Please.” Sam cooed.

I sighed, letting my breathing even out. “It was the year after you left.” I whimpered.

“Shh, shh. It’s okay. Just tell us what happened.”

“De, y-you and Dad w-w-w-were on a hunt.”

“Shh shh shh.” Sam rubbed my back.

“And I went to do laundry. And when I went back to the motel, this guy trapped me in an alleyway.” I sniveled.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Dean’s hand came to the back of my head and I could feel the anger in his blood.

I shook my head. “I fought back, De. I fought as hard as I could, b-but…”

“Bug. It’s okay. Keep going.” Sam cooed again.

“I kicked him in the head, and I didn’t mean to, Sams, but I-I killed him.” I bawled. “I’m sorry!”

I felt the boys looking at each other, and Dean pressed a kiss to the side of my head. “It’s okay. We’re not upset.”

“Babes, we’re gonna go stop her. Okay?” Sam whispered, and Dean gave my head another kiss before getting up.

“No.” I shook my head, clinging to Sam. “No, Sams, please, please, please don’t leave me, not again.” I whined.

He shushed me again. “Baby girl, I have to. I have to stop her, so we can save you.”

“Sams, please.” I cried.

“It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

“Hey, hey, okay.” I felt Dean pull me off and sit me down. “Listen to me.”

I sniffled and tried to stop crying. Dean cradled my face in his hands, wiping my tears away. Sam smoothed my hair back, and Dean’s calloused thumb ran over my cheek. I calmed down, breathing through my mouth.

“We’re gonna save you. We’ll be back before you know it. I promise. You’re gonna be okay. Okay?”

I sighed before nodding. “Okay.”

“Okay. Stay here. Anything happens, you call. Alright?” Dean murmured.

I nodded again. “I love you guys.”

A kiss to the forehead and another to the top of my head.

“We love you too, Ol.”

                                                            ***

“Sam, how the fuck are you gonna get her to come out?” I asked.

I had called them as soon as I noticed the flaw in their plan.

“Don’t worry about it, bug.” I heard him lower his voice. “Come on. Come into this one.”

“Oh my fucking god, Sam! You summoned her, didn’t you?”

“It’s your fault. You killed her. You killed Jessica.” The second voice, almost Sam’s voice, but not quite, came.

“Sam?”

The phone thudded, and he grunted. I heard a metallic crash, and I panicked.

“Sam!”

“You never told her the truth! Who you really were!” A loud crash followed, and Sam was gasping.

“Sams.” I whimpered.

“But it’s more than that, isn’t it? Those nightmares you’ve been having of Jessica dying. Screaming! Burning! You had them for days before she died! Didn’t you?”

I whimpered, throwing my head back against the headboard. “Sammy, please.”

“You were so desperate to ignore them, to believe they were just dreams. How could you ignore them like that? How could you leave her alone to die! You dreamt it would happen!”

There was a smashing of glass, and the voice disappeared.

“Sam! Sammy!” Dean was on the other side now.

“It’s Sam.”

“God, are you okay?”

I sighed. “Boys!”

“Ol. Jesus, you really can’t be apart from us, can you?” Dean picked up the phone and chuckled.

“I just wanted to make sure you knew how to get her. Is Sam okay?”

“Yeah, he’s fine. Come on, come on.”

There was another thud, and Dean hissed.

“Boys!”

There was no response.

“You killed them! All those people! You killed them!” It was a girl’s voice, and there was choking and another shatter of glass.

“Boys?”

“We’re okay. Hey Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“This has gotta be like… what? Six hundred years of bad luck?”

I could hear Sam’s laugh. “Yeah, probably. It’s over, bug. We’re coming home, alright?”

“Can I take the blankets off now? I think I look like total shit.”

Sam snorted. “Sure, babes. Just… be careful. Just in case.”

I rolled my eyes, yanking the blanket off the big mirror, scowling at my tear-stained face.

“Oh gross.”

                                                            ***

“So this is really over?” Charlie asked as Dean parked in front of her house.

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “It’s over.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

Dean reached over the back to shake her hand. She hugged me quickly before getting out of the car.

“Charlie?” Sam called.

She turned around, head tilted.

“Your boyfriend's death… you really should try to forgive yourself. No matter what you did, you probably couldn't have stopped it. Sometimes bad things just happen.” Sam shrugged.

Charlie smiled at him. “Bye, Winchesters.” She turned and disappeared into the house.

“Hey.” Dean leaned over to hit Sam’s arm. “That’s good advice.”

He drove off, and I sighed between my brothers. I had buried my secret deep in the back of my brain, horrified my brothers would be upset with me. But now it was out, and although I felt relieved, I couldn’t help but replay what I had heard over the phone.

“Hey, Sam?” Dean broke the silence.

“Yeah?” Sam turned.

“Now that this is all over, I want you to tell me what that secret is.” Dean’s eyes went from the road to Sam, and back.

“Look, Dean… you're my brother and I'd die for you… but there are some things I need to keep to myself.” Sam looked out the window.

I looked up at him and felt my heart shatter. I had loved Jess too. She became the mother I never had. It was a type of love that, no matter how hard my brothers tried, they couldn’t give me. I bit my lip and threw my arms around Sam. He tensed, taken aback. I whimpered against him and he softened, wrapping his arms back around me with a sigh.

Previous Ep: Phantom Traveler (1.04)

Next Ep: Skin (1.06)

[realm-sweet-realm]

Defining Memories, chapter 6

The memories continued, seemingly in no particular order. Some of the memories were relatively normal and tame. The group saw Shawn spending winter nights at home with his family in Ireland. They saw Jack getting bullied as a child. They saw Lacie leaving her abusive home as a teenager and moving in with her older sister, finally receiving the love and care that had been missing from her life. Lacie refused to say why or even if she was kicked out.

After that, though, the memories turned more violent. They saw Lacie getting a beating in prison, which she was... actually capable of laughing at now. The no one in the group was sure whether to respect or fear her for that, but Bertrum, Shawn and Grant were supportive, at least.

Shawn’s memory took place in what appeared to be a dive bar. He was with two other men, loudly and drunkenly telling a fish story, when their little group was approached by a fourth man. The man tapped Shawn on the shoulder, and, in a husky but more than slightly tipsy voice, said, “Hey. You wanna pay our tab tonight? You’ll be sorry if you don’t.” The man was fairly tall, very large, and had some tattoos on him. In spite of what was clearly prison ink, he was wearing the green jacket Shawn knew as the uniform of some grease cart whose name he didn’t bother to remember. Somewhere in his drunken haze, Shawn was thinking that this man must be some recently released criminal, unused to the real world and just spoiling for the familiarity of either bullying someone into submission or a fight.

Shawn burst out laughing. “Nope.”

“I don’t think you understand,” the man growled. Two other man appeared behind him.

“Oh, ah understand you alright. And I ain’t payin’ you a cent!”

The intimidating man grinned. “Oh, you’ll pay for that!”

“Shall we show him, laddies?” Shawn asked his drinking buddies, a huge, sadistic smile adorning his face.

The tussle broke out. Shawn himself was on the short side, lean and wiry, and looked like the easiest target, so naturally, their leader slugged him first. A good deal of lesser men would have been taken out by that shot, but not Shawn. The bigger of Shawn’s friends threw himself on to Shawn’s assailant, allowing Shawn to land a wicked right cross on one of the leader’s friends. Shawn and the other man exchanged blows for a few seconds before Shawn grabbed his opponent’s shoulders and kneed him in the ribs, leaving him doubled over. He then picked up a bar stool and swung it over his head with intent to smash it over his opponent. In that moment, however, the jailbird hit him in the back with another barstool, causing him to accidentally lose his grip on it and throw it completely off trajectory. He fell to the ground yelled, “stop! I’ll pay!”

He’d said it out of panic, but surveying the damage, he could tell that he and his friends had lost. The jailbird has knocked his bigger friend unconscious. Shawn lifted himself from the ground, paid the man’s tab, and propped his friend up in the booth as he regained consciousness.

“Is he going to be okay?” Lacie asked.

“Yes,” Shawn said in a very serious voice.

Lacie didn’t get it. So Shawn lost a bar fight. The two of them together had done so a few times (not that their win-to-loss ratio was anything too shabby), and Shawn had never taken it too seriously. What made this his worst memory?

“Hey. You okay, buddy? Should I call a doctor?” Shawn said to his friend.

Shawn’s friend gripped his bleeding temple, groaned, then nodded. Shawn didn’t have to, however. Medical personnel arrived before he could even ask the bartender for use of the public phone. The medical personnel were not, however, focused on Shawn’s friend, but on a man in the corner who had been knocked cold. A painful dent could be seen on his skull, and right next to him lay a bloody barstool. Shawn was frozen in shock.

The scene shifted to that of a courtroom. Shawn, his two friends, and the trio they had fought, were there. All six of them looked shaken, and Shawn was shaking like a leaf. Banging his gavel, the judge said, “We have had many corroborating accounts that what took place was a consensual fight, and that the person, named George Rodriguez, injured was injured entirely accidentally and was not a part of the fight. The barstool that injured the victim was covered in fingerprints of many people, including two of the people involved in the consensual fight. There were no witness reports as to who threw the bar stool, and the reports of all accused are contradictory, with no way of knowing who is telling the truth. As a result, there is insufficient evidence to charge any of the accused with assault or criminal negligence. Case dismissed.” A massive amount of tension left Shawn’s body, but he was still shaking.

The scene changed. Shawn was in a hospital setting, talking to a receptionist. “Is there a George Rodriguez here?” he asked. The receptionist shook her head. The scene changed several times after that, with Shawn asking the same question to four different receptionists in four different hospitals. Finally, at the fourth one, he asked, “How many of hospitals are there in New York, anyhow?”

“Forty. But I read about George Rodriguez in the news. I could call some other hospitals if you want to try and find him. And who are you to want to see him?”

“Ah was standing trial fer hurtin’ him. Falsely, of course. Ah wanna if he’s okay.”

The receptionist slowly shook her head. “They’d never go for that. You could be there to threaten him or deliver a bribe for his silence.” Shawn’s eyes lit up suddenly. “He’s alive enough fer that?”

“I wouldn’t know. The news article said he was in pretty rough shape. Had a pretty big dent in his head.” Shawn’s face fell again. The scene changed to him arriving home and pounding down enough whiskey to help him forget that he'd lied in court and might have killed a man and had no way of finding out.

The group was silent awhile. “Wasn’t your fault, Shawn,” Lacie said finally, putting her arm around him. Grant and Wally also tried to comfort him.

After they were finished with that, Henry stepped in. “Did you check the obituaries in the newspapers?” he asked. “There’s a good chance that he’s completely fine now.”

“Nah, Ah’d rather leave it to mystery. There’s also a chance he’s dead.”

Henry decided that he’d grab Wally and get him to search for the name “George Rodriguez” in a phone book. If the man was well, it would probably be a huge weight off Shawn’s mind.

After two memories that included vicious assault, the group could have used a calming memory. And seeing the golden light appear by Jack’s shoulder, it seemed that that was what they were in for.

The scene changed into that of a cozy-looking house, which Sammy could recognize as Jack’s house. Jack himself looked somewhat younger, maybe by five or ten years, and was having dinner by candlelight with another man.

“Alright, Jack,” the other man said, "You said you had something to show me?”

“Well, Terry, I spent a long time thinking about how to make our anniversary special,” he began, “and since we’ve been living together a while now, I thought that maybe we could buy some rings.”

His husband cocked an eyebrow. “So we can leave them at home?”

“Nope! Here’s the plan: we’ll get two rings from different places, in totally different styles. We can say they’re from our ‘wives’ if anyone asks. That’ll get your parents off your back about getting married, at least. But on the inside...”

“Song lyrics?”

“You know it!”

A sly smile spread across Terry’s face. “Your song lyrics?”

Jack smiled. “Well, I hadn’t decided yet. Wanted you to choose. It’s your anniversary present.”

“You know I’m going to choose your lyrics.”

The two met eyes. “You’re the sweetest person I’ve ever met,” Jack said. “I’ll put in the order tomorrow.”

The scene faded. Despite the memory being almost saccharine, Jack looked humiliated. He scanned the room. If there was any real outrage, they didn’t show it. Susie and Wally seemed to find it adorable.

Henry was averting his eyes, but that was the worst reaction he saw. Jack’s eyes landed on an unconcerned-looking Joey. Anyone else’s ire he could take, but...

“What?” Joey asked curtly.

“...Are you going to fire me?”

“Oh, no,” he said in a gentle tone. “I mean, I wouldn’t be taking Terry to any office parties- I wish none of my workers would be bad about it, but that’s very unlikely and I won’t be caught defending you- but beyond that, why would I care?” Joey then realized something, and scanned the room. “You’re all trustworthy, right?” His eyes landed on the oldest, most powerful, and most vindictive person in the room. “Bertrum?”

“Mr. Drew, when I bring you to your knees it’s going to be for something much more humbling than looking the other way on this.”

Joey grinned. With Bertrum usually being so passive-aggressive, this openness was a nice change of pace.

Lacie looked to Bertrum, who gave her a nod and an encouraging little push. “Hey, Jack. Why don’t my ‘wife’ and I be your fake ‘wives’ if anyone asks? It’ll seem more believable if we both have names to give.”

“That sounds like a great idea, uh, Lacie, was it?”

“Yep.”

“Wow. Not often I meet other gay people. And uh, I’m sorry your parents kicked you out.”

“Oh, that’s not what that was about. They were narcissistic heaps of trash in general, so I never took the risk of telling them. My sister knows, though.”

“Uh, guys?” Wally cut in. The group turned to see that he held the light now, glowing yellow in his hand. “My turn.”

[shysupernaturalfangirl]

Different - Dean Winchester x Reader - Part 2

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing(s): Dean x Reader

World: Reverse French Mistake AU

Word Count: 1,796

Warning(s): Cussing, Suggestive Thoughts

Summary: It’s every fan-girl’s dream to either, end up in the world of their fantasies, their fandom, or to wind up with on of the actors or characters. There is a couple thousand fanfictions with such circumstances. She never thought in her wildest dreams, that she’d actually end up in a fanfiction situation.

Taglist: @sillydecoy @blackeyedangel9805 @heythereamigodude

 Sitting on the table in the kitchen, I swing my pajama clad legs, watching Dean Winchester as he flips an omelet, my eyes trailing over his bare back, taking in the rippling muscles as he moves, cooking with a speediness that only a professional chef could match. Crossing my arms over my chest, I clench my hands into fists to keep from touching him, my inner fan-girl going rabid for the chance. “So it’s been a week since you’ve been here. We don’t know anything about you.” Dean points out, snapping me from my reverie as I bite my bottom lip, thinking on his words.

 “Well, what would you like to know?” I ask, causing him to turn to the table I’m on, the pan in his hand as he scrapes the omelet onto a plate, sprinkling some cheese on top with the rest of the bacon that he’d cooked, before sticking a fork in it, to hand it to me.

 “What do you do in your world?” He asks as soon as I taken a bite of the omelet, the bacon, cheese, sausage, mushrooms, and tomatoes each bring a singular burst of flavor, before coming together in a cohesive song, the taste causing me to hum.

 “This is really good.” I point out, sawing another bite off, while Dean chuckles. “I actually work as a Writer for my local Newspaper. It doesn’t pay much, the boss is perverted, and the hours suck, but I can pay my rent, utilities, and get food for myself and Daisy, so I’m not much for protesting.” I explain, causing him to nod.

 “What do you write? Sports? Obituaries?” He inquires as he leans against the table next to me, crossing his arms over his chest, making the muscles bludge, rendering me silent for a minute as I swallow thickly. Don’t think about them! Don’t. Too late. Good Chuck! I’d love those arms wrapped around my waist, or his fingers around my thighs. Mm. “Emily?” I jump at his voice, his hand resting on my shoulder, causing me to blush.

 “Eheh.” I give a nervous laugh. “Uh, no.” I remember his question now. “I actually write for the Dear Abby column. It’s an advice column, whether it’s about romance, or school, or family, I’m your gal.” I explain, causing Dean to nod, humming in thought as I shovel a couple more bites into my mouth.

 “So, if I wrote to you about a fight between Sam and I, you’d be able to give advice?” Dean asks.

 “Or, about a person you want to woo. Moving out on your own. Getting a dog. Basically anything you have questions for, if I chose your letter, I’d have to come up with advice for.” I explain, causing him to nod, understanding my words now. “It’s actually a lot harder than it sounds, actually. I have to be careful not to sound offensive to others reading the article, or give the advice that I’d given in the past, and that’s more difficult than you’d believe.”

 “Sounds like you enjoy writing.” He says, causing me to blush, smiling to myself.

 “Yeah. I’ve been working my way up to writing my own book. Making connections, talking with publishers, finding an editor who will take a chance on rookie with a pipedream.” I shake my head, spearing a mushroom with my fork, and popping it into my mouth. “And right now that’s all it is. Being an author is a very difficult job- just look at Chuck.”

 “Well, Chuck has a lot more going for him. Being a Prophet of God doesn’t seem that simple.” I pause at his words, stiffening as I realize that he doesn’t know! Ho-ly Chuck! I shovel the rest of the omelet into my mouth. “You done?” He asks, taking the plate before I can answer, causing me to watch as he takes it to the sink with the rest of the dishes, and I press off the table, hopping down to walk over to his side.

 “Let me help.” I state, causing him to glance at me, before shrugging.

 “You don’t have to.”

 “I want to.”

 “Alright, you rinse.” He says, causing me to nod, the two of us get to work washing, rinsing, and stacking the dishes. “Careful with this one.” He says, handing me a large plate, which I stick under the faucet, turning it on, only for water to spurt up, spraying the two of us as I let out a laugh and scream, flinching as Dean dives for the knob. “I said careful!” He smirks as I scowl at him, flinging a soaked arm at him, the water splashing him in the face, causing his face to fall, a serious look coming over it. “Oh that’s it. He grabs a cup of water flinging the liquid at me.

