#ex. height and shoulder width is something very important to them

[silusvesuius]

baby👶 drawings. these are very dear to me rn.. 2nd pic is my Nelavis with @barvin0k's Varonur 🩵 last one is a baby bosmer and snow elf, hairiest of them all. although the bosmer was meant to be my girl Barletta too lols

[your-highnessmarvel]

Alias

Summary: Bucky starts to remember a certain redhead. The past becomes a reason to connect and a reason to delve back into his treacherous mind.

Pairing: Bucky x Natasha (WinterWidow)

Warnings: Violence

AN: in the light of the post i reblogged of bucky and nat and my small rant, i decided to feed my imagination and console myself over the fact that nat is dead and we never got to see nat/bucky love onscreen. And also, my requests are empty. I’ll be making a masterlist of this soon.

                                           CHAPTER ONE

The first time Bucky ever took notice of Natasha Romanoff, he was watching Steve doodle in the kitchen. The compound was half empty, silent, somber, and Steve had taken to doodling by the light of the moon, and Bucky had always found it especially relaxing to watch his oldest friend do the most mundane thing. And if it hadn’t been for the soft pitter-patter of footsteps on the hardwood floor, Bucky would have watched Steve draw for hours. But the light in the kitchen came on, and both Steve and Bucky looked up and saw a redhead waltzing in unabashedly. 

The rest of the team were out for the night. Usually, Nat was the first to climb into Tony’s sleek car and go to some bar, but tonight, she stayed in. Bucky had never really taken notice in her, besides, well, that time he choked her and slammed her against a metal table. And now she was there, absently rummaging through the fridge, wearing thick leggings and woolen socks, her bright red hair a curled mess. 

Steve went right back to his drawing, neck bent, unbothered by the normal appearance of Natasha. Bucky heard the scratch of Steve’s pencil, but he was unable to bring his eyes back to the paper. 

Ever since Bucky had lived and survived his brainwash, all he’d wanted to do was live in a moderately stimulating world. He’d wanted to rekindle his friendship with Steve, something that had been ripped away from him so harshly. He’d wanted to mend his mind, to bring himself some sort of comfort and solace for the things he’d done. 

He had not thought of striking up a romance. 

Steve smiled, noticing just how intently his best friend was following the redhead with his eyes. “You can talk to her, you know,” Steve muttered, not leaving his drawing with his eyes. 

Bucky frowned, turning his glare abruptly onto his friend. “What?”

They were far enough that Nat could not hear them as she was preparing herself a midnight snack. 

“She’s a nice woman,” Steve continued. “Well, she can be harsh, but I’ve seen her be sweet.” 

Bucky shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hm.”

But Bucky couldn’t stop thinking about her. Because there was something familiar. He’d seen her before. He knew her. His mind was a tricky place to venture in, and he preferred leaving his past with the Soviet Union where it belonged; in the dark confines of his thoughts. But he wanted to know exactly how Natasha fit into that puzzle.

He did his own digging. She was ex-KGB. Black Widow program. Red room. She could be placed with the Russians in the exact timeline where he’d been their perfect weapon, their ideal asset. The more he read, the more he felt like he lived it. The more he felt like he knew all of this already. But just like the Soviet’s had erased Bucky to implant the Winter Soldier, Bucky had done his best to erase the Winter Soldier. 

One thing he kept telling himself was that if Nat knew him, wouldn’t she have come to him already? For answers. For unfinished business. For clarity. Whatever he’d done, to her or with her or despite of her, wouldn’t she have come clean?

Those were too many questions for Bucky’s fragile psyche to endure. For nights, he stirred awake in his bed, wondering if the redhead he couldn’t stop thinking about was afflicted with the same insomnia. He never dared talk to anyone about it, not even Steve. There was too much darkness Bucky did not want to relive. 

But one day, Natasha stumbled upon his search history. She knew immediately that the memories had come to visit, had come knocking on the careful, intricate, and fragile door of Bucky’s mind. 

She went to him then, careful in her approach. He was fresh off the running course, breathless and sweaty. She waited for him by the door, examining his posture. Defensive, when he saw her. She let her arms fall to her sides, open, harmless. 

“Do you remember me?” she asked him carefully. He looked her over slowly, his blue eyes like two different doors to two different times. 

