#not counting rafaela with bit cause i got into them because of you

[butchnavi]

be on tumblr long enough and you start associating all your favourite artists with specific mutuals even if you only met them after becoming a rabid fan. I hope you know you're never allowed to leave me now bitch you're NOT ruining my favourite artists for me

[violetwolfraven]

You Better Not

Tw: vaguely referenced period-typical homophobia, threats.

...

“It’ll be fine,” Hotshot said quietly, “Spot ain’t unreasonable. Plus, he knows you and me is a thing, so he won’t kill ya.”

Ike huffed, “That makes me feel so much better.”

See, Ike had a reason to be afraid. Because Spot Conlon had just called him into his room/office, apparently wanting to talk to him and only him.

There was no good explanation he could think of for that. Ike was pretty sure he was going to die, despite Hotshot’s assurances that Spot was like a big brother to him and wouldn’t hurt him.

“What’s with ‘Hattan boy?” some Brooklyn girl asked as she passed on her way out of Spot’s room. What was her name again? Rafaela. The quiet girl in Spot’s inner circle.

And Brooklyn’s inner circle were all pretty close, so that meant she was a good friend to Ike’s sweetheart, too, despite being a couple years older than both of them.

“Spot asked to see Ike alone.”

Rafaela looked Ike up and down, then scoffed, “Good luck, kid.”

Well, that helped the nervousness a ton.

“Hey,” Hotshot said seriously, “I wouldn’t send ya in there if I thought he’d hurt ya.”

“He’s Spot fuckin’ Conlon,” Ike pointed out, “He’s got a body count.”

“So? I trust him with my life.”

“But do ya trust him with mine?”

Hotshot hesitated, but still nodded firmly, gesturing to the door.

Ike took a deep breath before going through.

The room wasn’t anything super fancy, as was kind of expected. Just a bed, a simple desk, and a couple of old-looking chairs. It was still more than most newsies had, but it definitely didn’t look like a king’s room.

Spot Conlon still somehow managed to look like the King of Brooklyn he was, putting away the papers him and Rafaela had apparently been looking over.

Ike then wondered if the rumors of Brooklyn kings having dealings with the mob were true.

“Ike,” Spot said coldly, “Sit.”

Ike sat in the chair on the opposite side of the desk.

“Y’know I’s got birds chirpin’ in my ear from all ‘round this city?” Spot asked, “Not just Brooklyn, neither. I’s got eyes and ears in Flushing, Woodside, the Bronx... even Manhattan.”

Ike kind of wondered how a kid could have that kind of influence, but he figured it would be safer not to ask.

Race probably knew. Everybody knew he and Spot were close friends. Hell, Race was probably why Spot knew things about what went on in Manhattan.

“I know ‘bout every newsie worth knowin’ about, too. You’d be surprised how much I could tell ya ‘bout Jack Kelly’s past, just to give an example. Or Hound Finnigan, over in Midtown. And I know at least a basic rundown on every kid who sleeps in this Lodging House, whether they stay every night or barely ever—and that includes you. Ya wanna know why?”

Ike swallowed the urge to throw up from fear, “Why?”

“‘Cause, Isaac Guzman...”

He nearly had a heart attack as Spot pulled a knife out of his desk and started absentmindedly fidgeting with it.

“You’s got a hold on my second, and I take any possible threat to my second very seriously.”

Of course Ike knew that Hotshot had told Spot they were a thing—he’d told him he was going to a week ago—but somehow, he hadn’t expected it to be brought up.

“Y’know how dangerous it is to be with another boy, right?” Spot asked, “Only takes one wrong person findin’ out to get ya arrested.”

Ike nodded, “I know.”

“Well, fortunately, people ain’t exactly lookin’ for it, so’s there’s a blinder. But anybody who knows to look can see how Hotshot looks at you.”

Ike tried not to show how panicked it made him when Spot leaned forward, therefore bringing the knife a little closer.

“Brooklyn is a rougher neighborhood than Manhattan,” he hissed, “And if anybody found out ‘bout Hotshot, he wouldn’t go to jail. He’d be dead within the hour. You—his feelin’s for you—is a risk.”

It was then that Ike realized.

“Is this a shovel talk?”

Spot shrugged, leaning back in his chair, “Call it what ya want. I just wanna know your intentions with my second.”

Ike laughed nervously, “This is definitely a shovel talk.”

“Look,” Spot sighed, “I don’t know how much he’s told ya, but... it ain’t just the possibility of you outin’ him. The fact is that despite the physical strength, Hotshot is a fragile kid. I don’t know what it’d do to him if ya broke his heart.”

That was unexpected, to say the least.