 “Dean Winchester, you are so dead!” I snarl, causing his eyes to widen, before he takes off through the kitchen and down the hall. Grabbing a bowl full of water, I give chase, following him throughout the Bunker, until we get to the library, where he dashes behind Sam. “Human shields won’t protect you!” I scream, dashing across the room, jumping onto the table. “Sorry Sam, he deserves this!” I splash the two of them with the water, Sam’s eyes widen as Dean stands, grabbing me around the waist as I let out a scream, laughing as he lifts me from the table, the bowl falls from my grasp as Dean chuckles spinning around. “Put me down! Put me down! Dean!” My voice pitches as it becomes harder to breath from laughing. “Dean!!!” He panics at my cry, setting me down as I take a gulp of breath, squatting down to wrap my around my knees.

 “You alright?” He asks, tone worried as I take a few more breathes.

 “S-Sorry. I couldn’t breath.” I explain, causing him to chuckle.

 “It’s alright,” He pats my back carefully, allowing me to take some deep breathes, before I sit up again. “you feel better?”

 “Too excited. Too much...” I smile at him. “I feel a lot better.” He helps me to my feet as Sam stands, clearing his throat.

 “Why don’t we get changed, and then start looking for a hunt?” Sam says, allowing me to glance at Dean, before smiling at his brother.

 “Time for something other than PJs.” I state, spinning around with a hop, before waltzing out of the library, into my room, not far from Dean’s. Dressing in a pair of jean and black short sleeve, pulling my red hair back into a ponytail before I tug on my combat boots. “Ready for the hunt for the hunt!” I call as I enter the library, Sam and Dean are on their laptops, when Dean hands me a book.

 “Lore studying.” He says, causing me to huff, dropping into a chair, flipping the book open with an annoyed sigh.

 “Lame.” I state, causing him to chuckle.

 “Well, Sweetheart, ya gotta start somewhere.” Dean answers.

 “When do we get to the guns?” He looks up at my question, before shaking his head.

 “Learning the lore will help further in hunts.” Sam answers.

 “I know about as much as you guys do. I’ve been watching Supernatural for ages.” I point out, causing Sam and Dean to exchange looks.

 “Why are you so interested in that show?” Sam asks, causing me to look right at him and Dean, before looking away.

 “Oh look! Werewolves!” I state, changing the subject, noticing out of the corner of my eye, that the two of them exchange looks of confusion. Leaning back in my chair, flipping through the book with a soft hum.

 “Uh... Emily-”

 “You can call me, Em.”

 “Uh, Em... You should know that you can talk to us. Anything from the past can be important to our investigation on how and why you came here.” Sam states, causing me to glance up, seeing the two of them looking at me in worry.

 “It’s... a bit personal.” I explain, causing Dean to press off the table, walking over to me. “W-What?”

 “Nothing.” He shakes his head, placing his hand on my head, causing my to look at him in confusion. “You stay here with Sam, I’m gonna do a food run.”

 “Ooh, Bacon Cheese burger with curly fries, and a vanilla milkshake please.” I squeak, causing Dean to eye me, before he chuckles.

 “Sure thing, Sweetheart.” He pats my head, before he glances at Sam. “Salad?” He asks, raising an eyebrow, and Sam nods. “Alright, be good.” He shoots me, before walking past Sam, patting his brother on the shoulder. “Keep an eye on her.”

 “Of course.” Sam nods, causing me to laugh.

 “I’m not that much trouble!” I call as he leaves the library, Sam chuckles as I turn back to my book, the front door shutting behind him.

 “He’s getting protective of you.” I glance over at Sam, who is scouring the web, eyes attentive despite the conversation he’s started. I grapple for a response, scanning the words in the book, before sighing as I close it, setting it on the table to look at the younger of the brothers.

 “I don’t need anyone to be protective of me.” He looks at me. “I’ve been through hell, Sam. Not like you, it’s not as bad as anything you and Dean have through, but I have a past too. It’s hell for me.” Swallowing thickly, I grip my arms to my chest, looking down. “I don’t need protection. Despite what you think.”

 “We’re going to be protective of you.” Sam says, causing me to frown. “It’s our responsibility to protect you. Dean... He takes these things seriously, even more than me. We’re worried about you.” He looks up at me finally. “We’re here to protect you. You can count on us, even if there are things that you don’t think you can tell us, believe me. We want to know. We want to protect you.” He explains.

 “You... hardly know me.” I murmur, bringing my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. “You can preach, and bleed, and sacrifice, and pep for each other, but... I’m just me. I’m alone.” I brush my locks from my face. “I don’t expect either of you, or even Cas, to do for me, what you do for each other. I’m willing to hold my own, fight back against the evil within me, or around me. To be strong for others and myself. It’s... on me.” Sam sighs, carding his fingers through his hair.

 “You may not expect it. But, you got it.” Sam grins. “Lets see you earn it.” I glance at him, before I feel a smile upon my lips.

 “You got it.”

[thejollyroger-writer]

Won’t You Help Me Feel Something Again

Inspired by this prompt post, reblogged by @killian-whump , and then--SURPRISE--I added too much backstory and made it terribly painful, physically and emotionally. Thanks for that, PMS. Excellent. Title from the song “Sober Up” by AJR. 

Rated T for torture, tears, death, and lots and lots of feelings. 

Also on AO3, if that’s your thing.

Killian leans his head back until it hits the surface he's laying on. He never thought he would be thankful for the hard, cold feel of concrete against his back, but in this moment, he can swear that it's the greatest thing he's ever felt.

He tries to open his eyes, but it turns out to be useless. All he sees are blurs around him, the piercing brightness of the lights above him, and he slowly closes them again.

He feels something touching him—someone, a woman, with soft hands pressing lightly on his chest, his arms, his ribs, leaving throbbing pain in their wake.

It is not until he starts speaking that he notices the ringing in his ears, the blinding pain of his throat as he will the words to come.

“Please put me back,” he chokes out. “Please. If they know you helped me, they… they’ll hurt you too. Please. I can’t let you be hurt.” He may not know who she is, but he knows that, if she's here, she is in grave danger.

“Shhhh .” He can't tell if her voice is quiet, or if he simply just can't hear her, but her words are a comfort even as her fingers find a particularly painful spot on his right side, where he must have a broken rib. “You are no longer in danger, Mr. Jones. We're here to help you.”

He tries to take a deep breath, but it causes a pain so deep that everything goes white, even with his eyes still closed. “Please,” he gasps again, trying his hardest not to move at all. “Please, just go. Just leave me. It's what I deserve.”

Her hands leave his body, and even with the searing pain they were bringing, he misses them immediately.

“I'm afraid I can't do that, Mr. Jones,” she says, calling him that again, and he wants to correct her.

He's not Mr. Jones. He never has been. Liam was Mr. Jones, and Killian was always just Killian .

Mr. Jones is dead, and it's all Killian's fault.

“No,” is all he can muster, barely more than a breath, and after he feels the stab of the needle in his arm, his entire body goes numb, and he slips back into unconsciousness.

  3 Months Before

His hand curls around the coffee cup in front of him, scrolling through the newspaper on the screen in front of him one last time before he sends it to the printer. The clock on the wall behind him ticks the seconds away before it strikes midnight, and before it finishes its dozen chimes, he turns to the last page. By this point in the night, he is just copy editing, hoping that his interns have caught all the big mistakes, but a final once-over of the Boston Globe has become part of his routine since he was just an intern ten years before.

The words almost stop losing meaning entirely as he scans the page from top to bottom, and he may have reached the bottom of the obituaries without actually reading a single word if he didn't see it.

Milah Gold, 46, was found dead in her private home early Sunday morning, after passing soundly in her sleep the night before. All reports have confirmed natural causes. She and her husband, former Boston crime boss Robert Gold, who is still serving three consecutive life sentences, had one son, Neal Gold, 26. No funeral arrangements have been made public.

His coffee cup falls to the floor, shattering upon impact. It had been almost ten years since he last saw her, since he told her that she needed to choose between him and her husband and she picked her husband and never saw him again, even after Gold was convicted and sent to prison four years later. But it still hurt, seeing the words on the paper.

Forgetting the lateness of the hour, he grabs his phone from his desk and quickly calls his brother, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he fetches the broom and a stack of paper towels from the supply closet outside his office.

Liam picks up on the third ring. “Fuck, Killian, do you know how late it is?”

“Why didn't you tell me about Milah?” Killian asks quicky, avoiding Liam's outburst.

“What?”

“You're a bloody Captain in the Boston Police Department, don't tell me you hadn't already heard.”

“Of course I heard! I thought you hadn't spoken to her in years, so I figured it didn't matter to you anymore.”

“‘ Didn't matter to me ’? Bloody hell, brother, do you really think I'm that shallow? You should have at least given me a heads up so I didn't have to learn it by proofing the fucking obituaries.” Much harder than necessary, Killian drops half the pile of paper towels on top of the spill, trying to soak up some of the coffee using the sole of his black boot.

“Jesus, Killian, I'm sorry.”

Sweeping it all in the dustpan, Killian dumps the paper towels and shattered pieces of ceramic into the trash can and takes a deep breath, hearing his brother do the same on the other end of the line before they both fall silent, Killian able to hear the crackle of the police radio in the background.

“Is that all you called me to ask?” Liam asks, his voice soft. He must know what's coming.

“Are you on a stake out?” Killian asks, trying to discern who else may be around for this conversation.

“Aye, but it's just with David. What's on your mind?”

“The paper reports natural causes, but is that really the truth?”

“Killian, you know I can't discuss that—” he tries, but Killian cuts him off.

“You wouldn't have asked if you didn't know it was coming.”

He hears Liam sigh and can see the way he must be scratching at his beard.

“If I hear about any of this in the papers, I'll personally come and arrest you,” Liam says after a moment, and Killian rolls his eyes.

“Yes, yes, of course, Liam. We've been over this all before.”

“It's being investigated. She has been sick for a while, though, you know that, so we do have reason to believe that it was actually natural causes.”

“But will you—will you let me know if you find anything? Not for the paper, of course, just so I… so I know that there was nothing I could have done to save her.”

“Killian, you can't do this to yourself. Not again, please,” his brother begs, and Killian rests his forehead on his desk.

Hell, he should have listened to Liam. If he did, maybe they wouldn't have gotten in this mess in the first place.

Maybe Liam would still be alive.

  Two weeks later

Killian looks down at his phone for what feels like the thousandth time in ten minutes, sitting in the back corner of Liam's favorite coffee shop.

Nothing.

Unlocking the screen, he reads the last message he received from Liam just half an hour before.

Liam: Being followed. Need to talk abt MG. Meet me for coffee in 20.

Twenty minutes has come and gone with no sign of Liam. For the first time ever, Killian is glad he opted for decaf tea instead of his high-caffeine. He's already jittery enough without it, he can only imagine how quickly his heart would be pounding with the added assistance of a stimulant.

The bell over the door rings, and Killian's head shoots up so quickly something in his back pops. It's not Liam, no, but if there's a “next best thing,” this is it: David Nolan, his partner.

“Killian,” David breathes, trying to catch his breath as he slides into the chair across the table from him. “Where is he? I was halfway across town and got here as quickly as I could.”

All Killian can do is shrug, shake his head, and close his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Fuck, this is not good.”

Killian unlocks his phone again, showing David the last message from his brother. “Is this the same message you got?”

David reads it over quickly, then nods up at Killian. “Same gist, at least.”

“It was him, wasn't it?” Killian asks, leaning forward on his elbows to voice his concern to David, the very worst-case-scenario scenario that has been bouncing around Killian's mind since Liam failed to show up.

“We don't know that, Killian. We can't make any assump—”

But when Killian's phone begins to ring, a picture of he and Liam from when they were younger showing up on the screen, David's words stop abruptly.

At first, neither of them move.

“Well?” David asks after the first two rings.

“But what if—”

“Just answer the damned phone, Jones.”

So he does.

“Hello?” he asks, praying to hear his brother's voice on the other end of the line.

He shouldn't be so lucky.

“Ah, Mr. Jones. How nice for you to answer. We have your brother.” The voice is most definitely not his brother's. It sounds somewhat familiar to him, but he can't place it.

“Bloody hell, what do you want? Just let him go, I can—”

The voice on the other side laughs, an eerily familiar sound that he immediately recognizes, but he knows that can't be right. He would recognize Robert Gold's laugh anywhere, but he would also recognize his voice.

“You can what , exactly, Jones? You're a newspaper editor, for Christ's sake. There is nothing you can do for me that I can't do on my own.”

As if to make matters worse, he hears Liam in the background, screaming, “Just get out, Killian! Run while you can!” followed by the solid thunk of something making contact with his face.

“Then what do you want with Liam?”

“All I want is to prove a point. This is what happens when you try to mess with the wrong people. Keep your ink-stained nose out of other people's damn business, or you're going to lose much more than just your brother.”

“Just let him go!” he tries, but he's only met with more laughter.

“Say goodbye to your brother, Captain!” he says, followed by another laugh.

“Damn it, no!” Killian cries, just as he hears,

“Good bye, Mr. Jones.”

There's the unmistakable sound of a gunshot on the other end of the line, and then silence.

“No!” Killian yells, much louder than necessary in the coffee shop, and the few people around him turn their heads to him, but he holds his head in his hands, elbows on the table. “No,” he says again, barely more than a whisper as he feels his throat begin to restrict.

“What did they say?” David asks, reaching out to rest his hand against Killian's arm. “Who was it?”

“They—they have him. They took him, and they— Jesus Christ , I think they killed him.”

“They what ?!”

“There was a gunshot, and I think—I'm pretty sure they killed him.”

Killian has no idea how the words are coming out so calmly, his entire body going numb at the thought of Liam being gone, and when his phone buzzes on the table between them, he makes no move to answer it, his eyes going wide as he stares at it.

When David realizes that Killian is not going to see what the notification is, he grabs the phone himself, and Killian watches as his eyes narrow then fly open, widening still as he sets the phone back on the table.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles, then turns his face up to Killian's for just a moment. “I have to—I have to step outside.”

This confuses Killian, intrigues him, and though he knows he shouldn't, he picks up the phone. After fifteen years of crime reporting, Killian has seen more than enough gruesome crime scene photos, and he knows that David has spent most of his time on the force as a homicide detective.

Apparently, nothing could prepare either of them for the picture of Liam that Killian received. If Killian wasn't sure that it was his brother, he never would have recognized his face, torn to bloody pieces, both of his eyes swollen, chunks of skin missing from his cheeks and his shoulders, his only recognizable feature being the bird tattoo on his shoulder, which looks like its been wiped off specifically for identification.

And there, right above his heart, at the very bottom of the picture, is the wound left behind by the bullet Killian heard on the phone.

Killian barely makes it out the door of the coffee shop before he empties the contents of his stomach in the alley just beyond the doorway.

Liam was gone. Liam, his only family since he was ten years old and his mother died, was dead.

And it was because of him.

 --- --- ---

 Five days later, Killian wakes up with a start, his body sticky with sweat and clinging to the sheets, exactly the same way he's woken up each time since he realized that his actions led to the death of his brother.

But this time, it's different. This time, he has realized something, and his hand fumbles around his bedside table, searching for his phone in the dark of the room.

Once he finds it, he calls David.

It takes four rings for him to answer his phone, his voice thick with sleep, and he hears his wife, Mary Margaret, in the background, trying to make sure everything is okay.

“I know who it was, David.”

“What?”

“The voice from the phone call. It's been ten years since I last saw him, but it had to be him, its the only thing that makes sense.”

“Who? Who do you think it was?”

“Not think, Dave. I know . It has to be him. The—the investigation, the laughter, the brutality, it's all him.”

“ Who , Killian?” David insists, and Killian can tell from the noise in the background that he's getting out of bed, already amped up with the knowledge that Killian might know who killed Liam.

“Gold,” Killian says, as if it makes all the sense in the world.

“Robert Gold is in jail. You know that.”

“No, no, no, not Robert Gold. His son. Milah’s son, Neal.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“He's always hated me. He blamed me for his parent's separation, even though she went back to him in the end. And it would explain how he has the same laugh as Robert Gold, if it's his son.”

David groans on the other end of the line, then sighs. “ I can't believe I'm saying this, ” he mumbles. “Meet me at the station. If you're right, Killian—and I hope you're right, I really do—then we might be able to stop this once and for all.”

After the fastest shower Killian's ever taken, just trying to wash the layer of sweat off his body, Killian pulls on jeans and one of Liam's Boston PD t-shirts, laces up his boots, and grabs his leather jacket on the way out the door.

He pushes through the door at the bottom of the steps, making sure it locked behind him before stepping away from it— one of many things he's learned from Liam over the years— but before he can make it to his car, something makes contact with the back of his head, and he is unconscious before he can hit the pavement.

--- --- ---

 When Killian's eyes shoot open, all he knows is pain. His head is throbbing, the edge of his vision blurring with the pounding of his heart. He is hanging from something, chains circling his arms down to the elbows, keeping him inches from the ground. His arms are numb, and when he tries to move his shoulders, every nerve from the base of his skull down screams out in agony.

He takes in as much of a breath as he can until his muscles begin to fight back, his throat burning, his chest, his lungs.

Fuck.

Trying to keep as still as he can, he focuses on the beating of his heart, willing it to slow down, but just as he begins to have control of it, the metal doors to his left crash open, brightening the room even more and undoing any of the calm Killian was trying to settle over his body.

“Hello, Mr. Jones,” the man says, the same voice from the phone call, and Killian's hunch and greatest fear are confirmed at the same time.

Standing before him, a baseball bat slung over one shoulder, is Neal Gold, aged ten years since the last time Killian saw him, but there is no doubt about who he is.

“Neal,” he chokes out, trying his damndest to smile at the boy.

Well, he was a boy ten years ago, sixteen years old and a vendetta for Killian. He's not much of a boy anymore.

“How nice to see you again.”

The smile Never shoots back at him is much more smug than the one Killian attempts. “I can assure you, the pleasure of this situation is all mine.” Neal just stares at him, unmoving.

Killian tries to swallow, his mouth gone bone dry, but all that he finds is a burning, searing pain instead of relief.