“I think.”

She gulped. “What exactly?”

He shook his head, standing arms length away from her. “I don’t really know.”

Carefully, she stepped forward. Immediately, he stepped back. He’d grown a fear of proximity since his return to his normal self. And not because he was afraid of others, but because he was afraid of himself and the uncontrollable and unpredictability of his mind. 

“I can tell you, if you want,” she offered, tensing at the sound of his metallic arm whizzing as the plates rearranged themselves. 

He bit his lip, eyes cast down, pondering if he’d like to rehash his horrible past. 

“It’s not...” she trailed off, gulping, and Bucky didn’t miss the slight redness of her cheeks. Oh, god, he thought, what did I do to her? “It’s not that bad, actually.” He felt a little bit better. 

“I...” He looked at her; rosy cheeks, wide eyes, mouth parted. “I’d like to shower.”

She smiled. “I’ll wait for you in the kitchen.”

After his shower, Bucky dressed in jeans and a sweater, and found Nat in the kitchen. She’d made coffee, and two mugs were sitting on the table. His was lightened with milk. She knew how he took his coffee?

When she saw him examining his mug, she cleared her throat. “I guess that’s a good place to start.” They both sat at the table, facing each other. “We were very... close, you and I.”

Bucky nodded. “I had a feeling.”

She rolled her eyes. “Why, because you’re such a ladies man?”

For the first time in a long time, Nat saw him smile. “I just figured that if you knew how I take my coffee, you knew me fairly well.”

Her eyes snapped down to his coffee mug, to where his fingers wrapped around the cup, flesh and metal. “You’re right.” This time, her tone was less playful. “I guess I should have told you all of this sooner. But when you didn’t recognize me, I was hurt. And then, when you came back, you were so... fragile.”

He winced. 

She continued. “I’m sorry. I owed you this way sooner.”

“I don’t think I was ready,” he offered, examining the cut of her jaw, the wild curls of her hair. Something in his gut shifted. Reconnaissance. Familiarity. Warmth spread in his chest, the kind you get when you are on known ground, when you know you are safe. 

She smiled tenderly. 

Russia, 1998, Red Room. Black Widow Program. Class of ‘84.

Eleven girls, fourteen in age, stood as stiff as metal rods under the green artificial lights of the gymnasium. A series of glistening blue mattresses were spread out behind them, fighting equipment lying vagabond. Gloves. Helmets. Mushy batons. 

Mistress Galina had ordered them all to change into their training uniforms at the the crack of dawn. Natalia stood rigid at the epicenter, watching with vivid eyes as her Mistress stalked into the room. 

“Ladies!” Her voice echoed off the walls sending the renown chill down Nat’s spine. Behind Mistress Galina were two of the trainers and one medic, per usual. 

“Mistress,” came the drawling tone of fourteen young recruits. Galina smiled tightly, standing before the row of girls. Her dark brown hair was pulled back tightly into a knot at the base of her head. She wore the black suit of high-ranking spies of the KGB, outlined with dark red. A Widow suit. 

“Ladies, let me present to you one of your new trainers and our best new asset.” Mistress Galina stepped aside, gesturing tightly to the door. Fourteen pairs of eyes watched as a man walked in. 

Natalia observed him with discreet indifference. She knew what interest got her, and so she schooled her features to remain stoic. 

He was the most frightening man she had ever seen. His hair was chin length, the color of chocolate, obscuring his face, keeping him in the shadows. She could understand why, if he was a new asset. One important and redundant feature that she was taught was anonymity. 

He was of average height for a man, not that she’d seen many. She knew Henrich the medic and two of the fifteen trainers were men. But this man was built different. He walked like shadows, silent and smooth, and Natalia could almost smell the training off of him. But what was more alarming wasn’t the width of his shoulders or the size of his hands or just how impenetrable his chest looked. It was his metal arm.

It glistened under the lights, whizzing as the metallic plates rearranged themselves. As he came to stand dutifully next to Mistress Galina, he eyes remained trained forward, and his metal digits closed into a fist.

He looked inhumane. 

“I assume you are ready to move forward in your training?” Mistress Galina asked. 

The response came quickly. “Yes, Mistress!”