Ike knew that Hotshot had never gotten enough love growing up. He knew that way too often, he’d gotten anger where he should have gotten love and it had messed him up pretty bad. He’d run away when he was 12, and been Spot’s second since shortly after that.

“He told me you’s like a big brother to him,” Ike admitted.

Spot nodded, “And he’s the closest thing I’ll ever get to a little brother. Which means I don’t wanna see him get hurt. He’s got real feelin’s for ya, kid, whether he’ll admit it or not.”

“Is it that obvious?” Ike asked, a bit worried.

“No. But like I said, he’s like a brother to me. I know him better than most, and I’s never seen him let anyone get as close as he let you. And that means you can hurt him worse than anyone else... or you can help him heal the way I can’t.”

“Is that... you givin’ me permission to court Hotshot?”

Spot shrugged, then sighed.

“Ike, I ain’t stupid. I know Hotshot’s messed up in more ways than one and I know I probably made it worse by just lettin’ him fight whoever needed fightin’. I can’t fix him, and neither can you. But I think ya might be able to help him fix himself.”

That meant... well, Ike didn’t usually care what people thought of him, but the fact that Spot Conlon thought he might be good for Hotshot meant the world.

He wanted to help him heal the way Spot thought he could. He really did. But you couldn’t help someone who didn’t trust you enough to let you help. Ike had already spent months building up trust and wasn’t sure if it was enough.

Not yet, anyway.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, “I’ll try. And for the record... I’s got real feelin’s for him, too. I’m never gonna hurt him.”

“You better not,” Spot said, completely serious, “If ya did, I’d probably ruin relations with Manhattan forever ‘cause they’d be findin’ pieces of you all over New York.”

Ike laughed nervously, “Good thing that’s never gonna happen.”

“Good thing,” he agreed, “Well, I don’t got anything else to say ‘cept maybe ‘don’t get caught,’ but I figure you already know that one.”

“Yeah, of course,” Ike nodded, “We’s bein’ careful.”

“Good. Now beat it. I’s got other business to attend to. This damn borough don’t run itself.”

Ike was now confident that Spot was not going to kill him, but he still left that room pretty quickly.

It felt big that he was being trusted to help Hotshot heal. It was a big job, and Ike knew it would take time. Twelve years of a terrible childhood, then three more of being a newsie in the bloodiest borough in New York, didn’t go away overnight.

Well, all he could do right now was go find his boy and let him know that his big brother approved of them.

[writingonthemoon]

Old Clothes Part 5

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4

Word Count: 2981

Warnings: Mentions of death, religious comments, and a tiny bit of blood??

Author’s Note: I am so, so, so, so, so sorry about how late this part is.  The combination of school and work has been kicking my ass so far, but Ia good cry later and I’m getting the hang of it now.  I hope you all really enjoy this and the next part will hopefully be out by the beginning of October.  Share with everyone you think would enjoy this!  Thank you all so much once again!

Old clothes start to fall apart. Why wouldn’t they? Not only have they been worn by strangers until they no longer fit what they wanted, but they’re the wall between the wind and bare skin. The wind becomes a friend while sprinting. Running becomes a part of life when there’s something always following close behind. It nips at heels like the wind at the nose and follows the trail as if it were a breeze through tunnels. The swooshing of the trees pairs with the pounding of feet on dirtied roads. My mother had gotten all too used to the feeling.

     I used to be a kid. A real kid who would play and play until the moon had come to join me. Of course, I wouldn’t play in the dirt, but I had dolls that had been passed down to me that were from my grandmother’s childhood. Sometimes they would be a family who would be caught in a bind and have to flee town. Other times they would be adventurers that would travel the forests and mountains in hopes of something incredible. There were three stuffed in my pockets that night. My few favourites I couldn’t bear to part with. The Queen, the Witch and the Warlock.

     They weren’t always magical or royal, but it was my preferred way of storytelling. I once had a King and Princess and Prince and many others, but I lost them all to the inferno of my failure. My collection was down to three and I’d continue to attempt an expansion but to no avail. The twigs I would tie together for villagers were snapped in two underfoot and the rock giants glued together with mud would crumble with a gentle breeze. No, my travelling circus would remain a silent trio act, performing for an audience of one with the ringmaster lurking overhead. I played God to a world of mortals and the strings of fate were in my hands. Ironic that I played the role when it did not exist. Either that or I removed myself from the game, becoming a passive onlooker to the cruel roll of the dice that decides the ends of all.