“What do you want, Neal?” Killian asks finally, but Neal stands in front of him for a few more moments, his head cocked to the side, a terrifying smile on his face.

“What do I want?” he repeats, his eyes piercing holes into Killian's soul until he turns on his heel and begins pacing in front of where Killian is hanging. “What do I want?” he says again, this time as if he is actually asking himself the question. “Well, you see, Killian—” He swings back to face Killian, eyes blown wide with madness. “I'm assuming it's okay if I call you Killian now, enough with the formality? You always did try to insist I stop calling you 'Mr. Jones,’ but I just couldn't bring myself to do it, with you fucking my mom and tearing apart my family and all.”

When Killian doesn't answer, his jaw grinding together apparently the only movement that doesn't hurt, Neal just nods his head a few times, then begins pacing again.

“Anyway, Killian , what I want is to put you through the same pain that you put me through. But while mine has been fifteen years in the making, you will be getting yours in much, much less time than that.”

Before Killian can object, Neal shoulders the baseball bat, then swings it at his ribs, making contact with a sickening crunch.

“Neal, please,” he begs, his voice barely a whimper, but Neal just shoulders the bat again, this time hitting just below his hip bone. “Please, you don't—you don't have to do this.”

“You split up my parents!” Neal yells, articulating the last word with a blow that lands just below his ribs, and the bat clatters to the floor. “You made her leave him!” Now, he articulates his words with his fists, reaching up with this one to reach his face, and it takes only a few moments for Killian's mouth to fill with blood. “You helped send him to prison!” Right in the middle of his sternum. “And you killed her !” His fist lands exactly where the first blow from the bat did, and if his ribs didn't break before they certainly did now.

“Neal, none of that is true,” he manages, his voice nowhere near as weak as he feels, somehow. But his words come slowly, and he has to take a quick, deep breath every few words to keep from passing out. “Your parents were already separated when I met your mother. That had nothing to do with me. She already left him when we met.”

“That's not what my father said!”

“Your father beat her half to death one night. Sent her to the hospital. She was under police protection when I met her. Doing a story on your father.”

“You are a god damned liar !” Killian's not expecting Neal's fist to collide with his face again, and he has to spit some of the blood in his mouth on to the floor to continue.

“You can believe what you want, Neal, but I loved your mother, and I only wanted the best for her. But in the end, she picked you. I told her she had to decide between me and Gold, and she said she couldn't leave you. And I accepted that.”

“You still helped put my father in jail!”

“Your father would have gone to jail without my help. Everything I did was for his last conviction, the last of his life sentences. He would still be serving two without the assistance I offered the police.”

“You killed my mother!” he cries out, but instead of in anger, Killian realizes that Neal has quickly broken down and watches as a tear slides down his cheek.

“How do you figure?”

“You left her! To die of a broken heart! There was no one left to protect her, and she died! Because of you!”

Suddenly, Neal reaches under his jacket and pulls out something, though it takes a few moments for Killian to clear the haze covering his vision and realize that it's a pistol.

“Neal, no, wait, I—I told you, your mother left me , told me I had to leave her alone, never see her again—”

“Excuses!” Neal screams, his voice echoing off the thick concrete walls, and he watches in terror as he raises the pistol to Killian's temple, standing just on the edge of his periphery. “That's all you have in you, Killian. Excuses and lies !”

“Neal, no!” he cries out, and everything goes black.

--- --- ---

 “Killian,” he hears, though it sounds far away, like he's drowning, listening through water.

With all the pain his body is in, nothing would really surprise him anymore.

“Killian, god damn it, come back to me!” There are hands on his chest, something pressing above his heart, a sharp pain in his ribs—

And light.

His eyes fly open, his vision suddenly much clearer than the last few times he tried to see.

But he's still not sure that it's real. Sure, every bone, every nerve, every inch of his body hurts, but the vision before him is too perfect to exist anywhere beyond his dreams.

“There he is,” she says, her golden ponytail falling down over her shoulder, and the smile that spreads across her face just proves to him that he must be dreaming.

Or worse.

But when she turns and yells out, “David! He’s back!” and he goes to move, pain shoots down his spine, a searing light that turns his vision white.

With pain like that, he can't be dreaming. Or dead.

That's good, at least. Or something like that.

She turns back to him, her green eyes bright. “I'm gonna give you something for the pain, okay?” she asks, holding up a syringe, and he nods, barely feeling the needle slip under his skin.

“Killian, Christ, are you okay?”

Killian can't help but laugh at the obscenity of this question, but he only lets out a huff before his entire body fights back. “That's a terrible question, Nolan,” he mumbles as strongly as he can, though he's fairly sure it just makes him sound weak.

“Careful, Jones, your ribs are broken,” the woman comments, half-smiling at him from behind David.

“Oh, that must be why it hurts when I laugh.”

David laughs, poising himself to clap Killian on the shoulder, changes his angle to hit his leg before he decides he's better off just to leave him untouched, holding his hands up in surrender.

“You're right. You look terrible, but you're alive.”

“Aye,” he says, trying to smile, but he's pretty sure his jaw is broken. “Though would someone do me the honor of explaining… how?”

“When you didn't show up at the station, I tried calling you a few times before I remembered that Liam had that “Find My iPhone” thing on his computer for your phone and his, but you must have dropped you when they picked you up, since it was sitting on the sidewalk next to your car.

“But then I remembered what you said about Neal Gold, so I looked at few things up about him back at the station. There were a bunch of warehouses in his name, half a dozen of them, and five of them were legitimate, housing stuff for his business, but when we raided the last one, we found a bunch of guards sitting in one of the rooms, including Neal, and then you were in the next room, hanging from the damned ceiling and I thought you were dead. But the paramedics showed up in just a few minutes, and this one here,” he says, wrapping his arm around the blonde angel standing next to him. “She worked her magic and brought you back.”

“Oh, come on, David,” she says, the apples of her cheeks reddening at his compliment. “Science is what healed him, medicine. Any paramedic could have done that.”

“Aye, maybe,” Killian tries, and this time when he smiles at her, it doesn't hurt nearly as much; whatever she gave him was starting to work. “But you did it, love. If David says you saved me, then I am forever in your debt.”

“That seems like a bit of an exaggeration there, Jones,” she says, but smiles at him again.

“Can I at least have the name of my savior?”

“Emma,” she breathes, turning around to see where David is behind her. “Emma Swan. I'm David's foster sister.”

“Well, Emma Swan,” he says, staring up at her as she continues to search his body for damage. “I am indebted to you. Now, can you tell me all that that bastard did to me?”

 Four broken ribs. Three on the left, one on the right, the worst one practically shattered from the impact from the baseball bat. A severe concussion. A broken jaw. Severe internal bleeding. A fractured femur. A dislocated hip. Two dislocated—and severely bruised—shoulders. And one with a bullet lodged in the muscle.

Eleven surgeries.

Killian heals. Slowly, painfully, but he heals nonetheless.

Three times a week, David shows up after his patrol with a newspaper and a cinnamon bun from Liam's favorite bakery. They talk for as long as Killian can manage before his pain meds knock him out again, hitting all the big subjects: baseball scores, big cases, David's wife's pregnancy.

And David's visits are almost the best parts of Killian's weeks.

Almost.

The only thing better is the days when Emma stops by Killian's room after her shifts, a cup of Earl Grey tea from the cafeteria and a smile, the brightest and most glorious thing he swears he has ever seen. At first, she would just stay for a few minutes, just checking in on his healing.

But then, she starts to stay. She brings food, needing to eat after her shifts and opting to do it with him. Once—and he thinks it’s a turning point for them—she shows up after a twelve-hour overnight shift with breakfast sandwiches for both of them, then dozes off in the chair beside him as he watches game show reruns. It’s not until he turns to her to make a joke about Richard Dawson’s need to kiss everyone that he realizes she has fallen asleep, her head back against the wall and her arms crossed over her chest.

In this moment, with a soft smile spreading across her peaceful face, Killian realized that he’s falling in love with her.

 --- --- ---

 After five weeks, he’s allowed to leave. Sure, he’s on a lot of pain meds, he’s not allowed to drive, and he’s staying at David’s apartment, but he’s out of the bloody hospital.

It’s at least a start.

In David’s car on the way home, spread out across the back seat with Emma in the passenger seat, Killian asks the only thing that’s been on his mind for the past few weeks, too afraid— ashamed? —to even ask.

“What happened to Liam's body?” he says softly, and neither of them answer at first, making him think that he didn’t actually say it, or they just didn’t hear him.

Until he watches them look at each other, sharing a glance that Killian thinks they didn’t want him to see, especially the distressed look on Emma’s face.

“David?” he asks when neither of them move to respond, but it’s Emma that turns around and sets her hand on his arm.

“We, uh,” David tries, running his hand over his face. “He was so marred, almost beyond recognition. You—you saw the picture, Killian. And you were already in such distress, we were trying to let you heal, so we had to decide what to do and we—we had him cremated.”

Killian leans his head back against the leather headrest, closing his eyes as he lets out a long sigh.

“Good,” he breathes, and when he opens his eyes again, Emma is softly smiling at him from the passenger seat, but her smile doesn’t make it to her sad, green eyes.

 The day they decide to put Liam to rest, it’s overcast. Killian feels like it must be some sort of sign, standing on the dock between David and Emma, David's arm around his shoulder and Emma's hand clasped around his own, the jar of Liam's ashes in his arm.

Liam always loved the sea, always wanted to grow old and pass away asleep on the deck of their fishing ship.

Yeah, he should be so lucky.

“Here she is,” Killian says, looking out on the water where the Jewel of the Realm is docked. “Liam's pride and joy. The Jewel of the Realm .”

Emma's hand tightens around his, leaning into his side.

“Do you want to take her out?” David asks after a moment, thankfully pulling Killian out of his head, wrapped up in the sound of the water lapping against the side of the boat.

“What?” he asks, turning towards David.

“Do you want to take the boat out on the water? Or just… get on her, I don't know how to word that?”

“No, we can… We can take her out,” he says, the words coming out slowly.

“Are you sure?” He expects the question to come from David, but it doesn't; it comes from Emma, and when he turns to her, the brightness of her eyes in contrast to the greyness of the day is the beacon of light that he needs in his day.

At that moment, he thinks she loves her more than ever before.

If only he could tell her.

“Aye,” he breathes, releasing Emma's hand to reach out and remove the lock. “It's only right.”

They do take her out, only a few hundred feet, making sure they don't lose sight of the lights above the docks through the mist, and shut off the engine.

He holds Liam in his arms, the jar growing cold against Killian's touch.

There's a metaphor in there somewhere, he knows it, about his dead brother and the life leaving him. If he could think about anything other than the last picture he saw of his brother, beaten and battered at the hands of Neal Gold, then maybe his muse would work enough to create it.

But no. All he can see beyond the lifeless horizon stretched out in front of him is that last picture that Neal sent him, Liam barely recognizable from the damage that his face and his torso took.

“You didn't deserve any of this,” he says softly, turning his eyes down to the gold jar he's cradling in his arms.

(He knows its an urn, but there's just something about that word that he hates , that makes him have to swallow the bile that rises up his throat, have to shake off the shudder that inches its way down his back.)

“You were always a much better man than I was, brother. You were the one who deserved to live, who didn't bury yourself in the past. I should never—I should never have asked you to look into her death.” He feels his breath grow shaky, unable to stop the tears that gather in his eyes, especially once the wind blows in off the water and into his face. Even if he wanted to, he's not sure that he could. “All of this is my fault,” he says finally, and the dam breaks as he falls to his knees on the deck, still holding the jar against his body as if his life depended on it.

(In this moment, it just might be the only thing tying him back to the deck. The feel of the jar in his arms, and the hands on his shoulders, one David's and one Emma's, both standing silently behind him as he is able to grieve for the first time.)

“It's all my fault,” he says again, allowing the tears to fall down his face, his sobs so deep that they cause his entire body to rock. “I'm sorry, brother. I've let you down.”

“Oh, Killian,” Emma sighs, and he realizes that she has knelt down next to him, and all he can do is turn to her, tears still running down his cheeks. She wraps her arms around him, pulling his face into her shoulder, and he feels David gently pull the jar out of his arms before hugging him from behind, also now kneeling on the deck behind him.

Most of his life, his brother has been all he had, after their father left when Killian was just a toddler and their mother died when Killian was twelve, leaving him and eighteen-year-old Liam completely alone. When he realized that he had cost Liam his life, he had convinced himself that he had lost the only family he had left.

But being here, between David and Emma on the greyest, gloomiest day he could remember, on the deck of he and Liam's ship as he said goodbye to his brother for the last time, Killian realizes that maybe, even though Liam is gone, he doesn't have to be alone anymore.

It takes a few minutes for Killian to realize that Emma and David are crying, too, grieving for his brother just as he is, and somehow, that becomes a comfort to him, allowing him to begin to calm. Killian is the first one to stand, the hardwood of the deck doing its damage on his already damaged body, and Emma and David follow suit, smiling at each other as they wipe the tears from their windburned eyes.

They had decided earlier not to put all of Liam in the water, leave some of him to rest on the Jewel , the place where he was truly the happiest, so when the wind dies down, Killian nods to both of them, unscrewing the lid and dumping some of the ashes into the wind.

“Your brother was a damned good man, Jones,” David says, none of them taking their eyes off of where the ashes were taken away by the wind, but he wraps his arm around Killian's shoulder nonetheless. “But he never would have followed through with the investigation if he hadn't believed you were right. You know that, right?”

Killian turns to face his friend, pulling his eyes away from the waves, and though the best he can do is attempt a smile, it's better than nothing. “Thank you, Dave. That—that means more to me than you may ever know.”

He may not be okay right now, and he doesn't really expect it in the near future, but at this moment he can sense it may be possible, on a distant horizon, and that's just the start he needs.

 --- --- ---

 Sitting at the counter in his apartment later that week, the only thing he wants to do is drink. He wants to pick up his bottle of Captain, finish it, and wake up from the nightmare his life has become. Because none of this can be real.

He just came here to grab some of his belongings, the presence of Liam still too real to be dealt with yet, but he could only go so long without his own clothing, his own belongings, his laptop, his work .

Besides, while David and Mary Margaret insisted it was fine, there were only two and a half months left until their baby is due, and it was going to need the nursery they had almost finished furnishing when David moved Killian's spare bed in.

He would have to move out of there by some point.

“Want to tell me what's on your mind?” Emma asks, and he realizes that she must have been watching him as he got lost in his own head. Again.

Turning to her, his lips pull themselves into a momentary smile, and he reaches across the counter to take her hand.

He hasn't told her how he feels, afraid that once one emotion comes out, everything that's hidden behind it will also come tumbling. But the time they have spent together can't mean nothing to her. She hasn't turned away to touches like this, has even initiated many of them on her own. Holding his hand, touching his cheek, even falling asleep with his arm around her on David's couch a few times since he came home from the hospital two weeks before.

If he ever doubted it before, he knew for certain by now that he was incredibly, terrifyingly in love with her, with the way she joked with him, unafraid of being herself even around him as he healed; with how she would pull the whole onion out of her onion ring on the first bite then slowly eat the rest of the batter; with how together she could look before going to her shift, no matter what time of day it started, and with the way you could tell she was exhausted when she came home but never ceased to take his breath away with her beauty.

“I'm going to need a new apartment,” he replies, needing to tear his eyes away from hers before he said something he would come to regret, so he turns away from her to face the living room. “The ghost of my brother can haunt the Jewel as much as he likes, but I don't think I could stand living in an apartment where he lingered around every corner.”

“There's an open apartment in my building,” she says, and he turns back around to face her just as the edge of her cheeks begin to darken with embarrassment. “Mine and David's,” she tries to correct before taking a quick sip out of the glass of water in front of her. “It's closer to your office, too.”

“If you wanted me closer to you, darling, all you had to do was ask,” he teases, but it only makes her blush grow deeper.

“You wish,” she replies, trying to sound as cool as she can, but he can tell the effect he's had on her.

So he leans across the counter between them, the edge digging painfully into one of the bruises still healing on his ribs, and smiles at her. “Perhaps I do,” he whispers, but before she can respond, he turns away from her, crossing the living room in a few long strides and entering his bedroom to collect his things.

 The ride back to the apartment building is a quiet one, Killian finally deciding to check his work email as Emma drives, and then she insists on carrying his duffel bag to the elevator, arguing that too much strain on his shoulder will keep it from healing.

She's a paramedic. She would know.

He doesn't even try to argue with her, but for some reason, once they get into the elevator, the air around them changes, turning into something heated, electrical, and Killian swears if he were to reach out and touch the metal walls, sparks would fly. But he doesn't try, doesn't do anything but stare straight ahead as the numbers above the door count up to six, and follow her out the door and to David and Mary Margaret's apartment.

When Emma lets herself in, they find them sitting on the couch, Mary Margaret's head resting on a pillow in David's lap, something on the TV but looking only at each other, talking soft enough that they can't hear from the door. They both have their hands on her baby bump, and whatever they're discussing, they don't realize Emma and Killian are there until he closes the door behind him. They both snap their heads towards the door, noticeably worried for a moment until they realize who it is, but Emma just rolls her eyes and walks around them to the spare bedroom, dropping the duffel bag on the bed and spinning towards Killian as he deposits the rest of his belongings beside it.

“Want to go out to dinner?” she asks, the words tumbling out of her like a waterfall, and at first, his eyes go wide, eyebrows shooting up his forehead. It's practically the first thing she has said to him since their conversation at his apartment, and though he desperately wants to know what brought the thought about, he does not want to turn her down.

“Of course,” he says, trying not to sound too thrilled by her asking. “Just the two of us?”

Emma blushes again, pushing her blonde curls behind her ear.  “Yeah. Just—just the two of us, if that's okay?”

“Of course, love. And I'm not complaining, but might I ask what brings this about?”

“They just… look so peaceful out there, and they haven't really had a moment to themselves for a while, so I want to give them that.”

Oh , he can't help but think. It has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the burden he's put on her brother.