Their training to this day had consisted of fighting dummies or one another. Marksmanship was four times a week, and they had already graduated to sniper rifles. Six hours of school per day. 

“Good.” Mistress Galina examined the row of girls before her with a somber expression. Natalia’s eyes kept finding their way over to the man with the metallic arm. His expression was void, jaw clenched, shadow of a beard on his chin. It was almost as if he didn’t even know where he was. 

“Natalia!”

Nat’s eyes found Mistress and she straightened, chin up as she was taught to respond to her superiors. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Come forward.”

Natalia knew what hesitation got her. She knew the pain; it still echoed in her bones, in her muscles. She stepped forward two steps, hands behind her back. Braid of red hair feeling especially tight at the bottom of her skull. 

“Show me and your trainers what you’ve learned.” 

Natalia frowned. “I beg your pardon, Mistress?”

Mistress Galina smiled tightly again. “Show me and your trainers what you’ve learned in combat training, will you?”

Natalia gulped. She had no selected partner. Was she being given leave to pick her own adversary? She turned her head to her left, examining the row of young girls standing straighter than rods, eyes forward, chests out. Learned, indoctrinated postures. 

She was about to make her choice when a shadow moved in her periphery. Nat’s head snapped forward, eyes sharp, her senses on high alert. She’d been trained well to react to any stimuli. 

The man, moving like a ghost, now stood directly in front of her. He was much taller than her, and much wider. He didn’t seem to care that she was a fourteen year old girl and he was a grown man. He didn’t seem to care that his expression was blank, almost dead. He didn’t seem to care that his metallic hand was twice the size of her wrist as he clamped it around her neck. 

Natalia reacted quickly. Her training had beaten it into her that it was now second nature, instinct, to defend herself. Her feet left the ground, leg wrapping around his arm. Her hands gripped his metal wrist. 

But he was twice her size in weight, and her featherweight did nothing to deter her. 

“You will face off opponents twice your size!” Mistress Galina exclaimed, and the man brought Natalia to the floor with a deafening thud. Nat’s ears started to ring, but she didn’t let her body distract her. He had her in a choke hold, one knee on the ground, her on her back. “You will face off men able to break you like a straw!”

Nat’s lungs burned, but she ignored it as she looped a leg around his neck. The only sign of life he gave was a low huff before he picked her up and slammed her so hard against the ground that her vision went dark and her body went limp. 

“You will have to fight twice as hard as they will!”

Nat’s breathing echoed in her ears. She felt this man, this ghost with a metal arm who moved like a shadow, pick her up. She was like a doll in his arms, her back against the sturdiness of his chest. Natalia had only seen one doll in her life.

When her vision began to return, she saw the thirteen pairs of feet still standing, witnessing her weakness, her loss. Something akin to shame filled her from head to toe, burning bright on her cheeks, and the rage that followed was worse for her training than pride. 

She threw her head back and heard the satisfying crack of bone, the loosening of the Ghost’s arms around her. Seeing her opportunity, she used her slimness to slip through his grasp and send her heel into his booted foot. 

She twist and kicked him in the gut. 

His nose was bleeding when he faced her, but unlike her, he wasn’t seething with rage or coiling with shame. He was as void and as blank as a machine. 

They stood a few feet apart, enough space between them to breathe, to asses. Natalia looked to her Mistress, not surprised to see the total carelessness on her features as she assessed the young girl. Natalia wasn’t done fighting. 

He came back at her with the same expressionless eyes. Natalia dodged all of his punches, receiving a few kicks and shoves, but managed to survive. She could not, however, land any offensive blows. 

“You cannot go on like this, Natalia!” Mistress Galina hollered. “Strike!”

Natalia’s labored breathing left her lungs, but she obeyed her Mistress. The Ghost and her had danced around the training mats a few paces. Natalia decided to strike, using her ingrained tactics. Her knuckles hurt and bruised from the blows she was able to land, but he was remarkably fast, and he returned her punches tenfold. 

He didn’t seem to be tired. He didn’t even seem out of breath. Maybe that’s why it was so easy for him to avoid her legs as she attempted a wrestling hold and pressed her flush against his chest again. Her arms pinned to her sides. 