     It was velvet, the regal dress of Her Majesty. A brilliant red with gilded embroidery that made her shine in the light. The back of her crown was delicately laced with her hair, keeping it floating atop her head while she saw over the proceedings of the executions of traitors. Wicked was the witch who dressed in white, her silken cloak billowing behind her as she awakened her powers in the storm. Lightning struck her staff of ivory and scorched the hearts of her enemies. Lichen crawled upon the robes of the wizard, his stiff beard gaining knots and growing worse for wear as he cast spells of whimsy from the oak branch he called a wand. Black tweed melted him into a shadow during dusk and caused looks of doubt in the dawn.

     Sometimes I was the Witch, bringing misfortune unto myself and others in my wares of hope. Other times the Wizard and I were one, my adventures casting spells of joy on those surrounding me as I twisted them into fairytales. Mostly, though, I was the Queen. Her immunity against the forces of society and the corrupt morals of the world mirrored my own permanence in the land of expectations and lies. I had to guard the people around me to keep myself from persecution, just as she had to protect her subjects to assure her survival on the throne. We were equals in the way we thought with logic and reasoning and how we fought with carefully chosen statements and hidden suggestions. But would it be enough? Would it all be enough in the end? Or would we have to stare down the executioner’s blade and meet Death after too many evasions?

     My fingertips burned while I sat on the bridge overlooking the river that ran beneath. With the city finally sleeping and the Moon cold and grey, I allowed myself a reprieve. It was only a moment, but a desperately needed one at that. My mind was free to wander as it seemed fit while I rested and it chose the chilling sights of the afternoon. Albert, Ben, Charlie. Their faces were frightening but warmed my heart like a fire warms your toes. Ah yes, the August afternoon felt more like an autumn evening, one that sends a shiver down your spine but spreads a blanket of comfort over you. That anecdote was backed up by a coming patter of rain that landed on myself and the pavement beside.

     It was cooling, the rain. I relished in it’s frozen embrace, leaning back to ease my turmoil. Soon it was a heavy downpour like the sky had turned the faucet full on. If there were others in the streets, they would be scurrying for cover like rats from the light. My body drew me to stand, gazing at the clouds as if they were the Sistine Chapel. The beauty was greater than all the work in the Louvre. Nature could never be captured so precisely outside of the moment.

     "Hey! You!“ My head snapped across the bridge into the borough of Brooklyn, where a figure stood in the shadows, the rain soaking them the same as it was me. The pending confrontation had me frozen in fear. This sort of thing had never happened to me when I had to fight before, but the events of the evening had changed more than just my record.

     Footsteps approached me quickly, the person drawing nearer and nearer. Puddles splashed as I began to make out features of the face. Dark brown eyes shone with kindness in the night and messy black hair was hidden beneath a sopping hat. I thought it strange his shirt lacked sleeves. Then again, it wasn’t the oddest thing I’ve bared witness to.

     "What’re you doin’ out here, Miss? Youse gonna get a cold.” There was something about him that resonated with me. It wasn’t the running, no, certainly not. There was a lost look reflecting in his pupils, one of someone who had nothing more to lose but wished with what little hope they have that they did.

     "I could say the same thing about you…“ I trailed, not knowing what name to use for the boy in front of me.

     "Graves, Miss. Everyone calls me Graves.”

     "Of course, Graves. But why are you out here chastising me for when the same thing is happening to you? You should be of under some blankets sleeping.“ I waved my hand in the direction he came from.

     "I was just heading back ta the Lodgin’ House over there in Brooklyn from visiting my Ma and Pa, but I came ‘cross you. It was nice out b'fore.”

     I mumbled, “But then…” before putting the pieces together. That was it. He was set adrift at sea the same way I was, not knowing which way was home or if it still existed. “I’m so sorry.” My hand met my lips, covering the shocked expression.

     "Nah, it’s fine. I got all the Brooklyn Newsies wit me.“

     "Of course.” I shook my head to clear out pestering questions, “it’s just… I lost my parents too and I know how wrong it can feel. If I may, without intruding, offer my condolences.”

     "Thank ya.“ He tipped his cap at me, “Now, can’t let a lovely lady like you stay out in the rain like this. Why don’t you come back to Brooklyn with me?” He started walking away before I responded, obviously expecting me to follow him. My feet were glued to the ground, though, and there was no way I’d be moving so soon. Graves kept rattling on, “Youse can stay on the girl side of the house until mornin’. Well, I say girl side, but it’s just Rafaela and Joey. I think you’d like Raf. She’s a little rough ‘round the edges, but once she warms up to ya, she’s a real sweetie. Joe’s just a ball a energy. Ya neva know what she's—” The lack of trailing footsteps caused him to stop. His eyes met mine and I could sense the hurt at that moment.