She must see the change in his face, since she steps closer to him, smiling up at him through her lashes as she sets her hand on his arm. “Not that I don't want to spend time with you.” Her voice is soft and so sincere that it can't be a lie. “That's just a bonus.”

He returns her smile, slowly reaching up to cup her cheek in his hand, running his thumb across it. “Let me get changed,” he says, and her smile widens against his palm.

“Perfect. Me, too. I'll meet you at my apartment?” she asks, and all he has to do is nod before she turns away from him, closing the door behind her. He hears her through the door as she tells David and Mary Margaret about their plans for the night, hears Mary Margaret as she tries to argue with Emma, but knows that Emma comes out victorious since there's no reason for them to turn her down.

Because she's right. Since Killian was taken to the hospital—hell, probably since Killian first told his brother his theory about Neal Gold, David hasn't had much time to spend with his wife. Late nights at the precinct are enough on their own, then add in the extra time David has been spending with Killian, first in the hospital and now that he's living in their apartment, and Killian realizes just how much the Nolan's have done for him.

How much they continue to do.

He decides that within the next few days, he'll start looking for a new apartment, maybe even looking into the one in this building, especially if things go well with Emma. Carefully buttoning up his black shirt, he realizes that maybe he should talk to David about dating his sister before he actually tries to do it. Of course, Emma is her own person, is free to date whoever she wants—he can almost hear the way she would argue with them about it—but he still feels the need to at least inform the man whose apartment he's living out of that he plans to ask out his sister. Maybe even do it tonight.

He comes out of the bedroom, his new bag of toiletries in hand, but David meets him before he can make it to the bathroom.

“Is this a date?”

He can't tell by the look in his eyes what he wants the answer to be, if it's an innocent question or an interrogation.

But since Killian doesn't know the answer himself, it's not really that big of a deal.

“I—I don't think so.”

“How do you not know?”

“She just asked about going to dinner. I didn't ask her to define what exactly she meant by it.”

“Do you want it to be a date?”

Somehow, this question seems more dangerous than the first.

Killian can't stop his hand from flying up, his fingers finding the spot behind his ear that somehow always itches when he's faced with an embarrassing situation. “I… yes, I do.”

He tries to say it as strongly as he can, only faltering at first, but when David's face fails to respond at first, he's momentarily terrified that somehow, he's chosen the wrong answer.

Until David's face breaks out into a wide grin and he wraps his arms around him in a hug, which takes Killian a second to reciprocate.

“That's excellent, Jones! She likes you, you know? And I had a feeling you liked her, too.”

“Well, you were right.”

 It's only a few more minutes until Killian is standing outside the door to her apartment, two floors up from David and Mary Margaret's, his hair combed back, teeth brushed, extra deodorant applied.

When she answers the door, she's in lighter jeans than usual, and a tight black sweater, her hair up in a high ponytail.

“I'm not quite ready yet,” she says, never stopping once she opens the door to let him in, heading first for the bathroom for just a few moments before rushing out of there and into the bedroom. “Make yourself comfortable! I'll just be another minute or two.”

He tries to sit on the couch, he really does. But it does not last for more than a few moments, the adrenaline from his conversation with David still coursing through his body, and he stands up once more and begins a slow sweep of her living room. She doesn't have much in the way of decoration, just a few pictures, mostly of herself and David and a few with Mary Margaret in the mix, some with other people that she thinks must be coworkers. Against one wall, she has a shelf full of books, an odd mixture of classics, poetry books, and medical journals. He is still browsing the titles when she emerges from her room once more, her hair now hanging down over her shoulders, her lips stained a bright red, and black ankle boots on her feet.

“Ready?” she asks, coming up behind him at the bookshelf, and he turns to find her a few inches taller than normal because of her heels, close enough to him that he can see the flecks of gold in her eyes.

“Ready,” he responds, trying to hide the fact that his throat has gone dry, and she picks up her red leather jacket and leads him out the door.

She picks a restaurant not far from the apartment, a small Italian place that's not too fancy, but that serves more than just pizzas and sandwiches. After just a few minutes, the waiter comes to take their order, and she gets the seafood scampi while he settles on chicken marsala.

When the menus are gone from between them and Killian can finally focus on the way the low lights of the restaurant compliment her face, he leans across the table towards her, making sure to keep his folded hands just beyond contact with hers.

“Do you want to know something interesting?” he asks and waits for her to look back at him before he continues. “Before I left the apartment, your brother asked if we were going on a date.”

“What did you tell him?” she responds, almost too quickly, also leaning in towards him.

As cooly as he can, he shrugs. “I told him it was just dinner, a chance to give them some time to themselves.”

“Oh,” is all she says, leaning back in her chair.

He pauses for a moment, then continues. “But then he asked if I wanted it to be a date, which I thought was a little weird.”

“And?” He can almost hear the way her breath catches with the word, searching his face for some sort of answer.

He smiles, leaning as far towards her as he can without getting out of his seat. “I said I did.”

She smiles back, finally, reaching between them to cover his hands with her own. “Good,” she breathes.

“What about you?”

“Jury's still out,” she jokes, but squeezes both of his hands, her smile growing.

Dinner passes quickly, both of them revealing more about themselves than they somehow had already in the months they've known each other, definitely more than they've ever revealed on a date before, especially a first date.

But it didn't feel like a first date. After all the weeks they had been spending together, first in the hospital and then not, it feels almost as far from a first date as a first date can get.

But when they get back to her apartment and he slides his lips against hers, pressing her back against the door, tasting the white wine and tiramisu on her lips? That's about as good as a first kiss can be, both soft and passionate, and Killian uses it to tell her everything he hasn't been able to over the last few months, how grateful he is for every moment she decided to spend with him, how important she had become to his healing process.

When they finally part, the remainder of her lipstick smeared across their swollen lips, his bright blue eyes blown wide, all he can do is say her name, breathing it against her lips, against her skin.

But she breathes something very different: “Please.” It's a request for more, asking him to stay beside her, but most of all, it's a plea to take her to bed, to do something about all of the feelings they have had to ignore.

He gives her everything she wants and more, thanking her in as many ways as he can think of before slowly, finally filling her, his body crying out in more ways than one, and he lets her take control of them, as gentle as she can be as she returns what he gave her as well as she can.

He wakes up beside her in the morning, a tangled mess of sheets and pillows and bodies, and he can swear that he's never been happier in his life, even with all the horror that brought them together.

“I love you,” he whispers against her hair, pulling her closer to him, and he believes her to still be asleep until she groans, leaning into the warmth of his body and whispering it back, pulling his hand to her mouth to gently kiss it.

“Now go back to sleep.”

[techmomma]

The Unnoticed Villain - Amberlin Merriweather

Sure as the sun rises, once they meet her face-to-face, they always ask “Why?”.

It’s an easy answer.  All she has to do is point to The Supernova Incident.  The Saturday Massacre.  The West Rail Collapse.  The news is full of events with catchy names that deaden the sheer, soul-crushing weight of the numerous tragedies.  Quirks used for evil, or carelessly, or even with nothing but good intentions that lead to one horrifying funeral procession after another.  The media paints every Hero who falls in the line of duty as a noble sacrifice made for the good of all.  At one point, she believed that.  At one point she stood in her uniform and held her head high and bit her lip until it bled to keep from crying out as caskets were carried past her.  As she loaned her shoulder to a friend - not in comfort, but as a pall bearer - never to be of help to them again.

Every year there were more.  Heroes.  Villains.  Vigilantes.  Civilians.  Put through the meat grinder.

Every year the academies brought in new faces, full of aspirations to make the world so much better.

Every year there were more.

Every year they were younger.

She couldn’t exactly recall when the moment was.  What exact time she decided that she’d had enough.  Who’s name she read in the obituaries.  Who’s child it was put into the ground “for the good of all”.  It all blurred together after a time.  There was a boy… he didn’t look like a boy when the Heroes surrounded him.  All shrouded in crackling energy and plasma arcs, screaming mad.  Not even old enough to have scruff on his chin yet.  A Sidekick overestimated his resistances, hit him too hard… not even a woman yet herself.  It was just one news report out of hundreds that aired, out of thousands that didn’t make it onto television.  For all that was in the public eye through the forces of Heroes and Villains, there was so much more hidden away where various governments and private cells kept things under wraps.  Children killing children.  Children being made into soldiers, weapons, sacrifices, “for the good of all”.  For power.  For profit.

At first Merriweather went without obstruction.  She began to make ripples as foreign powers buckled and collapsed, vanishing overnight.  Warlords simply abandoned their battlefields.  Companies dissolved.  Laboratories went up in smoke.  Villains turned themselves in.  It took time - months at the least in most documented cases, as the researchers began to take notice.  Simultaneous projects all running at the same time through a series of small machinations that all built up to a single sudden motion, like straws being stacked until the proverbial camel could take no more.  There were far too many observational resources available for her to be undetected, but for a long while the powers-that-be allowed her to go unchecked as she was targeting the right targets.  One didn’t need to be an official Hero to take out the bad guys, so long as one didn’t try to benefit from the Hero society’s practices.  Vigilantes were tolerated.

But then she ran out of the properly labeled “Bad Guys”.

At least, she wasn’t using the Hero’s labels in who she identified as worth targeting.  Those ripples, previously given a blind eye, began to encompass unexpected targets.  Villains still seemed to see the error of their ways in many cases, certainly.  But enrollment within prestigious Hero Academies plummeted over the course of two years.  A jarring 40% nose dive of new blood who seemed to decide there were better ways to use their Quirks and talents than to put on a mask and throw themselves into danger.  Older, well-established Heroes who suddenly felt a change of heart, who stood on national television to apologize for long-concealed crimes they had committed in the line of duty.

Even with all the spies and psychics and teleporters about, it took them a long time to corner her.  To meet her face-to-face.  Even with all the strange powers and effects at their disposal, it always ends up the same way.

They always ask her “Why?”.

Merriweather always has the same reply.  She pulls on the cigarette at her lips to soothe her long-frayed nerves, thinks a moment.  A ginger shift from side to side as she fidgets in place, never able to settle as comfortably as she’d like with the exo-skeletal Gear that braces her legs - that lets her stand as tall and defiant as she does.  She always replies with her billow of smoke and a heavy sigh.

“Because this is wrong.  It’s all wrong, and you know it.  You may try and justify it to yourself, but you know in your heart that there’s nothing good about this.  Nothing heroic.” she’s repeated it so many times, to herself and others, yet the seething fury in her voice has never diminished once.

“You’re going about it the wrong way.” they always say.  “We have to stop you.”

Once, she might have smirked.  She doesn’t have it in her anymore.  There’s just a tiredness in her eyes as she takes another drag.

“You won’t.  You can’t.” she insists as her words resonate like thunder in their bones.  “You never even found me.”

And just like that; they blink and nobody is there, with nothing but a trail of cigarette smoke lingering in the air.  Yet even as her words - planted deep as seeds of budding doubt as to the merits of their own cause - linger in their thoughts, none of them can remember ever actually seeing her.  The intel had been good, right?  She should have been there.  It must have been a mistake… they’d never even found her.  But the reports all pointed in the same direction.  How could they have been wrong?  What had allowed her to elude them before they ever came close again?  For the umpteenth time?

Sure as the sun rises, once they meet her face-to-face, they always ask “Why?”.

HERE MAMA MERRI FUCKING COMES

[briteboy]

okay i’m gonna be real with you. i have...a LOT...of messages. going as far back as like...january? probably? i know...i’m so bad...don’t crucify me. i tried to get through all of them but there were a lot that i didn’t have a worthwhile reply for so i’m sorry if i didn’t answer something you sent :{

so here we have: a lot of nice things, a lot of santisms, reactions to the lou and cillian punchout, a few responses to my portfolio and other stuffs...i wanted to put astrology asks in at the end but it’s...a lot more than i thought it was and it’s 3 am so i’d rather die than answer all of those LMAO sorry. i’ll get to it next time

Anonymous said:

u can delete the snorting cum asks but it will still follow you for eternity

okay so I saw the ask about snorting cum and it reminded me of a time that cum came out of my nose. It was gross but my boyfriend and I laughed it off. idk. I thought it would be a funny thing to share!! i'd understand if you didn't want this on your blog!! (maybe it makes you laugh!!)

wELL. WE’RE OFF TO A GOOD START HERE. i’m screaming at this...i hope nothing EVER comes out of my nose ever in life...i hate this but ur right it did make me laugh

(Winry anon again) Also, did you get her name from FMA Winry Rockbell because if so I love it

hehe...yes...

hornybodies

this is what bartsim calls me and i hate her for it

whats the truth bitch

I DON’T EVEN REMEMBER WHAT THIS IS ABOUT BUT I’M LAUGHIGN

i never realised how much i actually missed santi but now im CRYING AND I WANT HIM BACK IN EVERY SINGLE POST WITH LOU BY HIS SIDE LIVING HAPPILY EVER AFTER PLEASE

I missed santirat's beautiful face there are literal tears rn

me too...i hate that i miss him so much it’s so freaking dumb...i haven’t cried to my own story in a while but i bet i’m gonna once santi’s comeback rolls around. i’m already bracing myself

nvm u can have the lovely rat back, that way my heart wouldn’t be hurting like it is now

honestly yeah that’s fair

Been silently following your blog and though I'm more of a "ghost"(? What does that even mean¿) follower, I can't help but express just how chocked I am to see Santi again OMG. Gutted Lou has had a flashback, she does not deserve this. :'(

hello casper the friendly ghost...i love having santi pop up with surprise flashbacks hehe...ur right though she DOES NOT NEED THIS in her life, but it will get better for her soon do not fret my ghoulish friend

I need more pics of Lou and Santi together I’m not satisfied, thankssss

ELI AND MIYU GETTING SO EXCIted WHEN LOU TOLD THEM SHE LIKES GIRLS MY HEART :’)

HEHEH i love it cause that’s literally how my friends and i act, it was fun to write in a scene :~} i’m glad you liked it :’}}

Yeah when I cut my hair short everyone assumed I liked girls I found it kind of odd, but I didn't care too much. It mostly just made me end up realizing all the shit lgbt people go through, one time a guy literally went up to me and my friend, my bff who no one really knew was a lesbian was terrified because he said "oh dont worry lesbians are hot, but gay guys are just disgusting" it ended up he was talking to me, i just rolled up a piece of paper as tight as I could and smacked him on the head

EWW first of all that guy can take his weird fetishization and homophobia elsewhere thanks...i’m glad you threw a paper ball at him LMAO. but yeah on one hand, coming from ignorant/straight people it’s like “uhhhh why would you assume that about me”, within the lgbt community it’s like...common ground...an inside joke...i guess? so it’s weird. the link between hair, clothes and sexuality is can definitely be harmful in certain circumstances

fiona is my spirit animal and i love her ok thanks for coming to my TED Talk

that was illuminating thank you

i re-read santis story and i s2g i've read it so many times idk, but like its so easy to read i dont mean like emotionally but it flows really well. and like its not too confusing i hate when people make overly convoluted stories in an excuse for being deep its some good shit good job my dude

AKJSDKGKSJD THAT MEANS THE WORLD TO ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i never expected anyone to read it oNCE let alone REPEATEDLY...that really makes me so happy though because it’s definitely something you have to go back and read to catch all the details. ahhhhh thank you so much, i never ever want my story to be too complicated so i’m glad you don’t think it is!!

im crying because your recent post reminds me so much of my relationship with my mom when i was younger... she was always out of a job and sometimes we had to resort to living with other family members, it was all really hard on her and especially with having a kid she had to take care of at the same time. even though these are fictional characters, it’s comforting to know that other people have gone through the same situations i have. i love fiona and lou so much, they’re my heart and soul <3

OMG ;_________; i’m crying i’m so glad it resonates with you...i had a lot of friends growing up who were in similar situations and i think i kinda based lou and fi’s relationship on that, so you’re definitely not alone <33 i’m so glad you love them i love u

basically what I’ve learned from these asks is that Gianni is a perfect god-like human and I want one

he is. one time an anon told me they were like santi but they wanted to be rooney and i was like “i’m both santi and rooney on different days and i want to be gianni.” now u know why

hi, i just wanted to pop in and say that i really, really love your blog and i admire your editing skills SO much, i think you are EXTREMELY talented and i don't think you get told that enough. i've been following you for awhile now and i am in love with ALL of your stories, characters and edits you've put out! you're really an inspiration to me and i hope someday my edits can turn out as good as yours!! i don't have reshade so it's harder for me, but i'm trying to learn!! ok have a good day :-)

OMFG ;-; I DO GET TOLD IT A LOT AND IT STILL SEEMS FAKE...you don’t have to go out of your way to compliment me ;___; but thank you so so so much i’m crying...it makes me so giddy that i might inspire someone like WHAT...i don’t even know what i’m doing half the time i edit so u will definitely be able to catch up to me one day even if you don’t have reshade, i know it. i edited without reshade for like 2 and a half years on this blog so you can do it i promise!! have a good day/night/life i love u

fuck my succ

I'm in need of some giannti in my life

we all need some gianti in our lives

Hey! I just wanted to say that ur an amazing writer. You portray everything so well, it’s insane. I want to be a writer someday and I hope my writing is at least somewhat close to yours. Have an awesome day my dude💕

WOW I’M CRYING...i still have a lot of room to grow and so do you, i hope you are able to become the writer you want to be :’} and thank you so much for the wonderful compliment i’m emo have a great day as well

aver is my queen, confirmed.

avey is everyone’s queen confirmed

oksy but listen, look up the model Charlotte Ray Spencer

i did but i couldn’t find her?? all that came up was ray spencer obituaries in charlotte, SC LMFAO...charlotte spencer is an actress tho it seems, is that...who...? omfg

MAY I JUST OFFER THIS NEW SONG OF THE NEIGHBOURHOOD CALLED VOID BC I HAVE A FEELING SANTI WOULD LOVE IT (it's also meant for my aggressive sadboi oc)

OH I LOVE THIS IT FITS PERFECTLY WITH THE PLAYLIST I’M MAKING FOR THE NEW ERA OF SANTI...THANK YOU I’M TOTALLY ADDING IT

I had a ectopic pregnancy when I was seventeen but I feel like I got off lightly compared to Molly. Your story is so beautiful in so many ways, I think it’s incredible how much character development you’ve managed to pull off honestly I’m amazed. Thank you ❤️

omg ;_______; i don’t even know what to say to this, but it means so much to me i can’t even put it into words. thank you thank you thank you so much, and i’m so sorry you had to go through that as well. molly was an extreme case and i hope no one has to go through what she went through. i’m glad you’re okay now, and thank you so much for reaching out to me and reading my story at all ;-; <3333

just a heads up: the links button on your ccfinds blog goes to the femmefinds url still

oh yeah i know i’m gonna be real with you...i’m too lazy to fix it lmAO

Luv your stick n poke tats u posted!!! Could u do more? Maybe on diff places on the bod?? Ur so talented. Xx

omg that was FOREVER ago...maaaaaybe in the future...we shall see...but thank you <33

Can u do a family portrait for all ur characters like u did w Lou!!!

oooooh hehe i probably will in the future!!