“Do not hesitate, Soldat!” Mistress ordered, and Nat wasn’t sure if it was an order to her or to the Ghost. 

She soon got her answer. 

He picked her up as if she was a doll, slamming her body against the floor with such force that a piercing crack echoed in the room. 

Natalia screamed and everything went black and red. Pain blinded her senses, the breath leaving her lungs until her mouth was open in a silent, suffocating scream. Feet shuffled around her, but no one touched her. No one came to her rescue. No one helped her.

She rolled onto her back and gasped loudly, squeezing her eyes shut. Praying that the Ghost would not continue his assault on her. That Mistress Galina would order him to stop. 

But over the buzzing in her head and the throbbing of her heart and the breath in her throat, she heard Mistress Galina yell, “The pain must not stop you from fighting! The mission, ladies, the mission is more important than something as trivial as pain!”

Natalia was sure that her collarbone was broken. She’d broken a few bones in the past; fingers mostly, her left ankle, and her wrist. But this sort of pain was different. 

Things were yelled around her but she couldn’t hear.

Someone grabbed her by the arm, and Natalia screamed as she was picked up, brought to her feet. Opening her eyes, she was met with the shadow of the man, his metal fingers clinging to her bicep. She was unconsciously leaning against him. 

Mistress Galina stood in the wavering line of sight of Nat. “You will fight, Natalia.”

“Yes, Mistress,” she whispered breathless, the pain scattering along her shoulder. She held it in, her left side rigid with pain, as she turned and faced off the Ghost again. 

He didn’t seem bothered by the pain he’d caused her. He was too effectively trained to let such things affect him. 

She brought her arms before her face, wincing and clenching a scream behind her teeth. 

A fourteen-year-old girl against a twenty something man. 

He came at her and this time, the fist he rammed into her ribs was enough to unravel her. She fell to her side, yelling, the world swimming in and out of consciousness. She was vaguely aware of the hand in her bright red hair. As if she was out of her body, she was lifted from the ground and slammed right back into the floor, her head splitting open. There was red on the floor, but Natalia wasn’t sure if it was her hair out of it’s braid or blood.

She didn’t care. She let the darkness take her.

[escritoraulquii]

Gray Traces

Voltron: Legendary Defender | Sheith | T | 1.5 K | En español | AO3

So, I did a little something, kinda, because I just translated it from a not-that-new work I had in spanish.

I hope you like it!

~

It started with a little gray line appearing in the curve of his right thumb, a slight and a not-really-there pain making him aware of it. He thought it wasn’t anything important, noticing that as time passed it disappeared until being almost invisible. He still could see it if he searched it attentively and in the right light.

Then it was a splash in his left knee and in the base of the palm of his hands, near the inside of his wrist. It was really similar to the scratch he did to himself against the pavement when he fell from his skateboard, the scorch mark burning every time the fabric grazed it or the water passed over it when he showered. However, these splashes didn’t hurt as that, although he could feel them as injuries, somehow.

The splashes didn’t disappear like the line in his thumb did. Those scratches in his hand and knee stayed dyeing his skin with a gray that looked very akin to storm clouds. And when he mentioned them to his father while they were talking and remembering those injuries that they had made to themselves through life and the scars that had stayed, he noticed that his dad couldn’t see them.

He did point out the whitish marks and the creases in his skin that he made himself in moments of carelessness or fearlessness, telling him, for example, when he fell from the kitchen table, trying to catch a moth that fluttered in the ceiling, his arm falling in the edge of the bar and breaking the skin in a vertical line, long but superficial. Or when he almost had caused him a heart attack at accelerating his neglected, turned on motorcycle and crashing it in the entrance deck, an injury opening up in his leg against the wood and not being that serious as his panic had screamed.

His father couldn’t see them, nor even through the reflection of the mirror, so he had to accept to live with the doubt. A sigh escaped from his mouth every time a new gray trace appeared in his skin.

It was sometime after he was left alone that the marks started to concern him more than it had ever before.

One day he woke up in the darkness of dawn, his breaths coming out shallow filling up the silent emptiness of his apartment and a horrible but inexistent pain in several parts of his body making him flinch out of his sheets and get tangled more than escaping from them. When he tripped out of his mattress, he noted that his right arm, from the fingertips to way over his elbow, was painted in that faded gray, paling sickly his skin.