     "Sorry, Graves,“ I plucked my feet from the ground, "I got lost in thought there for a moment.”

     I was soon at his side, my gait wanting to outmatch his, but my lack of knowledge besting my body, “'Bout what?”

     "You’re lucky to have so many kids supporting you with this loss. I was alone when it happened to me. No siblings, no aunts or uncles or friends. Just me and the forest.“ It wasn’t a lie because this broken boy didn’t warrant one. He just wanted the best for everyone, so I let him have a peek at my vulnerability, but not enough for him to dethrone me.

     "That… I’m sorry. Nobody should go through that alone.”

     "Eh, it was years ago. There’s nothing I can do about it now. All I can do is keep moving forward. One day, I’ll make it out.“ Make it out of life and reunite with my family. That’s been the goal for years. See them again.

     "Well, I’m definitely sorry then.”

     "No need to be.“

     The two of us carried on in silence, but not for long. I guess the Brooklyn House wasn’t as far as I assumed. Perhaps it was easy being close to the bridge for selling rather than further away. You’d get the morning and evening rush of people coming and going to and from work. Whoever got the bridge as their turf, on either side, must make a fair wage from all the workers. I’d assume it to be the higher ranking Newsies would get the top spot before the lower ones, who were probably left with the quieter corners and empty shops.

     "Here we are.” Graves’s announcement brought me out of my thoughts of Newsies politics if there even was such a thing. I gazed up at the subject of his presentation. The building wasn’t much different from the one in Manhattan, but it was burgundy in colour from exposed brick and there was a different air about it. “Come on in.” The door was held open for me while I scurried inside out of the rain that had somehow fallen harder in my last few moments outside.

     It was calm on the inside. No shouting or running or fooling around. Two girls caught my eye and I assumed them to be Rafaela and Joey. Then they saw me and became worried. The two rushed over in their red-toned dresses that looked too short to be appropriate. Both my hands were grasped as they led me around the building and into a room not much bigger than a broom closet. A bunk filled half the room and the door took up much of the other half.

     "You poor thing! Graves knows betta than ta make a lady stand in the rain.“ The one girl with dark hair fretted about the room while speaking to me.  She was obviously looking for something to give to me so I could warm-up. Her accomplice, whose hair was covered with a loudly patterned scarf, gave me strange looks as she rifled through a small sewing basket that was slightly mounding with ill-matched clothing all in the same scarlet hues. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to figure out my size or if I was a spy.

"Here you are,” an old rag was presented to my face, some drops of blood stained the once white fabric, “An’ Rafaela there,” she, who I assumed to be Joey, pointed to the one with the headscarf, “should have somethin’ picked out for ya to wear while your clothes dry. I’m Joey.” The energy radiating off her was enough to chase the chill out of my core.

     Rafaela faced me fully, a dark blue skirt and white blouse held in her hands, “Sorry, but these were the only things that would fit.” There was an accent behind her words. It was one I hadn’t heard in a very long time, but that was mainly because I was British as ever.

     "Oh, you’re Spanish?“ Rafaela nodded, "It’s beautiful there. I hope to return someday. I got sidetracked last time I was there and accidentally forgot a project I was working on. Shouldn’t be too much of an issue to complete it… unless somebody’s found it.” My fear started to manifest at the possibility of my paintings being found. What would the locals think?

     Joey and Raf laughed, “I was actually born in Puerto Rico, but my parents were both from Spain. I would love to visit one day and see where they grew up.”

     In a single bout of happiness, I made a wild suggestion, “You and I just might have to go together then.” We giggled as Joey made a sound of offence, “You too Joe. I’m telling you two, we’re going to live like Queens in Spain one day.”

     "Go change! Then we can sit by the fireplace and keep you warm until Spot arrives.“ Rafaela ushered me towards the restroom across the way, leaving me to wonder about this 'Spot’ she mentioned.  Most likely their leader, but what type of leader were they?  The charismatic Jack Kelly?  Or were they more stoic or friendly?  Time would tell me soon enough. 

     It wasn’t a terrible skirt. It was a little short around the ankles and I needed my belt from my dress to keep it up. The shirt did fit very well, even if the shoulders were smaller than fashion dictated.  They were normal, I suppose, when you look at an actual shoulder.  I do think I was quite well put together in my new outfit.  Almost like a higher-class working girl.  Those entertainment reporters dressed fairly similar.  All I needed was a smart little bow and I could pass as anyone with credentials.