Kill v maim is one of my favorite songs of all time omg it makes me wanna wear ripped jeans and a leather jacket and cover myself in glitter and smash some windows with a baseball bat MMMMMM

HELL yeah me too...i become a cyber punk alien vampire when i hear that song

maybe do a casting call posted here ? u have many followers and im sure a good chunk live in ur area and would be willing to model ^_^

omg SCARY...i probably could tho tbh that’s a good idea, thank you!

hi sunny, what program do you use to merge your cc and what do you use to detect and remove broken cc that just doesn't work in game anymore? thanks!

i actually haven’t merged on my new laptop yet but i used s4s for merging and there’s the mod conflict detector!!

My game hasn't been working since the first Cats and Dogs patch but I uninstalled and reinstalled and it finally works again 😭

sunny!! would you recommend your computer to play ts4 on? has it good graphics, can handle the highest settings and so? i really need a new computer but i have no idea which one to go for

yes i would recommend it!! i have reshade, ultra settings and like 8 gb of cc.

thanks for answering my ask eee ur story is probably the best ive read on here and yeah. i love how everything connects and everyones just so real. you dont have to post this i just wanted to thank you for being my inspiration and making me smile, laugh, cry, and scream in the middle of the night with your characters.

I LOVE U...it still sounds so fake to me when people say i inspire them, i don’t even know how to respond to all this ;-; just thank you for sparing a glance my way and resonating with my creations. <3 we scream and cry 2gether

I listened to Separator by Radiohead on repeat whilst reading Santi’s story and now that song just reminds me of him and Lou. I’d totally suggest listening to it’s so good! As is your story :3 xxx

oh radiohead that’s good sh*t...i’m listening to it now and i feel the santou vibes...especially when santi’s feeling out of his mind and she’s the only one who can calm him...haha cool..anyways THANK YOU!!!!

how do you make poses for the roof? i'm not sure how i can know if the sims will clip into the roof or float

honestly i just...eyeball it...because all roofs are different and you can’t put them into blender so. i just winged it lmao...i just made a pose that looked like it could’ve been lou climbing out the window, only the rig was still ground level, and then i used alt + 9 to lift the teleporter onto the roof as best as i could. that’s why it probably wouldn’t be a very practical pose to release, because i have no way of making it easy to use 

Lou punched him and I knew it would happen. 😀👌 nice, nice I like Lou whopping ass.

hehe i’m glad you enjoyed it...who knew she had a freaking hook like that

ok a theory... santi went to look for molly's mother and yea

omg tell me cillian sings every other freckle at some point

OMFG well...that song came out in 2013 and the current flashback year is 2008 so. i would personally murder cillian myself if he was still in lou’s life 5 years after this honestly

hey kitty girl! i was wondering if you could answer this teensy lil question i got. im writing a "story" anddd i was trying to figure out how to make some parts not cliche. like i hate reading about whatever and being like girll ive done seen this before so i just needs to know. kisses

i absolutely love how this is worded and the fact that u called me kitty, very cute. anyway...this is pretty broad, perhaps you could clarify what kinda cliches you want to steer clear from? a lot of the time when i know something is gonna be cliche and there’s no avoiding it, i just kinda own up to it and try to subtly point out how cliche it is and somehow that makes it work out better...like being self aware somehow adds another more realistic element to the story that makes it better? idk...anyway dm me if you need help!!

so.... lou can remember more of what happened? this is good! go 2 the police bitch! tell them!!!!!!!

she should!! but the only problem is she doesn’t have proof. so... 🤔

how do you write your stories in a way that everything is organized and you're certain and not confused with everything? i mean, do you have any way for writing that let you develop your stories with not so much difficults? i'm trying to write an story for months but i only have a few of the most important events on my mind, i don't know how to develop another important details, i always feel that everything is confuse or crap

hmmmmm well my mind is very ah convoluted so it’s a wonder any of this comes out even somewhat cohesive? but basically i have a very good memory and utilize google docs a lot hahaha. i’ve gone in depth about my writing process here!

whats a good way when it comes to starting a sims story? i mean like the first post? :/

ummmmmm maybe test the waters a bit and just make a post introducing your character(s) first? or dive right in and get sh*t started. it could go either way tbh

boyish by japanese breakfast is a santixlou bop

oh sh*t!!!!!! i love japanese breakfast!! and i love this thank you!

So is lou like into cillian in a way? Making him kinda be in her type

as of right now (in the flashbacks)? HELL fucking no. but you’re right, she did say those things in the future to santi. so 🤔

Everyone guessing shit stupidly annoys me haha. I'M UNOBSERVANT AND I DON'T WANNA GO BACK AND CHECK SHIT, LET ME LIVE. *Like* if you a ~dum~ reader who doesn't want every bit of foreshadowing called out. lol

i respect this honestly whenever i drop the hottest foreshadowing of 2018 i never expect my inbox to flood like it does but here we are and i am amazed

CILLIAN NEEDS TO FUCKING FIGHT ME (TYPING THIS ON MY COMPUTER BC I SAW HIS DINOSAUR ASS AND CHUCKED MY PHONE OUT THE WINDOW)

i’m screaming...i’m so sorry it’s my fault about your phone but like also i’m poor i can’t pay for that

i'm studying your latest posts because they're beautiful and my hatred for that long necked bitch is intensifying -- what makes me burn even more is that he's still wearing her necklace, can we say let the bitch burn?

burn babey burn

Why don't you use quick tags?

i’m dumb is why

CILLIAN IS SUCH A SHITASS I HATE HIS FACE WHY R U DOING THIS TO ME

BRUHHHHH THE DINOSAUR LOOKIN ASS BOY IS B A C K run

WAIT THE NECKLACE. HE STOLE THE MCFUCKING NECKLACE BROOOOO

What if Fi's blue eyes are from... Cillian..?

wHY did you have to make him cute and fucking cool though? I still hate him but it's harder.

NVM I JUST LOOKED AT THE POST AGAIN HES WEARING HER NECKLACE INHOPE SHE CHOKES HIMS WOTH IT THIS TIME

I SCREAMED AT THIS SERIES OF QUESTIONS OISDFNGJKDSKJN yeah sorry he’s conventionally attractive but unsettlingly so and i feel uneasy when i look at him and plus the fact that he’s literally evil so .

im like, to 90% sure that cillian is in ace joker. so that song might have reminded lou of him...

this was sent right after that scene of lou hearing the song at pippin’s, so

My conspiracy theory is that cillian is Lou's father. Speakimg of which are we gonna get to that soon, I'm dying of curiosity;.;

I’M LAUGHING I THINK U MEANT FIONA’S FATHER AKSJDKJGDSJ but yeah well. You’ll See

what do u resize ur photos to?

whatever 33% of 1920x1080 is i forget. i have a resizing + sharpening action so i just run that

im about to kill those kids if they keep fucking with my baby

THESE BITCHES BULLYING MY BABY LOU? CATCH THESE HANDS

me @ these ugly kids:

Who are the best creators for mens clothing? I struggle so much to find good cc creators with men specifically!

badabing badaboom

I’m not sure if you’ve converted things before but do you know any good sims 3 cc to sims 4 tutorials? Or your followers?

errrrrr i have no idea i’m sorry :x

would you consider making like a photoshop psd file with all the layers in your editing process?

omg...heck no it would be so unhelpful OMFG mostly because my editing is just my own action + shading and highlighting unique to that pic

would you ever do an editing timlapse of your gameplay pics? 💖💖

ahhhhh maybe!! probably in the future!

OMG HEATHERS WAS FILMED AT MY HIGH SCHOOL AND IM JUST HYPED UP SEEING IT BEING MENTIONED ON THIS ACCOUNT!!

OMFG THAT’S RAD...i’ve literally only seen it once tho i’m fake

I'M SHOOK. my friend kinda asked me out and I wanna say yes but my parents won't let me date. I'm 18! I need your advice! -signed 18 and alone anon

um UR 18 BUDDY UR AN ADULT...DATE WHOEVER THE F*CK U WANT HONESTLY

Can you pretty please link some photoshop tutorials you recommend? I really want to make my photos more cinematic and like your's without totally copying you or someone else. All I do right now is sharpen, color balance, and add some noise and then resize. I really need some more ways to get better looking photos such as yours.

ahhhhh the problem is i don’t know of any i’m sorry...lmao this is totally unhelpful :\ i have my own editing tutorial which is outdated but can probably help you out with the basics of lighting effects and shading n stuff?

Heyyy, I saw that you answered a question about making a ps action like your reshade, and I just wanted to say that I would love that! Unfortunately Mac users like me, can’t use reshade unless boot camping Windows onto our computers...☹️ and your reshade is just soooo pretty...

i don’t know if i’ll be able to replicate the reshade effect totally but i could release the action i’ve made for myself? it warms up screenshots but is totally adjustable to your liking for different color tones so in that way it’s kinda similar to the reshade. i’ll seeeeee what i can do...i know the woes of mac users all too well, my friend

i just wanna give lou a big ol cozy hug :o((( pls

pls hug her she needs it.

Do you post on tumblr from your phome or from your computer? Just curious.

mostly from my computer, sometimes i answer messages on my phone while i’m out and you can tell because autocorrect actually makes me use proper capitalization for once in my life

how many hours have you played the sims? for me i have 4,070 hours. haha help

OMFG i think mine is like...900 or something...i can’t tell if that’s too much or too little, but it’s definitely inaccurate

if i could only look at one person's tumblr from now on it would be yours. ur literally the queen of tumblr #shookaf and also i really hope i die before you ever say ur leaving tumblr cause when u do, i will legit die and bury my own grave. i really appreciate u and hope one day i can be on ur level but rn im at level 1.5 while ur up in the millions :D

I’M SCREAMING PLEASE I AM A PLEB.............i cry u flatter me too much ;-; i genuinely hope i never leave this place because it’s been so fun and it’s helped me evolve so much as an artist and a writer, plus i made some of my greatest friends on here. so i hope that day never comes!! but who knows life is wild. anyway i’m sure you’re actually like at level 578 and are just being modest. it’s okay you don’t have to be humble

i think its so cool that you and wanderlust and other simmers use multiple worlds to make your own town and stuff. idk why but thats just so cool to me and i would have never thought of it. love your blog and story <3

omg!!! well i couldn’t resist, i love a bunch of them and can’t limit myself to just one ya know. plus the more i thought about it, the more my gen 2 story kinda centers around these kids from this one town and the town itself is very relevant. so i felt like i had to make my own!! and i’m very excited to get started with that hehe

I just met a guy named Rodrigo Santiago and I sCREAMED HOLY SHIT

Update (tho idk of you got the first one): I just got a text from a classmate named Rodrigo Santiago. I'm sCREECHING

no freaking way. there’s no way i don’t believe...i want proof...

YOU SO FUCKIN PRECIOUS WHEN U SMILE

dont worry about posting this or do idc but i just wanted to say you should write about whatever you want and not care about whether people think you condone it or not. if i (a gay male) were to write about lesbians its not like im saying YOU HAVE TO BE LESBIANS BLAH BLAH BLAH you know what i mean? or if im writing about a robbery doesnt mean im like condoning robbery so like idk you do you boo and keep it coming ;D ilysm btw

OMFG no yeah i get it, i mean i think now especially in this online environment, people are hyper aware of Problematique things and so they’re a little too quick to point fingers without looking deeper than the surface. and whatever it’s fine people are always gonna be like that because people are mostly inherently judgmental, especially when it comes to consuming media. artists/writers face stuff like this all the time because people refuse to look past the surface, hence why works have gotten misconstrued all the time. but yeah i really appreciate this sentiment, thank u i love u

hope this isnt a weird question but what is the image size that u used for your character page?? thnk u 💕

omg it’s 300x300

have u listened to visions of gideon by sufjan stevens i was listening to it while reading ur stories and it made me so :(

oh my boy sufjan aka gianni’s personality claim i love him...and this song is :{ but i love even if it’s from the nasty age gap peach fucking movie

If i was married to Jamie and he treatin’ our daughter like that… oh I swear HES GOT TO GO!

it’s 2 am i’m so tired answering all of these i forgot who jaime was for a sec i was like um why are we talking about GoT anyways good night

how does alpha hair work with reshade? it seems so good in your screenshots and i’ve seen that in others screenshots it looks bad? whats the secret?

well good morning haha jk i never went to sleep anyway here u go

hooow do you make adorable toddlers in ts4?? teach me, gimme some advice please :(((

chubby cheeks! big eyes! small faces! little but plump lips! a good skin! dats all

how did u get ur sim onto the fire escapes?

ze teleporter mod, that’s it

I snickered at the, THE RETURN OF SANTI. Like I imagine it written in red horror lettering and santi just busts down the door and says ho ho ho im back bench, Did U miss me?

honestly i own a calendar and if i knew a definite date u already fucking kNOW it would be up there

ahhh im sorry for asking but im wondering how you find voice claims?? i'm looking for some for my sims, but it's tough to find one that's *right*, you know?? and your voice claims are great!! thank you <3

OMG voice claims are HARD, i literally just like “collect” them over time...i have a list in my phone of voices i like/may use in the future lmao, but try to think of actors or musicians and search interviews/movie or tv scenes with them speaking!!

i don't even read your story but i still follow you because i love your personality, sim style and just your whole entire tumblr

u follow me for ME? UM...what are u doing here...i’m so sorry (i love u...)

do you have a different reshade preset for flashback screenshots and for the present ones?

i do not!! i just edit differently

what happened to the honeycomb?

OMFG it’s still there...but we legit haven’t seen it since girooni’s wedding so um...it’s gonna have to get a makeover. i’m gonna do it when girooni come back home so i can finally show rupi working there like...wow...she deserves to be seen

lou's dad is the biggest asshole and i am waiting for the day that bitch dies

us when he dies

shit theory: caroline goes to find and confront cillian about what he did in teen lou timeline. care ends up forming a crush on cillian and goes back to meet him several more times, but cillian ends up liking lou more which makes caroline jealous. and that's why they don't speak currently, 'cause cillian ruined lou's life in more ways than one.

uM holy fuck that’s all i got to say

pls tell me that Caro killed the dude that choked Lou (or beat his ass)

god i hope so !

how many people do you follow? are you “strict” with who you follow?

i follow 264 people and yeah i’ve gotten a bit stricter with it just cause like...i only want to follow people whose content i truly care about/will actually notice on my dash

would you ever do a sim dump?

probably in the future, it seems like people want more male and female sims from me SO

ramona got some moves tf

the girl is out here bobbing to the chicken dance like nobody’s business

have u seen the end of the fucking world? if u did what are your #thots

UM......................i watched the first episode ‘cause i heard so much about it and um.............................it was so bad OMFG i hated it. way too edgy for me. completely missed the mark. not into it at all. hard pass

CAN LOU PLEASE HAVE A MAN IN HER LIFE WHO IS NOT A COMPLETE TWAT PLEASE

HOPEFULLY ezra will follow through with that and i don’t necessarily mean in a romantic way but like...as her new roommate MAYBE he will be a blessing we can HOPE

I'm not sure if you've been asked this or not, but your poses are so good and I was wondering if you have ever considered making a pose pack? Sorry if this came off as rude! I love your posts!

i will probably in the future!! but first i gotta figure out which ones i’d actually include

okay so this is random but I just wanted to say that I absolutely love your sims stories. Everything is so perfect and I'm forever shook because I can't believe the "sets" you use are actually the game. Your sims are so fleshed out and you are a huge inspiration to me. Anyways sorry if this was weird but I'm like obsessed with ur blog. bYe

AJHSDHJFSD THANK YOU!!!!!!! yes somehow we work miracles into this game can u believe it...ahh but thank you so much, it means everything that i would inspire you in any way...like what...omg

Santi is actually standing outside present Lou’s apartment wondering where the fuck he went wrong

he’s been there for 6 months just on the street standing there please someone let him in .

LOUUUU OH MY GODDD SKKDSNSJDH MY BABY. SO THATS HOW SHE GOT THE SCAR. WOW

there it is fellas. this message is sooooo old i’m so bad

Have you read/heard of The Lunar Chronicles

i have not!! but i’ll jot it down!

I was wondering if you’ve ever had any problems with skins? For me some on the palm side of the hand it’s noticeably darker than what the skin is supposed to be.. like the rest comes out find but the hands are darker.

hmm...that’s weird, i haven’t seen that. i think it probably depends on the skin? or maybe your sim detail settings?

santi my daddy, honeybodies my mommy, lou looking like a cutie when she saw dat tiny puppy. my name is rappin anon, and i just wanted to say, ur are my favorite simblr basically saving my day. rappin anon OUT

o...my god

i love u

i love u...

[welcometophu]

Not Your Destiny: Chapter 20

Marked Book 1: Not Your Destiny

Chapter 20

[ Previous | First | Next ]

Mrs. Hannigan is pleasantly surprised to see Ángel, and on a quiet summer night, she’s more than happy to help him find the archives of the local papers. She sets him up in a corner with a microfiche machine, because the archives have yet to make it into the digital collection. It’s not Ángel’s first time digging into old material, and he knows where the microfiche is stored and how to navigate through the drawers. He’s more than willing to help himself as long as she’s willing to let him.