And looking up to the mirror, he felt his blood go cold at the line crossing over his nose, from cheek to cheek, with all the intention to divide his face in two.

Even though he had lived asking himself, and seconds later ignoring, where those marks came from, it wasn’t until that moment where his loneliness had overwhelmed him and the only reason he found for his own existence was the mere fact to continue surviving, that he determined to get an answer of its origins.

For weeks, seeing himself in the mirror and finding that mark in his face, already dissipated and not that startling in his reflection, brought him more relief than concern. Each day he woke up with the fear that his gray arm and all the little, crisscrossed lines in his torso and extremities had disappeared, leaving him with nothing more than sadness and misery that left his father’s death.

One day, unfairly, his heart almost stopped when the color came back to his right hand and most of his forearm, the only thing still marked like a barbed wire was just after his elbow. And the pain, more than outsider, felt empty.

The rest of the marks were still there, and it became an habit to trace them with his fingertips when his mind maundered through his life problems and the existential question concerning the gray parts in his body, as if establishing a physic contact with them could bring him closer to the answer he wanted.

And so, the line over his nose became his symbol of courage, granting him that fixation and strength to achieve what he wished for.

It was after healing from an assault attempt that somehow the answer came to him.

“Ex-cuse me.”

He looked up from the reportage of the magazine he took from the cafeteria basket. He wasn’t even one of those people whom read magazines, being more interested in scientific documents and text books, but the word ‘soulmate’ in the cover had grabbed his attention.

The person beside his for-one table was glaring at him with a very deep frown behind circular glasses, her hands resting in her hips in an aggressive stance. He had seen her before, he recognized her from his physics classes, but he had never been good with names.

“Yeah?”

He jumped away when she took another step to him, using in her favor the difference in heights provided by him being seated down and she standing up. If they were both standing, he could easily surpass her by a head.

“Could you, if you’re so kind,” she started with harsh tone, her nose scrunched in disgust that he was very used to, “stop doing that? You’re being a jerk.”

He blinked a few times, opening his mouth and moving his head slowly from side to side; afraid that making it in normal speed could enrage her more.

“What?”

He flinched when she got another step too close, this time making his chair scratch the floor.

“Stop. Doing. That,” she demanded through clenched teeth before throwing a gesture over her shoulder, “You’re bothering him!”

He followed up the movement of her hand to a group of people in the center of the cafeteria, encountering expressions really similar to the one the girl in front of him was shooting him, and his heart stumbled at the only one having a nervous and ashamed air.

It wasn’t because his hair was of the same white that the stars casted, or because he had the most beautiful gray eyes he had ever seen; it was the scar that crossed his face, over his nose, an identical copy as the gray line that he had in his own face.

His fingers twitched with the need to trace it, with the desire to stroke his and bring out a blush beneath it. He then noticed that his fingers were already positioned mid-caress over his nose, ever since he had read in the magazine about connections through the soul and destined encounters, minutes before the girl had come to him to defend that man from the apparently rude stranger that couldn’t keep himself from emphasizing the startling scar someone had in their face.

His eyes inevitably fell to the prosthesis that had as his right arm, most of it hidden beneath the sleeve of his shirt, and he heard the papers in his hands crush in his fist, remembering the gray color and the sensation that he had for several months before returning to normal and almost causing him a heart attack.

He looked up to the stranger’s eyes, noting how realization washed down his expression while observing carefully the right side of his face, eternally marked by the scar crossing his cheek, and how something similar to a nervous tick made him reach over to his own jaw with his prosthetic hand, his knuckles tracing vaguely the width of the scar he had in his skin.

A few years ago, it had passed through his mind that the gray traces in his body existed because another person was the one that was suffering those injuries, and he had discard it immediately because it horrified him thinking that someone else was painting his body with scars of their own, that his skin was marked up by someone else’s pain, that someone was about to die and he couldn’t do anything more than just ask why those marks appeared.

He remembers, even, asking himself, in the confusion of the meds that the hospital gave him, if the scar that will be in the side of his face forever had arrived to the skin of someone else, painting it in a color he ignored and causing a feeling that he will never know of.

But now he knows.