     The moment the cold knob of the door left my fingers, I heard an exclamation from Joey, "Oh, you look fantastic!” She ran forward and took my hands, "Rafaela can do your hair once we get downstairs.  She’s amazing at it.“ I was pitched forward at a sharp tug from both girls.  Next thing I knew, I was seated on a worn footrest that could collapse at any moment.  My white ribbon was pulled from my hair and I was brought back to memories of my mother doing my hair for me, then my sister practising her own styles and Jesse playing with it lightly as we travelled.

     "Do you care if we get rid of this ribbon?  It’s so old.”

     "NO!“ I was too loud in my protest and drew eyes towards myself, "No, uh, please use it.  It’s all I have left of my sister.” A small ‘oh’ came from Rafaela asher and Joe proceeded to release my hair from its tangled bonds.

     The three of us spoke quietly as light tugs pestered the back of my head.  Slight laughter entered the conversation but never dominated.  I enjoyed it, the homey feeling that filled the room.  A hasty fire crackled off to the side, my dress laid out in front of it.  The rain poured outside, warding off all who dared be in the streets so late.  A soft smile graced my face and my eyes were closed in bliss.  This was the perfect moment, even if I knew no one around me.

     A creak of the front door alerted me to someone new and the following hush told me of their importance.  The Brooklyn leader, Spot.  I went to turn my head but was held back with a short ‘not yet’ from the girls behind me.  My position was held until I was told.  I quickly stood and glanced at the soaking wet boy who stood in the entryway.  He was short, even shorter than… than most.  The echoing of my shoes was still heard as I stopped before him, my hand outstretched to greet him.

     "Spot, correct? I’m sorry for intruding on your turf, but Graves here,“  I gestured to the boy in the shadows watching the two of us.  He was brought forward by social protocol, standing adjacent to the gap that separated me and Spot, "said I should get out of the rain and that it was perfectly alright if I stayed here for the night.  If not, I can leave now.”

     "No,” he put his hands up in a simple gesture, “it’s fine.  I’m Sean Conlon, but people call me Spot.” I thought I sensed an Irish accent mixed with the language of the streets, but I could’ve been wrong.

     "Well, I think you’ll learn I’m not exactly ‘people’.“ I sent him a shining grin in an attempt to break him and I almost did.  The questions patched up the cracks before I could tear the protective wall down.

     "Graves,” his head swivelled, “who’s this?  ‘Cause I like ‘er.”

     "Oh!  Yeah, yeah right, this is, uh, this is… What’s your name?” Graves gave me a look as he realised I never quite introduced myself to him.  I prided myself on that accomplishment, my posture straightening the slight amount.  I enjoyed pulling the wool over the eyes of others.

     I took a breath, readying myself for whatever would come next, “It’s nice to meet you, Sean.” My hand met his in a swift shake and I felt a million eyes pierce my skin and a fiery heat sear my back.  Whichever one of the angels that had arrived was not on my side, just preparing to send me to the Devil.  Even if there was no God to pray to, I sent one out for help as I spoke my next words, "I’m Odette.  Odette Tuck.“ 

[the-desert-dancer]

New Vegas Companion Headcanon (Part Three)

Big thank you to @kourumi for suggesting this. Also thanks to @psychomentats, for suggesting I do this specific companion first

 Headcanon: Raul Tejada 

Headcanon A: Realistic

While Raul does enjoy the company of the Courier and the other companions, he finds himself spending quite a bit of time with Beatrix Russell. It might be due to them both being pre-War or due to similarities in philosophies, but the two Ghouls find themselves enjoying each other’s company.

Headcanon B: While It May Not Be Realistic, It Is Hilarious

When Raul finally donned his Vaquero outfit, the reaction from the other companions was…well, mixed to say the least, ranging from light ribbing from Veronica to looks of confusion from Boone. The most memorable reaction had to be from Cassidy, who fell backwards from her chair and hit the ground, laughing her ass off.

Headcanon C: Heart-Crushing And Awful, But Fun To Inflict On Friends

When Raul first laid eyes on Veronica Santangelo, he thought he was suffering from some form of stroke, as Veronica bore a striking resemblance to his sister Rafaela. Raul honestly found it difficult at first to be around Veronica for the first few weeks, cause the resemblance was just too similar. Over time he got used to the Brotherhood scribe and even enjoyed teaching her a few things about mechanics, but he still never could get over how Veronica looked.

Headcanon D: Unrealistic, But I Will Disregard Canon About It Because I Reject Canon Reality And Substitute My Own.

In his spare time Raul crafts small toys, such as miniature Giddyup Buttercups and racecars. On Christmas Eve, Raul goes around Freeside in his Vaquero outfit and hands out toys to the local children. He has become a bit of a legend in the Freeside community, with the children counting down the days until they got to see The Vaquero once again.