And of course, Mrs. Hannigan is willing to let him dig, as she heads off to help a young mother and her two children find books in the children’s section.

Ángel brings out his laptop, glad he lugged it into work so he has it now, and gets it powered up and connected to the library wifi. He opens a new document to capture his notes as he makes them, then tries to figure out what, exactly, he’s digging for.

He knows his abuela came to the States from Cuba in the early 1960s, and a quick search for information about Castro makes him think that it had to be before 1962. He types in a header for Verita Cruz (name?) and Carlos Cruz then follows that with Bonita Mollicone (NAME?). He adds Cuba and Italy after each name, and leaves himself a few blank lines.

Tony’s parents goes on the next line with a date of 2012. Ángel remembers that it was the end of the school year, during a storm, but he can’t remember more than that. It was early in storm season, and he figures he’ll be able to find the dates and the information in the paper. That one might even be online.

He hesitates before adding another header, then slowly types Mami, even though he’s sure her death had nothing to do with anything. Still. It’s just something else, another big change in his life when he was only twelve years old, and he figures it’s data as much as anything.

Besides, if he’s looking into the grief his new friends suffered, he should look into his own family.

He makes another heading for Carlos Cruz, for information separate from Abuelo’s marriage to Abuela. He remembers him, but he remembers that while he was loving, he could be a quiet, austere man at times. Ángel always thought that the arrow was because that was what Abuelo reminded him of. Dangerous, and rigid. He wonders if he would have accepted Ángel the same way that Abuela has.

Probably not, and it feels as if that should ache more. Ángel tries not to think about the relief of knowing that he’s accepted, and not having to worry that his dead grandfather would disapprove.

He starts with the microfiche from the local papers in 1960 and 1961, scrolling through the social pages. He doesn’t expect that his family made news. Not the big news, not the things that would be in the front sections. But he knows that his abuela had three siblings, that they all came from Cuba at the same time. That her older brother raised them while Abuela and the two younger girls finished school. So he searches through society pages, trying to link his grandparents, or better yet, trying to find a Bonita to link to his abuela.

He finds himself falling into a spiral, digging through articles about the debate team at the high school, or the football team’s losing season. He’s almost stopped hoping when he finds a small article in early 1961 about the graduating senior class, and two girls who were able to win scholarships in science to the local university: Verita Rojas and Bonita DelVecchio. The two girls sit in chairs that are slightly turned toward each other, their hair pulled up into tight ponytails, their skirts spread over their knees, legs crossed at the ankles. Their chairs are close enough that they almost touch at the knee, and their faces are turned toward the camera. Thick black framed glasses perch on Bonita’s nose, dwarfing delicate features. Abuela smiles wide enough that her pride shines brightly, and Ángel swears he sees a hint of shimmer all around her even on film.

He writes down the name, knowing that has to be her. This must be how they met, bonding over a love of science. Abuela received her degree in Chemistry in 1965 from that very university, and Ángel wonders what science drew Bonita in. If they both went to school together, if they remained friends through their education. He makes a quick note, remembering that Abuela married Abuelo in 1968, that Papi was born in 1970. That’s still a long time for the friendship to have flourished, right?

It would be handy if the microfiche had been digitized and cross-referenced, but he’s going to have to search manually for any other references. He skims forward faster now, finds an image of Carlos Cruz accompanying his fiancee, Verita, that December to midnight services at the Cathedral Basilica in St. Augustine. He lingers there, prints the image, because they look happy. He doesn’t remember his abuelo smiling like that often, as if he were staring at the sun.

There is another picture, a year later, of newly engaged Bonita DelVecchio and her fiancé, Vincenzo Mollicone, attending the same services. Ángel prints that as well, and when he looks in the background of the image, he spots someone who might be Abuela looking over at the happy couple.

They don’t appear in articles after that, but when he finds the graduation announcement, they are both in the picture, on opposite sides of the image.

Ángel prints that one as well, because they aren’t looking at each other at all. It’s a marked difference from the earlier pictures with both of them, and he has a feeling that something happened during that time period. He just doesn’t know exactly what.

Clan and Mage, though. He can guess it has something to do with that.

He leaves that avenue behind, not sure what he’s learned, or whether it’s useful. It’s easier to find the modern information, his mother’s obituary still available in the online resources for the local paper. He touches the screen when it comes up, her smile making his heart ache. Grief is something that you move on from, but you never entirely lose. It’s been eight years, but it’s still hard to remember her and realize that she isn’t here. Joey is wonderful, but she’s not Mami.

Ángel pulls his hand back, reads the obituary. The illness. The blessed release at the end of a swift, furious descent after a stage four cancer diagnosis. Tears well up at the corners of his eyes, and he inhales roughly, holds his breath until the urge to let go—let the tears win—abates.

It’s easier to look at the obituary for the Mollicones. The passing of Lydia and Dominic, pre-deceased by his parents, Bonita and Vincenzo, survived by their five children: Zita, Antonio, Stefano, Gabriella, and Alonso. There’s no mention of any of Lydia’s relatives, which Ángel makes note of as slightly odd.

There are more articles about the storm, the vicious weather that swept through northern Florida in 2012. The accident is attributed to the storm, water washing the Ford Ranger off the road and into a ditch, where it flipped, and the two Mollicones were killed on impact.

It was almost the end of the school year when it happened, and news had spread quickly. Ángel remembers the way Gabi had looked like a ghost in class after that, had made it through the remaining few weeks in near silence.

The quiet Mollicones had retreated completely by the following year, snapping at anyone who dared to speak to them. Ángel had thought about trying harder—he knew what grief did to a person—but at the same time, his life was filled with complicated things, and a new stepmother, and Abuela moving in. He never made the effort.

It’s all a dead end, really. None of it changes anything that he knows, none of it makes more sense out of anything he’s learned in the last week and a half. He shuts down the microfiche machine, puts his films back in the drawer where he found them. When he settles in at his laptop again, he opens his email and pulls up a new message to Pawel Szczek.

I’m okay, he types first, because he knows Pawel well enough, after a year and a half of Coven and in his major, that Pawel will ask after him. I have a mark now, and I don’t know who it is. Hayley’s mark is for my best friend, Tanner. I think they’ll be good together and I’m happy for them.

He considers how to ask what he wants to ask, and decides blunt is probably the best option.

I’m writing about Tanner’s brother, actually. He has a Talent but it messes with the synapses in his brain, causes things to jump the gap incorrectly, and he has seizures. He had a really bad one recently, and I was wondering if there are any rituals that you know about that might help him gain control over his Talent. He makes colorful bubbles, that mostly change color when he’s stressed or emotional. He’s fourteen. He’s pretty much always emotional.

I figure you won’t see this until after the holidays. Hayley and I are staying in Florida for the first two weeks of the year; we should be back after that, before classes begin again. If you think of something I should look at, please let me know.

Ángel doesn’t bother to sign it; it’s email, after all.

It’s close to 8:30, and Ángel figures if he packs up now, he might have time to sit out front and watch funny videos or something while waiting for Gabi to come back to get him. He packs his things away, stands up, and comes face to face with Daphne Hamilton.

She smiles, and Ángel swallows.

“Hi,” he says, drawing the word out like a question. She’s tall in her heels, her eyes not quite on a level with Ángel, but damned close, and she leans in close like she wants to be intimidating. If Ángel hadn’t been spending the last several days with people with no sense of personal space, it might’ve worked.

As it is, he’s tempted to shove at her shoulder and push her back, but that would be rude.

“Ángel, isn’t it?” she asks, and he frowns at the way she knows his name. Her smile is gentle, sweet like fake sugar, and she touches his shoulder when she goes on. “You work at the shop, now. You answered the phone for me the other day, didn’t you? And Luca mentioned your name when I stopped in.”

Because Ángel wants to think about that day, about the way Tony stood there so stiffly with her, then lost his appetite. He licks his lips, gaze shifting away before he pulls himself back, forces himself to meet her eyes. “I’m working there until after Maritsa and Cleto get married, yes,” he says, because that’s innocent enough to admit.

She squeezes his shoulder, leans in to murmur, “I’m so glad to hear that. Tony doesn’t know how to delegate, and I worry about him sometimes. That he’s going to work himself to death in that place, and forget all about his life outside of it. It’s good to know that they’ve brought you in to take care of things so he can finally relax.”

“Tony loves the cars,” Ángel says, thinking of that ragtop Mustang just waiting to be worked on.

“Of course he does,” Daphne says softly, patting his shoulder like he’s a child to be soothed. “But he loves other things as well, and sometimes he loses sight of that.” Her fingers catch on his shirt as she pulls away, baring the temporary ink. Before he can blink, she tugs the edge of the sleeve up, then quickly lets go as if it never happened. “You have a rose,” she says.

Ángel touches it reflexively, uses the moment to put some space between them. “Gabi designed it for me. Said it would be better than the angel wings I was thinking of doing as a memoriam for my mother.”

“Angel wings.” Her tone is soft, neutral. “How divine that would be, and a beautiful memorial.” She cocks her head, smile sliding into place to light her features. “Speaking of things outside the shop, you will be there at our party for the new year, right?”

“Your party? I’m already—”

“We hold it at Tony’s home, of course, and I’m certain that Gabi and Luca have invited you. It’s obvious that they’ve adopted you.” Daphne leans in, whispers, “Don’t let Gabriella get away, darling. She’s a beautiful girl, if a bit standoffish. She seems to have taken to you more than anyone else outside the family. Stay strong; she’ll let you in eventually, I’m certain of it.”

“She licked me,” Ángel says, because it’s become his standard response when it comes to Gabi. Even though Daphne is making him uncomfortable with the way she keeps inching closer, keeps insinuating herself into his space. “But I’m not interested in dating her. She’s like a sister.”

“Oh, I doubt that, if she licked you.” Daphne’s eyes go wide and innocent, but her tone is anything but. “What a wicked thing to do.”

Who says that? Who actually says something like that who isn’t ninety years old?

“But yes, I’m going to the party. They all made sure I’m invited,” Ángel says firmly, even though he can’t remember which one of them issued the original invitation. “They said it’s a family party, so I’m bringing Tanner and Hayley, and maybe my family, if they’re interested.”

“That sounds like an intriguing mix.” Daphne’s eyebrows slide up, and Ángel is sure that he’s actually managed to surprise her.

He can’t resist trying to do it again.

“And Tony said I should drop off some clothes there, in case I decide to crash again. Better than waking up and not being able to get dressed on the morning after,” Ángel says blandly.

Daphne blinks, is silent.

It’s all true, too. Tony told him to leave a change of clothes at the house, in case someone brings him home again. So did Gabi, and Luca. They offered the guest room, but right now, with the way Daphne’s looking at him, Ángel’s not going to say that.

Her gaze narrows for a moment, then the lines across her brow smooth out as she eases into a quiet smile. “You see,” she says softly. “You have Tony’s blessing. Gabriella has probably talked to her brother already. Just in case.”

“Or Luca mentioned that he’d be into it if I wanted to jump him,” Ángel says dryly, and it’s worth it just to see the look on her face, the way she takes a quick step back. It lets Ángel breathe, getting her out of his space, and he keeps talking, takes a step forward just to make her step back again. “I’m not sleeping with either Luca or Gabi,” he says firmly. “I’m not interested in dating either of them. And yes, I’ll be at the party, because they all invited us.” He almost say that he’ll see her there, but he doesn’t want to sound like he’s inviting her.

Besides, Tony’s probably already done that. Daphne’s implying that they’re throwing the party together, after all.

The thing is, Ángel doesn’t like her, doesn’t want her to be there when he rings in the new year. It adds a sour note to the beginning of the year that he just doesn’t want to think about.

“Ángel?” Mrs. Hannigan calls out quietly, and Ángel steps around Daphne, makes his way toward the front of the library.

“I’ll see you soon, Ángel,” Daphne calls after him.

Ángel bites his tongue, doesn’t retort not if I see you first and can avoid it, because that would be childish. True, but childish.

Gabi leans against the front desk, chatting with Mrs. Hannigan who now stands behind it, gathering up a small stack of magazines that someone’s returned. Her gaze narrows, nostrils flaring. She meets Ángel halfway, grips his shirt, leans in and inhales roughly. “You reek,” she mutters, and Ángel wonders if she’s smelling his emotions or Daphne.

Probably both.

“Let’s stop off at my place so I can take a quick shower and get changed,” he mutters.

Gabi sidles in close, her arm around his back. “We’ll stop at your place, and you’ll pack some things to bring and leave at ours,” she says firmly. “You can shower there. And this way you’ll be prepared if you end up there in the future.”

“Planning on keeping me?” Ángel tries to shift his voice back to light, to tease her, and she smiles slightly, like she can tell what he’s doing.

“Licked you, didn’t I?” She grips his wrist, threatens to do it again, and they’re both laughing as they stumbles down the steps of the library together.

As Gabi pulls out of her parking space, Ángel spots Daphne standing on the steps of the library, watching them go. He doesn’t think Gabi noticed Daphne, but he knows Daphne saw them both. Even from a distance, he can see the way her shoulders are set, her arms crossed tight.

Daphne really doesn’t like Gabi and at this point, Ángel’s pretty sure Daphne doesn’t like him either, no matter how much she smiled.

[ Previous | First | Next ]

[utsdragon]

Hibakusha Stories

As a group, we found Luke’s focus on the innocence of the child in his interpretation of the text, to be an interesting way of approaching the animation. After watching Luke’s animatic, we read survivor stories, from many hibakusha who had been young children at the time. These were some stories that resonated with us most:

Yasujiro Tanaka’s Story:

“I was three years old at the time of the bombing. I don’t remember much, but I do recall that my surroundings turned blindingly white, like a million camera flashes going off at once.

Then, pitch darkness.

I was buried alive under the house, I’ve been told. When my uncle finally found me and pulled my tiny three year old body out from under the debris, I was unconscious. My face was misshapen. He was certain that I was dead.

Thankfully, I survived. But since that day, mysterious scabs began to form all over my body. I lost hearing in my left ear, probably due to the air blast. More than a decade after the bombing, my mother began to notice glass shards growing out of her skin – debris from the day of the bombing, presumably. My younger sister suffers from chronic muscle cramps to this day, on top of kidney issues that has her on dialysis three times a week. ‘What did I do to the Americans?’ she would often say, ‘Why did they do this to me?’

I have seen a lot of pain in my long years, but truthfully, I have lived a good life. As a firsthand witness to this atrocity, my only desire is to live a full life, hopefully in a world where people are kind to each other, and to themselves.”

Source: http://time.com/after-the-bomb/

  Emiko Okada’s Recount:

“Hiroshima is known as a ‘city of yakuza.’ Why do you think that is? Thousands of children were orphaned on August 6, 1945. Without parents, these young children had to fend for themselves. They stole to get by. They were taken in by the wrong adults. They were later bought and sold by said adults. Orphans who grew up in Hiroshima harbor a special hatred for grownups.

I was eight when the bomb dropped. My older sister was 12. She left early that morning to work on a tatemono sokai (building demolition) site and never came home. My parents searched for her for months and months. They never found her remains. My parents refused to send an obituary notice until the day that they died, in hopes that she was healthy and alive somewhere, somehow.

I too was affected by the radiation and vomited profusely after the bomb attack.

My hair fell out, my gums bled, and I was too ill to attend school. My grandmother lamented the suffering of her children and grandchildren and prayed. “How cruel, how so very cruel, if only it weren’t for the pika-don (phonetic name for the atomic bomb)…” This was a stock phrase of hers until the day that she died.

The war was caused by the selfish misdeeds of adults. Many children fell victim because of it. Alas, this is still the case today. Us adults must do everything we can to protect the lives and dignity of our children. Children are our greatest blessing.”

Source: http://time.com/after-the-bomb/

  Shigemitsu Tanaka’s Story:

Mr. Tanaka, almost 5 years old when the bomb fell, was playing under a persimmon tree on Aug. 9, 1945, when he heard a huge thunderclap and the sky went completely white. All the windows in his family’s home were blown out.

His mother went to work at a local elementary school where survivors were taken for medical treatment. There, Mr. Tanaka heard moans and smelled the stench of burning flesh.

Mr. Tanaka’s parents suffered from repeated illnesses throughout their lives. His father died from liver cancer 12 years after the bombing.

“Of course we have a feeling of wanting an apology,” said Mr. Tanaka, the director of the Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Survivor’s Council. “But the most important thing is to abolish nuclear weapons.”

Source: https://www.nytimes.com/2016/05/28/world/asia/survivors-recount-horrors-of-hiroshima-and-nagasaki.html

  Many survivor recounts we read emphasised the need to protect younger generations from nuclear war: an imperative even more relevant today. Survivor Emiko Okada poignantly says:

“War is one of two things: either you kill, or get killed.

Many children are victimized by poverty, malnutrition, and discrimination to this day.

I once encountered an infant who died of hypothermia. In its mouth was a small pebble.

Children are our greatest blessing.

I believe that grownups are responsible for war.”

Emiko Okada

[mbkcares]

"Spring Forward" by Ihsan Hines

I was going through my archives and I just found this article I wrote 7 years ago.  If you have the time to read it, I hope it encourages you.  And I'd like to hear your thoughts.

“Spring Forward”

Written by Ihsan Hines

Saturday, March 10, 2012  12:00pm

     Over the years I’ve come to realize that no person is exempt from the human experience.  Our specific experiences may differ but we all have our seasons of life and as we all know, seasons vary.  Natural weather seasons include winter, spring, summer, and fall and our life seasons involve similar transitions.  At times life seems very warm, followed by periods of loss and change, followed by coldness and loneliness.  I’m extremely excited that new life always allows us to spring forward.  I know these seasons very well and like many people, I struggle with processing the opportunity to spring forward after I’ve had to fall back.  Tonight an important event will take place that I’m sure most of you are super eager to experience.  We will all have one less hour to sleep!!  Yes, it’s daylight savings time and in order to be on the same time schedule as everyone else, we must set our clocks an hour forward.  I find it interesting that just before a season that represents so much new life and a beautiful atmosphere, we lose something.  The environment changes drastically but we lose something.  Now this may sound simple and sophomoric but I do have a point that I’m trying to make.  If you give me a few moments, I will try to explain and share some thoughts that have come to me as gifts from my experiences.  Spring represents so much more to gain than the loss that we encounter.  Actually, some of what we lose represents an improvement or gain.