And it was mostly surprise.

That man, too gorgeous to be true, wasn’t touching his cheek as other unpleasant people had with the left side of their faces when they have seen him face to face. He was touching it as if the scar was on his own skin and not on the skin of some stranger he saw in the cafeteria, as if he was more used to seeing it day to day in front of the mirror and not in another person face.

His expression full of wonder suddenly went to one with a saved-up constant concern, as if he was aware of all the scars he had made in himself in moments of danger, fearlessness and stupidity.

And then he knew: that person knew him better that any other person in that world.

He jumped up from his seat when his understanding reached the knowledge, and ran up to escape in an attempt to escape that overwhelming feeling that was filling his chest.

“Wait…!”

[noxpraelia]

REALLY  LONG  CHARACTER  SURVEY.

RULES.  Repost, do not reblog !  Tag 10 !  Good  luck ! Tagged by:   @nxrestfxrthewicked ( thank u~! ) Tagging:   @glaswen | @wyntrbones | @oplitis | @abnedea | @themelissapark | @daayaan | @exulantis | @aevyternal

BASICS. FULL  NAME :  Tamera Holocombe NICKNAME/S :  Dee, Goth Princess, ‘Babe’, Div,  AGE :  20 BIRTHDAY :  December 12th ETHNIC  GROUP :  Mixed NATIONALITY :   American LANGUAGE/S :   English, Spanish, Broken Welsh & Mandarin  SEXUAL  ORIENTATION :   Heterosexual  ROMANTIC  ORIENTATION :   Demi-romantic RELATIONSHIP  STATUS :   Single. CLASS :  Middle. HOME TOWN / AREA :   A small town in southwest USA. CURRENT  HOME :  Travel-heavy, usually dwells in New York. PROFESSION :  Beating things up

PHYSICAL. HAIR :   Jet black with bangs cut just above the eyebrows in a straight line. Hair is silky and shiny despite the roughhousing she gets into. The length comes past her shoulders and halts at the midback. An occasional white strand will be had, but she plucks it out right away. EYES :   Deep set with the color being ice blue. Through certain lighting, her eyes may appear pale grey, almost lacking any true color.  NOSE :   Straight. FACE :   Heart-shaped. LIPS :  Full lips with a slight pout, rarely nude and often covered in black lipstick. X COMPLEXION :  Pale  BLEMISHES :  Pockmarks on the upper rightside of her forehead. SCARS :  Self-inflicted scars on the underside of her arms and wrists, faded and perhaps mingled with the now various fight wounds and scars from numerous bouts. The infamous thrice scars left by her Ex-Guardian and boyfriend ( Three vertical scars, an inch in width and three inches in length, on the back of her left side just on her shoulder blade). A scrambled sacrificial symbol that resides on her hip. TATTOOS :   Currently, none. Though due to change in the very near future. HEIGHT :   5′8″  WEIGHT :  128lbs  BUILD :   Athletic though leaned muscled arms. Most toned are her legs and thighs as well as her abs (4 pack, yet she’s working towards 6) due to her fight style of muay thai. She is still slender despite the muscles, and curvy. Cup size is C with slightly wide hips that give way to her powerful thighs and heart-shaped ass (petite though firm with a hint of bubble). Only piercings on her being are her nipples. FEATURES :   Bloody knuckles and salty mouth. ALLERGIES :  N/A USUAL  HAIR  STYLE :   Let down, straight. Sometimes in a loose, relaxed, ponytail or bun.  USUAL  FACE  LOOK :   Tired and angry. USUAL  CLOTHING :   Black on black ensemble. Usually looks like she walked straight out of a goth magazine. Typically wearing a black leather jacket over her current top, two belts are looped over her hips while she either wears black leather pants (which are fashioned with lace or criss-crossed string) and black combat boots. Little to none jewelry, never earrings unless its a faerie ball or an important event.