     As a Christian, I’ve been reminded that to live is Christ and to die is gain.  What does that mean?  It means that as I live in a relationship with my heavenly Father through Jesus Christ, I am in a very good situation.  It also means that even when my life clock runs out of time, I will have an everlasting hourglass.  I am by no means trying to force decisions regarding faith but I am sharing my own source of hope.  There is a metaphor represented with spring time that I see within faith.  Counting blessings rather than amplifying minor losses can help us appreciate the moment we live in.  Tomorrow morning when we wake up after our shortened night of rest, we will be able to count one major blessing immediately.  We woke up!!  Looking at the bright side of our circumstances is necessary just like buying gas is necessary for a car to drive.  And I understand gas is extremely high right now but if we pour water into our gas tanks, we will not be able to drive anywhere and we will actually damage the vehicle.  This is similar to what pain and depression does to the human vehicle.  If positive days and positive energy is fueling our hearts and minds, we will be better equipped to spring forward.

     Some of you may be thinking that all sounds like the right perspective but it’s easier said than done.  You are absolutely right.  Healing is a process.  I have been frustrated countless days and nights during the process of getting from dark places to where I know I should be.  Just like it takes time to get from winter to spring, it also takes time to get from hurting to healed.  This winter has been very mild and it seems like we didn’t get much snow at all.  It’s not like last winter or the one before that when we had multiple days of snow up to our belly buttons.  That’s an important thing to acknowledge because not only do seasons change from one to another but seasons change within themselves.  That’s a reflection of healing.  Most of us, if not all of us has experienced the loss of loved ones either by death or separation.  We lose friends and relatives as they transition from life to death.  We lose close interaction with people when families separate due to divorce or breakups.  And there are other forms of separation such as relocation for employment, military obligations, and prison sentences.  Some people have even had to experience separation due to kid-napping.  I don’t want to make light of the pain that each circumstance causes but I want to attempt to make the healing process heavy.  Just like last winter doesn’t look like this winter, we can develop hope as time goes on after our major life losses.  I hope someone can relate to me when I say I have not forgotten the loved ones that were lost but I have seen progressive days for me to cope after each loss.

     What did I lose?  I’m not an expert on pain nor do I have all the solutions for life.  What I am is a man who is living, learning, and hopeful to help others as much as I can.  During the spring and summer of 2007, I felt like I was on top of the world.  My family was happy.  I was a new father to my first son.  My heart was healing after a breakup and I fell in love with an amazing woman.  I was traveling frequently as a recording artist and I released my first album that July.  I remember being very excited because the date of the release fell on 07/07/07.  That was a great time in my life, but seasons change.  I have a younger brother named Atif who I love dearly.  My mother raised us by herself and she always taught us to love each other and look out for our family.  Atif has a daughter named Jordan who looks just like him.  He had a great career as a supervisor at US Airways and his life appeared so well managed from the outside looking in.  In August of 2007, I cut my brothers hair and I had no idea that would be the last time I’d ever see him.  On August 31st 2007, while I was preparing to perform at a concert, I received a text message from Atif that said, “I’m sorry, I love you”.  I thought nothing of it and I actually assumed that he sent it to the wrong person.  I mean we didn’t have an argument and he didn’t do anything to me.  What I didn’t know is that this was Atif’s way of saying goodbye forever.  On that day he made a decision that changed seasons for his life and everyone who knows him.  After spending the day with his daughter, he went home with a gun that he purchased that day and took his life.  Suicide….  For reasons that I will never truly know, my brother committed suicide.  I was in denial for a while and thought that someone killed him and made it look like suicide.  Although seasons gradually improve, I lost my little brother…. my mother lost her child and some of the pain will probably be with us forever.  Atif died on a Friday and my birthday was coming up on the following Monday, September 3rd.  I spent most of that weekend surrounded by relatives and friends while helping my mother make funeral arrangements.  The most difficult paper I have ever had to write was the obituary for my little brother.  His life was gone and our lives were changed forever.  There was no way I could have a happy birthday.  I was emotionally unstable and my wonderful girlfriend at the time did her best to comfort me.  She talked to me, she listened to me and she tried to stay by my side.  In the days leading up to the funeral, she and I had an encounter which led to her becoming pregnant with our daughter.  The season was still changing.  I was just learning how to be a father and now I had to adjust to losing my brother while expecting the birth of my second child.  My girlfriend and I became engaged but our relationship ended before my daughter was born.  The season was still changing.  The end of the summer caused heat in my life and as the fall season came, I lost a lot.  The winter of 2007 was very cold and lonely.  Even Christmas seemed pointless to me and I hated my life.  I couldn’t sleep well, I could barely eat, and I became very non-social.  I was extremely depressed, I was hurting, and I made reckless decisions.  I tried to enjoy myself and I even sought sexual comfort.

     I thought I was at the end of my rope and I experienced a strange loneliness.  I would feel lonely even when other people were in the room with me.  I wished for death almost everyday for about three years.  I went to work unhappy only to come home to an empty house.  When I would spend time with my children I would experience great joy but the low feelings would come back strong when I was alone.  I thank God for giving me the gifts of children because they bring me joy, they give me purpose, and they are constant reminders of love and hope.  Although I’m at a better place now, some residue and regrets still exist to this day.  Healing is a process.  Along this long road, I’ve encountered some important people and my understanding of God’s love has improved.  Love heals.  When hope feels like a fairy tale, love heals.  When a heart is broken and tears are overflowing, love heals.  When the whole world seems like a big party that you aren’t invited to, love heals.  Love is the most important component of healing.  Why?  Because most of the pain we experience in life comes from the absence of love.  As seasons change, voids from poor love are filled with true love.  Not only on small scales either.  God is love and separation from God means a person has no true source of eternal peace.

     I benefited from speaking to counselors and sharing my heart with others.  I learned how to appreciate life and the limited time we have to engage in healthy relationships with people.  Life is so valuable.  Even the moments that seem like a waste of time or tragic seasons have value.  Some wisdom comes from experience.  We learn and mature from our own experiences, mistakes and all.  Those who have experienced things before us and around us offer models that we too can learn from.  We also gain wisdom from God who promises to give it freely to anyone who asks for it.  There are countless examples of people in the Bible that we can gain wisdom from.  It offers testimonies of obedience and disobedience as well as weak and strong faith.  I believe that every person is worthy of love and should have the gift of love expressed to them by others.  Rejection through bullying and abuse are not examples of love.  If anything, it’s an expression of the lack of love being received by the one doing the negative actions.  Ever heard the expression, hurt people hurt people?  It’s natural because sometimes we give what we get.  That’s why it’s important that we give love to everyone we encounter.  I like to compare acts of love to recycling.  Our planet is not in the best condition due to pollution and waste and everyone is affected by it.  When we recycle, we are taking an opportunity to make a difference in even if it’s a small impact.  Many small steps can add up to become tremendous journeys.  If someone else recognizes the small difference, he or she may strive to make a difference too.  Two years ago I began to recycle my trash and weekly I placed my blue recycling bin on the sidewalk.  I noticed that my neighbors gradually began to do the same.  I’m not saying that I started a movement, but I did recognize a pattern of change.  If we purposely love the same way, we will notice a pattern of change in our families, our communities, and most importantly our hearts.

     Everyone is at a different season in life right now.  Some of us may be extremely happy while others may be deeply saddened.  Some of us may be in the very middle.  Seasons change and I believe that it’s important to respect everyone and communicate with others about our seasons.  Not bragging nor complaining but rather healthy communication.  That communication should include listening to each other, speaking kind words, forgiving and seeking forgiveness, as well as helping to meet needs when we can.  We also can communicate with God as we pray for others.  These are some ways that we can care and truly love people as we spring forward.

     God promises that all things work together for the good of those who love the Lord and who are called according to His purpose.  That is a very special promise that includes our good and bad experiences.  My hope today is that someone will truly hold on to life and love when it seems impossible to do so.  It may take some time but healing is a process and life is worth living.  No, the journey isn’t always comfortable or fun but we can make it.  Death is the final destination for everyone’s earthly bodies but we don’t need to help death come any faster.  When I was deeply depressed and felt like giving up, a pastor who was mentoring me once told me that he desired that I hold on and enjoy life.  He said he didn’t want me to stay alive and live dead.  He didn’t want me to walk around daily thinking yesterday was the best day.  The rest of our days can be the best of our days as we spring forward!!

     You know, an interesting memory came to mind as I was preparing this.  I recall driving to work the morning before my brother died listening to a song called “Seasons”.  It’s a beautiful song by Pastor Alyn Waller from Enon Tabernacle Baptist Church.  As the lyrics played, I remember thinking it’s time for my season to change.  I had no idea how much it would change, but then again no one does.  We have a promise from the Lord that offers hope and helps us during life’s seasons.  This promise can be found in the Bible in the book of John Chapter 16 verse 33.  Jesus said, “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace.  In this world you will have trouble.  But take heart!  I have overcome the world.”  No, I cannot guarantee that everything that has worked for me will work for everyone but I can guarantee that He who has worked in me will work in anyone.

     Tonight, before setting your clocks, I want everyone to count the many blessings that you have experienced in your lives and consider them as gain before you count the one lost hour of time.  What does that look like practically?  Well, some people have had children at times that seemed inconvenient and have now found their joy comes from being a parent.  Some people have experienced painful breakups only to be reunited at a better time or perhaps they have moved on and learned to love again.  Jobs have been lost and better jobs have been found.  Grandparents have passed away and grandchildren have been born.  Life has many cycles and seasons change.

     Our seasons can become heated like summer, things may fall apart like autumn, loneliness gets bitterly cold like winter, but we can spring forward into new life.  Let’s spring forward!!

[crimsonrevolt]

Congratulations Sierra you’ve been accepted to Crimson Revolt as Florence Wilson!

↳ please refer to our character checklist

The way you fleshed out Florence and made her entirely your own was something that really struck us -- given that there’s not a lot to go on with canon information for her. But you built her up in our heads, and it was beautiful to see a fully formed and fleshed out character come to life in our imaginations! We’re so excited to see her on the dash and see what potential plots you come up with for her! *your faceclaim change has been accepted

application beneath the cut

OUT OF CHARACTER

INTRODUCTION

Hey there! I’m Sierra, I’m 22, and I use they/them/their pronouns. I live in the EST (GMT -5) time zone! I also play Hestia here.

ACTIVITY

I try to post at least four out of seven days of the week, though I’ve been getting better at time management as the semester winds down! I’d probably give myself a 7 out of 10? .

TRIGGERS

*removed for privacy

HOW DID YOU FIND US?

I think I originally found the RP through the HP RP tag, though I’ve been playing Hestia here for a while now!

WHAT HARRY POTTER CHARACTER DO YOU IDENTIFY WITH MOST?

Most frequently I identify with Luna Lovegood; she is fiercely loyal, intensely kind, and willing to fight for anyone she cares about. She has a unique point of view and may not quite understand the world around her at times, but at the end of the day she is one of those people who wants to listen to the people around her and make the world a better place.

ANYTHING ELSE?

Nothing at the moment! But if you want some fun facts about me … here we go? I want to be a Rabbi and I’ve been teaching myself Hebrew, German, and Dutch over the past year or so. I also have read the Harry Potter series in Spanish.

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER

Florence Irene Wilson;

Florence, from the Latin Florentius or Florentia, means “flourishing” or “prosperous.” It is also the name of the city where Mr. Wilson proposed to his wife.

Irene, from the Greek Eirene, means “peace” and is derived from the name of the Greek goddess who personified peace, or one of the Horai. It is also the name of Florence’s late maternal grandmother who died months before Florence was born.

Wilson, from the English ‘son of Will.’ It is a surname that has been in the family for generations.

FACE CLAIM

If possible, can I change Florence’s faceclaim to Felicity Jones? I feel like she has a lot of similar aesthetic qualities to Troian Bellasario but is more of an underused faceclaim. My second choice of a faceclaim for Florence would be Willa Holland; my third choice would be Camila Mendez.

REASON FOR CHOSEN CHARACTER

Florence has always found a reason to fight. She is too strong-willed and too outspoken to let something that bothers her go unnoticed. There are beginnings of a fire within her, sparks flying, hoping that a fire will catch on and burn through the darkness of her current world. As a girl who cares far too much about justice, Florence is never satisfied with the way that things are. She is the first to stand up when someone asks for help and the last to step down when things look bleak. Still, despite all of this, Florence doesn’t just want to fight. She wants to make some kind of a difference, to foster real, tangible change. The Order wasn’t doing enough to satisfy her; they were careful, slow, and too under the radar. After leaving Hogwarts, it became clear to Florence that there was too much at stake. She is a Muggleborn, the only witch in her family. With her right to existence on the line, this war is far too personal for her not to join in Aversio’s efforts. 

PREFERRED SHIPS // CHARACTER SEXUALITY // GENDER & PRONOUNS

Florence/Chemistry

Florence dedicates herself wholly to a cause, whether it be her work with house elfs or her dedication to Aversio’s cause. It isn’t often that someone catches her eye romantically; sure, there are people she doesn’t mind looking at … people too good-looking to ignore. While she isn’t entirely opposed to having a one night stand or a fling, the idea isn’t the most attractive in the world. She would prefer a long-term relationship, but only if it was with the right person. For most of her life Florence has been too occupied with her work and special interests to truly pursue a relationship, though, and she doesn’t see that changing any time soon. That being said … things can always change!

CREATE ONE (OR MORE!) OF THE FOLLOWING FOR YOUR CHARACTER:

-A MOODBOARD

https://68.media.tumblr.com/42a4f4abdd52d83c7d191732289cee6c/tumblr_or3oq4nFbX1vgn58eo1_500.png

- A FEW HEADCANONS

Myers-Briggs Personality Type: ISTJ-A, The Logistician

“Logisticians don’t make many assumptions, preferring instead to analyze their surroundings, check their facts and arrive at practical courses of action. Logistician personalities are no-nonsense, and when they’ve made a decision, they will relay the facts necessary to achieve their goal, expecting others to grasp the situation immediately and take action. Logisticians have little tolerance for indecisiveness, but lose patience even more quickly if their chosen course is challenged with impractical theories, especially if they ignore key details – if challenges becomes time-consuming debates, Logisticians can become noticeably angry as deadlines tick nearer.” Wand Type: 10.5 inches, Cedar wood, unicorn hair core

IN CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE

The following section should be looked at like a survey for your character. Answer them in character and feel free to use gifs. Or, if you’d rather, answer them in third person or OOC without gifs. Answers do not have to be extremely lengthy.

♔ If you were able to invent one spell, potion, or charm, what would it do, what would you use it for or how would you use it? Feel free to name it:

“This sounds absolutely ridiculous, but I would love to create a spell that could check my writing for any sort of grammatical errors. It’s not that I’m a horrible writer – it can just be so time consuming to go through something twice, three times, or even more, only to find that I’ve messed up something as simple as a semicolon. I’m sure someone’s thought of it before … though I’ve never heard of it, so … maybe it doesn’t?”

♔ You have to venture deep into the Forbidden Forest one night. Pick one other character and one object (muggle or magical), besides your wand, that you’d want with you:

“Merlin, that’s a tough one. I suppose I’d have to go with Ted Tonks, though. He’s just one of those people that I trust implicitly with those kinds of things. He seems pretty smart and levelheaded, and he just gives off vibes that he would protect someone and stand by them no matter what. – and I guess I’d bring my pepper spray, seeing as it hasn’t failed me yet.”

♔ What kinds of decisions are the most difficult for you to make?

“When I know that something is right for me personally but isn’t best for everyone else, it can be difficult to prioritize things. I don’t like putting myself first … but there are times when its necessary.”

♔ What is one thing you would never want said about you?

“I never want people to say that I don’t try or that I’m fighting a meaningless fight. People who can’t try to understand what I’m doing probably haven’t had something to fight for in their lives.”

WRITING SAMPLE

Sitting alone in her parents’ living room, Florence felt a burning inside of her. It started in her head, rearing its ugly, searing pain each and every time she recalled a Missing Person poster or read another obituary describing a thoughtless, unnecessary death. It travelled down to her cheeks, red and filled with a kind of fury that she hadn’t felt before. There were no tears left inside of her. Even if she wanted to cry, she couldn’t bring herself to let a single tear drop from her eyes. To cry would be to surrender to the pain, to let it overwhelm her and take away any agency that she felt left. And yet, no matter how much Florence wanted to fight the pain, to stand up and shout, to throw something across the room just to watch it break, she couldn’t bring herself to do so. It weighed her down, pressing on her shoulders with the pressure of a thousand heavy bricks. At school, just a few short years ago, ignoring news from the outside world seemed easy. She didn’t care as much for updates from the Daily Prophet as she did for letters from her mother and father. The Wizarding World, even after all the years she’d spent at Hogwarts, still felt a little foreign to her. Florence connected more to news about Parliament than the Ministry and wanted to hear more about ongoings at home than the winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile. But now that she had graduated and returned back to the comfort of her Muggle home, she yearned for a way to stay in the loop about the war in the Wizarding World. While the Prophet’s updates came steadily, they were impersonal, reducing people with families, hopes, and ambitions to nothing more than a name and a ‘Last Seen’ date. Panic set in nearly every time she opened the paper. Which of her friends would be the first to appear on the list of missing or murdered people? When would the war finally hit her too close to home? Florence tore the Obituary page from the paper, crumpling it in her fist. Kenzie Blair. The young woman’s face swam in her memory. It must’ve been at least a year since they spoke; Florence never considered the younger girl to be more than an acquaintance, a somewhat-annoying, bit-too-chatty Hufflepuff that just wanted to make friends. In her mind, Kenzie had always seemed a bit younger than she actually was, eternally fourteen no matter how old she actually turned. Now, of course, the younger woman would always be seventeen, barely old enough to apparate, much less to make a name for herself. Florence got up from the bed and crossed the room to throw away the balled-up paper. Looking at it only infuriated her, making her want to scream. Almost without thinking, Florence headed to her own bedroom, slamming the door behind her. The letter from Kingsley Shacklebolt lay on her desk, just where she’d left it for the past month. Taking a piece of paper, Florence shakily wrote three short words on the page before shoving it into the envelope and sending it off to Kingsley with her owl. “Let me fight.”

[selfpublishingnews]

Interviewed by Kristen Tsetsi - from Jane Friedman’s blog at janefriedman.com

Elizabeth (Betsy) Marro  is the author of Casualties, a novel about a single mother and defense executive who loses her son just when she thought he was home safe from his final deployment. Now she must face some difficult truths about her past, her choices, the war, and her son. A former journalist and recovering pharmaceutical executive, Betsy Marro’s work has appeared in such online and print publications as LiteraryMama, The San Diego Reader, and on her blog. Originally from the North Country region of New Hampshire, she now lives in San Diego where she is working on her next novel, short fiction, and essays. Casualties, published in February 2016 by the Berkley imprint of Penguin Random House, is her first novel.

5 on Writing

KRISTEN TSETSI: Say you’re having a bad writing day. What, for you, is a bad writing day? And what builds your confidence, gets you excited to write?

ELIZABETH MARRO: A bad writing day is a day without any writing at all in it. Even if all I manage to do is scratch out a line or solve a problem in my head as I walk or vacuum the house, the day is not a lost cause. There are days when writing is a lot of staring at the blank page, but that’s fertile time and it takes a bit of sinking into.

The days that are really tough for me are the days that involve re-entry after a period of spending time away—always for good reasons, but nevertheless, away. I get through those re-entry periods by diving in and enduring the discomfort that lasts for a day or two. Nothing builds my confidence like getting in a thousand words, even really bad ones. The other thing that works is getting out into the world after spending the morning writing. I get excited to write when I hear something, see something, realize something that I can use.  This can be an offhand comment by a total stranger, a glimpse of a setting or a scene, or an unusual name that I can’t stop thinking about in the obituary pages. I find a lot of inspiration in the obituary pages. My dad’s wife has begun to save the ones from her local paper and send them to me. I love that.

Do your story ideas begin with plot, character, or message in mind? If it’s been different depending on the story you were telling at the time, did you find your writing process or experience changed from one to the next?

I begin with people and a question that’s been bothering me. With Casualties, the characters presented themselves early in shadowy form and developed over time. The question they would grapple with is one that we all have to grapple with: how to live when the worst has happened and how to live with the decisions we can’t undo. With the novel I’m now trying to write, the people are again on the scene along with their arcs and the key “what if” question that got me going on it. The plot, I’m afraid, is not as clear as I’d like it to be, but that happened with Casualties, so I have faith.

You said in an interview for the San Diego Tribune, when asked whether you had a personal connection to the military that helped inform Casualties, “Nope. I’m part of that 99 percent that’s on the other side of the fence looking across at this unfamiliar territory.” How easy or how difficult was it to get inside the mind of someone who’d had the experience of seeing their child go to—and be away at—war? How did you do it?

I would never say that climbing inside the mind of another human being—even, or perhaps especially, a fictional one—is easy, but it is worth every minute of trying. The easier part, perhaps, was tapping into my experience as a single mother and all the feelings that come with the thought of losing a child for any reason. These feelings were not easy to live with but they were accessible. We don’t get through life without losing people we’ve loved unless we are very lucky, and I was able to recall my own grief and the grief of those I’ve known well.

I did spend a lot of time reading articles, blogs, and books written by or about parents of children in the military. I would read every one of the names of the fallen that were printed in our local paper or the New York Times and think about the families left behind. It is impossible to do this and not feel deeply. In the end, the feelings of helplessness, loss, and grief are as universal and they are individual. I don’t think they are necessarily altered by how that loss happens.

An oft-expressed opinion of literary writing is that it’s not very accessible to a wide audience. An equally oft-expressed opinion is that commercial writing lacks a certain amount of artistic attention.  What is your opinion of accessibility vs. artistic expression and the importance of either/each?

When I was younger, and by that I mean off and on from my twenties to as recently as 2003, I thought these distinctions were important. I thought I had to know what kind of writer I was and live there. I lost sight of the fact that while publishers and writers think this way, most readers don’t. They pick up a book and they either keep reading or put it down.

Some books work better than others. Some readers love to be presented with a book that asks more of them. I’ve just finished I, the Divine by Rabih Alameddine, who wrote the entire novel as first chapters. In his hands, this experiment worked beautifully, and I loved how he gave us a character, her world, her revisionist history, and the “real” story with every new beginning. This wouldn’t work for every reader and wouldn’t be natural for every writer, but as a reader and a writer, it woke me up, it delighted me. I hated for the novel to end. I found it both artistic and accessible.

On the other hand, I have been at war with James Joyce’s Ulysses since I was in college. I fall in love with Joyce’s sentences and then resent the hell out of him for making it all so difficult for me to get lost in the pages of his novel. For me it is the most difficult to access novel I’ve ever encountered. In this case the artist left me behind, and I don’t love that. I have vowed to attempt Ulysses yet again after receiving some helpful advice from a writer and reader I respect to just treat it as though I’m walking through a city; to resist trying to connect dots. We’ll see how it works.

But life is short, and large-scale commercial success for most writers is elusive. I think we should read and write what we want and find our audiences.

In an email exchange we had some time ago about writing, age, and when (and whether) to just STOP, we discussed the different ways in which success and failure are determined and the role age plays. You wrote, “There are all kinds of pressures that are tied to the expectations we have of ourselves at different ages.” What pressures are you experiencing, and what, for you, determines success or failure?

When I was younger, the pressure was so great it often stopped me in my tracks. I could write for newspapers and I could write for my later job in pharmaceuticals, but the short stories I wanted to write, the novel I hoped to write, never got fully underway.

While some of this was due to the demands of having a job, raising a child, and trying to figure out life, most of my problem was fear. My expectations of myself were huge, and my fear of failure was in direct proportion to that. I was in my twenties and I wanted to be one of those amazing women who did everything, when what I really needed to do, and couldn’t until much later, was focus. Luckily, I was gathering skills, experience, material, and confidence in other aspects of my life. These all came in handy when I was ready to focus on the writing. The fear factor fades significantly when you hit an age when it is “now or never.” Also, by that time, I’d survived a few big failures and realized that they weren’t the end of the world.

The only real failure then—and now—is failure to try.  Lately, the pressure comes from the only deadline that matters, which is trying to write all the things I want to write before my life is over.

Read the rest of this interesting and useful interview at JaneFriedman.com.

[janiklandre-blog]

Sunday, March 5, 2017

9:25 a.m.  very cold but sunny   a lonely Sunday morning - somewhere I read about the Sunday blues - earlier I have also written about all the people going to church - obviously a way to combat the Sunday blues. I tried - but rarely found services inspiring. For a while Paco and I attended the 6th Avenue Methodist Church in Brooklyn. Paco's second wife Elaine - 16 years younger than he, she dumped him and I met him - Elaine before being with Paco had found her way to the church of Finley Schaef - then off Washington Sqare to the West, Finley had been the first minister to speak out against the Vietnam war from the pulpit. His church was called the peace church - a group my friend Ari Salant was part of, Resist, met there and I went with him, Grace Paley was there - and days before I met Paco I had gone there with Robert Goldscheider and my sons - our sons - to see the San Francisco Mime Troupe performing at the church. My son later tried joining them in San Francisco, alas they said something to the effect that too many Jewish boys from New York were coming (our Jewish name does make us Jewish - there is my Jewish grandfather and Robert's Jewish father - Robert later with his third wife Janet joined a synagogue - my lose affiliations have been Christian, my sons never sought any, as far as I know.

Finley's church was a lively place - but then Finley became involved with the youthful assistant Nancy, his wife with the youth minister - Finley and Nancy a pair to this day - the liaison of his wife did not hold long - still the Methodist church too a dim view, Finley list his church (now condos) - worked in a bar for a year - then made apologies and was assigned the church in Brooklyn - this was around 1973 and Park Slope still a waste land where we could have bought a house for peanuts and I wish we had. While there, the area became gentrified and by the time Finley retired - I visited him and Nancy in Saugsrties not too long ago - it had become a posh neighborhood and a posh church.

After Elaine dumped Paco she was banished from his church, but Finley - and many other people - loved Paco, the charming and prolific azrtist. At times we walked to the church from our second avenue loft - over the Brooklyn bridge, up Flatbush avenue - we loved these long walks, took interesting photographs - all gone - we allotted two hours, still often came after the service had begun and Finley would stop and grandly welcome his painter friend and probably call me his wife - there was talk we might get married in a church ceremony, not the civil one - no legal obligations. We never did.

Finley had a strong theatrical flair - his services were theatrical and fun - he was of Catholic Lithuanian background but had converted to the Methodist church. The church was also very political, much attention was paid to events in Latin America and demonstrations were joined.

At the end of the service we always were invited to the Parish House - a select group - to a lavish brunch and often ended up in nearby Prospect Park. These were not lonely Sundays.

However, in the spring of 1988 when Paco decamped to East Hampton without me (he had waited until it got warm) - on mother's day I went alone to the church where I met Patty Lee Parmelee from my German group and the German woman theologian Soelle was visiting and Patty said, we are going to the Parish house - and I said, I am coming and Nancy stopped me and said: I don't think there is enough room.

Wham bam - only as an adjunct to Paco had I been welcome. Interesting. I did write them a letter and for many years stayed out of contact until I ran one day in the street into Finley who embraced me warmly, asked where I had been - he had forgotten all about that mother's day - by then he had retired and they had left New York - and invited me to come to Saugasrtie's - where I also have another friend who gave me warm hospitality. I spent a lovely weekend there - alas I no longer have the get up and go of my younger years - though coming Tuesday I will test if I can still catch the 5:49 to New Haven and find a bus there to take me to Northampton - a trip I enjoyed not that long ago.

Well, C.B. has shelved me - avoiding any conflict - unwilling to sit down for a talk - finding excuses not to see me. Which also does bring once again the highly critical letter of me I received from another friend - reminding me that when I met Robert G. in 1953 he had three close friends - Lenny, Kenny and David - he and Lenny Harvard law, Kenny and David Harvard med (( did write a novel about them in 1964, after Robert an I had attended his 10th reunion of Harvard law - a theatrical weekend) I did send the novel to a major publisher, got it back saying, very interesting, keep working on it - alas I never learned to work on my writing, In any event, Robert proudly told me of the mutual admiration society the four had formed - three were Jewish, Robert had a Jewish father - determined social climbers - aware of the importance of giving each other support and building each other up. Gesine in Germany is one of my women friends building me up - alas not all women are. So often I de experience women tearing each other down - a late glaring example the granddaughter of Dorothy Day at Mary House. I am aware of the envy and jealousy I have encountered - also sometimes disappointing friends - I can think of three - who met me when I was teaching at Columbia, expecting me to rise in the ranks - social climb myself! - disappointed when I sang: Hallelujah, I'm a bum again - hanging out with bums - not climbing socially but declining. Downward mobility they call it. It has not been voluntary poverty - I've now been around the Catholic Worker for more than 20 years - readily give them credit for making me part of their family - for giving me a home away from no home on ,many lonely days - feeding me a lot of food - and yet at this  very moment deeply disappointing me.

I have lived many different lives with many different groups of people - for many at the CW there has been great continuity in their lives - Roger going back to the 50's - Jane going back to the 70's - Dorothy Day's granddaughters - Kate who now is promoting her book - they have mountains of photographs, letters, books that go back to the time if my birth - 1933 when inspired by Peter Maurin the first issue of the Catholic Worker was published - a penny a copy - peddled in Union Square - a penny a copy to this day and still in the same format - I've read much of Dorothy's excellent writings - her memoir The Long Loneliness, very openly talking about her early days, her recently published extensive journals, a lot of her other writings - it is a fascinating story - what the synergy of two people created - a vital movement that today encompasses the world - and crfeated great continuity in the lives of many people whom I met and watched - good people.

After C.B. drew me in after 1997 - I helped her in the kitchen - saving my life on the day of the 2000 fire, when I left my apartment minutes before a feroceus fire broke in to go and help her in the kitchen.Having just returned from 10 years in Bolivia she knew few people in New York and cherished me as a friend - until very recently - when at the behest of her dear friend M.H. I too was put on their list of the old and feeble minded - to be tolerated as long asd they don't open their mouth. M.H. who always had followed C.B.to my house and was welcomed by me, found it deeply offending how dared I asking to be included when she was asking out C.B. for a humburger. She insulted me, ran off - and later said - I'll talk to you when you'll be a sweet silent old woman.

I guess when you have grown old and not climbed socially - have status and money - that is to be expected. Having watched the C.W. all these years I have come to realize that while the myth declares everybody equal - there too is rank and status and in earlier writings I often wrote about watching French Christine - the general's daughter of aristocrstic background - fighting tooth and nail to climb in the ranks - and glad for myself not to share that ambition. It caused her much grief - she constantly felt left out - she and I did have a few very pleasant encounters and we did like each other - but most of the time she was seeking out "people of value".

The young people who arrive - their youth much valued - if they so desire, quickly rise - immediately there writing in the paper is valued, they are invited on journeys to South Korea, Russia, Afganistan, Iraq and on and on - they are asked to give talks - I turned 60 in 1992 - I was appreciated washing dishes, chopping carrots and later labeling the newspaper - 80.000 copies not long ago, now reduced to 30.000 - postage too expensive. I quickly realized that bar coding would be cheaper than hand labeling - but a woman who has died, Kathy Temple - asked before her death fow a vow that bar coding would never be used - and so people continue to hand lable - it's a bit like in Russia where three people under communism were given the same job to maintain full employment and make sure everybody had a job..

I did it when I was joined by an interesting French priest - who introduced me to interesting French writers - on the tip of my tongue - an early critic of communism whose chauffeur he had once been, later an inmate in a German concentration camp - he was refused housing at CW when evicted in Brooklyn, was a mad driver and died shoveling his beat up Toyota out of the snow. I acutually was asked to write his obituary - I had much liked him

Then all kind of discord broke out in the mailing room - also I preferred writing this here now blog - I no longer was wanted in the kitchen - and alas, not a published author I ended up in a rather numerous category of poor, lonely old women who are greeted kindly and then ignored.

But the place does abound in interesting characters - Jane always talked of writing a Gothic Novel and I hope she has - weirdness abounds - and you don't have to go to any theater, there is enough theater there. Still - it is time for me to widen my circle - and deal with the fact that I can come as silent observer, but there are so many pwople with a great need to talk and men do assert themselves - and boy, do they talk and talk - but forbid women to talk, not only me. Must accept realities.

And so goes my life. Went for an icy walk yesterday, listenened to the ever crazier news - went out to buy the Sunday Times - quickly escaped a violent encounter between two men - violence in the air. Read the Sunday Times, slept rather well - left house at 7 a.m.. - empty cold streets, tons of litter - Bean not very cosy -loud militsry sounding music - a worker sawing metal - walked - ran into a couple people I knew, stopped at the bakery where I've gotten into talking to the woman from former Yugoslavia, 49, a grandmother, drives daily 40 minutes - does not know where in former Yugoslavia her parents came from, does not talk to her Muslim mother - has some nerve problem and barely sleeps but says she is never tired - a bit worrisome, I find - and here I am, spending my lonely Sunday morning g writing - enjoying writing - it's 11 I'll call a friend

Got her answering machine - I know she's not in church but likely out with her daughter. Yesterday I noticed what looked like an interesting lecture at the Deutshes Haus at NYU - modern German authors - since Goethe Haus on 5th Avenue closed I've lost touch with German writing - still - it still is of interest and so I'll skip the CW brunch.

This may the lst of my longblogs at least for a while - tomorrow at 9 a.m. I am to see the eye doctor about the cataracts - he gave me a long form to fill out and extensive material to read - others have told me about the tedious eye drops - and then I'll see how the day develops - Tuesday early I plan to leave for Massachusetts and let's see how this will go. I will take my ipad and see if my daughter-in-law can give me some lessons - many do write on it at length - and then also, those of you who have followed my writing - is it ten years? - have been witness to my waning and waxing energies - somebody called it being a prisoner to our emotions - I would love to keep going at my present rate - since my energies began waxing once again and M.H. and C.B. have been so totally offended by an "energized Marianne" - how dare you not be sweet and even tempered - I have done a lot of organizing, taken care of many things that my waning energies don't allow me to do - when I feel so blah, oh, so blah - yet my psychiatrist friends have assured me "Marianne "you don"t know what real depression is" - and I am thankful to them - thankful I never listened to the pill happy nurses who tell me - you MUST take pills - and worried about others in my life who may suffer from more serious forms of depression than I do. With me until now it has been a passing condition - when I barely find three words to stay - stop writing this here blog - do feel like, hey can't you pull yourself together - this all started after my mother killed herself in 1982 - days before her 80th birthday - she had had with indignities of old age. Only I wished she had not done it the way she did. A year later I for the first time urgently wished for death myself. It threw me and those close to me into terrible disarray. It took me time to learn about waning and waxing energies - I often have not dealt well with it - allowed my anger to surface - but am working hard at trying to be as palatable as possible to myself and to those around me. Whomever I may have offended, please forgive me - and those of you who recites the Lord's prayer, please listen to the words you utter and act on it. A la prochaine, until next time, as French Chrstine used to say - she is now in Paris, battling cancer, would like to be called on her cell phone which is terribly expensive, has not seen to getting hold of a computer - here she only went to the library where a kind young man helped her. Well - perhaps she does not have the energy. I do miss her. She did understand what others do not.

Last - I wish I had learned to write in word - as things get long - my email mode gets a bit rebellious. Still, thanks again Ken, and now Molly to getting me were I am. Marianne