PSYCHOLOGY. FEAR/S :  failure, rejection, Ex-Guardian, the people that are following her, mirrors, excess blood, losing those she cares about, becoming something she’s not, ASPIRATION/S : wholesome, a protector and fighter, deeeeeeeeeep down: loved, worthwhile, helping those in need and caring for those whom she loves platonically,  POSITIVE  TRAITS :   clever, playful, feisty, humorous, bold, brave, vigilant, merciful, caring, lighthearted, strong, independent,  NEGATIVE  TRAITS :   cocky, big-mouthed and foul, nosy, smartass, indecisive, blunt, sassy, rude, grim, temperamental, over-sensitive, MBTI : ISTP ZODIAC :   Sagittarius. TEMPERAMENT :   Choleric. SOUL  TYPE / S :   Creator. ANIMALS :  Wolf. VICE  HABIT/S :  Smoking, drinking, FAITH :  Non-denominational. GHOSTS ? :  Can see and speak to them, knows they are real. AFTERLIFE ? :   yes. REINCARNATION ? :   yes. ALIENS ? :   yes. POLITICAL  ALIGNMENT :   lmao no. ECONOMIC  PREFERENCE :   n/a. SOCIOPOLITICAL  POSITION :   none. EDUCATION  LEVEL :   Highschool with no college. Was never given the option and would likely not opt for it either.

FAMILY. FATHER :   David Holocombe, Viendel (father-figure) MOTHER :   Claire Holocombe SIBLINGS :   N/A EXTENDED  FAMILY :   Lucy (grandmother, deceased), Rodrigo (Uncle on father’s side) NAME  MEANING/S :   Tamera means ‘palm tree’ or ‘fruitful tree’. While her psuedonymn, Divine, is self-explanitory. Though she, herself, doesn’t understand why it was given to her. HISTORICAL  CONNECTION ? :   N/A

FAVOURITES. BOOK :   Too many to count. MOVIE :   Anything horror but she knows all the lines to Dracula. 5  SONGS :   Winterborne- Cruxshadows, Brackish-Kittie, Lovesong- The cure, Nemo- Nightwish, Nymphetaine fix-Cradle of filth DEITY :  She likes all of them, save for the evil ones??? MONTH :   October. SEASON :   Winter  PLACE :   Anywhere. WEATHER :   Rain SOUND :   Rain and crackling wood SCENT/S :   white cherry blossoms, foxgloves, petrichor, french vanilla coffee TASTE/S :   Sweet, spicy FEEL/S :   soft blankets, lace, a long and comforting hug, lazy kisses, cuddles,  ANIMAL/S :   Foxes, dogs NUMBER :   16 COLOUR :   Purple, black, pastel pink

EXTRA. TALENTS :   Her eyes can pierce the Veil, so she can see beyond glamour and disguises/possessions; even seeing supernatural creatures for what they truly are if not them in their original skin. Considerably strong for a human. BAD  AT :   knitting/sewing, first impressions, can’t skillfully use a knife, cooking steak/meat dishes, small talk, yoga TURN  ONS :   Biting, neck kisses, rough makeouts, tender nibbles/kisses on her jaw, anything to do with her nipples (even a thumb brush over clothing; she’s extremely sensitive there), I think being rough in general lmao, she likes the look of her being wanted and then pounced on. TURN  OFFS :   No hygiene (bad breath moreso than anything), too much body hair (werewolves are safe~), spanking, quick submission/docile, certain pet names, anything involving bodily fluids, HOBBIES :   Painting, fps shooter games, reading, sparring, TROPES :    The Mysterious One, The Loner, The Unwilling Hero, The Goth, The Fighter, The Chosen One. Dark is not evil, Sir swears-a-lot, Glowing Eyes, Deadpan Snarker, God in Human Form. Probably missing more... AESTHETIC  TAGS :   Bloodied knuckles and  bruises, black lips and nails, graveyard dances, coffin naps, foxes in snow, wolves singing, city lights like candlelights, purple and black swirls with teal ribbons, rain on midnight skies, clenched fists that ache with rage and purpose, fairytale creatures that entice all, paintbrushes and laughter, cigarettes dotted with glitter, gothic structures and gothic romance, soft kisses at dusk, (idk what im typing tbh... it seems like you write their aesthetics but as a tag??)

FC INFO. MAIN  FC/S :   K/senia So/lo ALT  FC/S :  Manga are various minor characters. OLDER  FC/S :   None YOUNGER  FC/S :   Hann/ah Sn/owdon,  VOICE  CLAIM/S :   Elizabe/th Ba/nks as Miri