#or if there was my FOURTEEN YEAR OLD SELF was not properly informed of it

[drop-dead-dropout]

and even then, that won't help if you're institutionalized as a minor.

You wanna actually help institutionalized mentally ill people? Get them legal help. Post their rights on the walls. Give them access to phones and lawyers. “My small business sells cutsie scrubs for inpatients!!!” literally nobody cares what they are wearing in the fucking hospital but you Becca. shut the fuck up

[keijislove]

Hi babe! I was wondering if I could request a Tony Stark x daughter reader? With lots of angst and her being locked in her room because she’s being bullied for her darker skin

(I understand if you’re not comfortable with this)

Safe Place: Tony Stark X Daughter!Reader

I think this turned out a bit longer than I expected.

Sorry :(

I hope you like this, I don’t really have a lot of experience with this matter, so I hope I captured the emotions right!

I AM APOLOGISING IN ADVANCE, THE HURTFUL COMMENTS MENTIONED HERE ARE NOT ONES I WOULD EVER USE IN MY LIFETIME.

GIRL, YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL JUST THE WAY YOU ARE – YOU DON’T NEED DIMWITS LIKE RACISTS TO DEFINE BEAUTY. YOU WANT THE DEFINITION OF BEAUTY, GO LOOK IN THE MIRROR.

PUT A STOP TO RACISM.

WARNINGS: Slight EXTREMELY racial comments, mentions of death, toxic relationship, angst, Tony being a little... well, Tony.

Being Tony Stark’s daughter was nearly everyone’s dream. Well, everyone you’d come across at school, anyway. It seemed rational from their point of view – big house, big bedroom, expensive branded clothing, basically an overall exquisite lifestyle coupled with fame of being his daughter which was sure to earn popularity points anywhere and everywhere. A man rolling in that amount of money would make a great dad... right?

You thought differently. Which was one of the main reasons you did not tell anyone who your father really was and your teachers understood your predicament and played along to your story of being an ordinary girl with no scope for coolness whatsoever.

Your mother had met your father a long, long time ago – when Tony was still in university. Of course, he’d left her before he even knew she was pregnant, and they never saw each other again. You didn’t exactly love your life as his daughter. In fact, from what your mother had told you, he was (in your vision) a complete monster whom your mother had the sad misfortune to meet.

It was her untimely death that had forced you to go live with the man who was the reason you were born and the man who ruthlessly left your mother to fend for herself and a baby. You had tried for foster care, but the agents told you that your father was still alive and more than capable of taking care of you – being the famous Tony Stark and all.

So it would suffice to say that Tony was lowkey shocked when you turned up at his doorstep one day with a grudging expression and declarations of being his daughter. He actually didn’t believe you at first and asked you to piss off which confirmed your earlier assumptions about his character – asshole. After you’d snapped at him and showed him all the legal documentations stating that you two were blood-related as father-daughter after all, Tony was even more shocked than earlier.

Though he would rather die than admit it, he felt sad after seeing your fourteen-year-old self standing at his doorstep. He’d missed your birth, your first steps, your first words, he even missed helping you with homework in preschool – basically all precious moments you enjoy with a child. But you made it pretty clear that you didn’t want to be here – something that made Tony’s already overlarge pride swell like a bullfrog and stopped him from ever getting close to you. While you were busy thinking he didn’t want you, you overlooked a small detail – he took you in.

If anyone had the power to bribe an adoption agency to get rid of their kid, it was Anthony Stark, yet he never gave you away. The simple explanation (that he would never, in a million years, admit it to you) was that he didn’t want to lose you – around the only blood-related family he had left.

And so began your life as Y/N Stark. It functioned surprisingly well for your expectations. Pepper was really nice to you and those few occasions when the Avengers came over, you were able to talk to Natasha about ‘girl things’, her presence reminding you of the mother you had lost only too young. You sometimes even asked Bruce for help with homework, too proud yourself to go to Tony. Overall, you stayed out of his way while he stayed out of yours – an arrangement you were both satisfied with.

The worst part was that you never talked. Ever. You would wake up and walk to school, refusing Jarvis’ continued protests of letting you use the self-driving car, came home the same way where you did your homework and grabbed a snack before you ‘father’ came back upstairs from his little man cave in the basement and a small ‘good-evening’ passed between you two as you went your separate ways. This cycle repeated itself every day. Recently, your life at school hadn’t been going great.

You’d known that your skin tone was a notch darker than the others at your school – something you had gotten from your mother – and this was not something you really cared about. That’s when they started coming – the comments. What were originally small, snide retorts of ‘wash your face, ew!’ (A/N: I AM SO SORRY) had now escalated to them calling you obscene names you’d never heard before and asking you to leave ‘their’ school

Which was why, instead of being at school today, you were locked in your bedroom, sobbing into your pillow.

It had started out as a very unusual morning. After getting comments hurled at you left right and centre the previous day, you’d had enough. You’d woken up and declared to Jarvis that you were skipping school and he was to, under no circumstances, notify your father about this. After that you tried to eat some cereal, but the bubbling dread in your stomach made it taste like dry carpet, so you gave up and stomped into your room, locking the door before flinging yourself onto the bed and crying your heart out.

It was in times like these that you felt the need for something – a gaping hole in your chest. It seemed foolish to even admit it to yourself, but you really wanted someone like a parent. Someone who listened to your problems and comforted you accordingly, someone who actually cared about you. And since Tony Stark filled neither of these requirements, you gave up the foolish dream and sunk, once again, into your self-fashioned depths of misery.

-------

Tony casually sipped on his wine, putting one last screw into place to make the latest piece he was testing out. As he powered the device on, it vibrated for a moment before the words ‘model failed’ appeared on the screen Tony was examining.

He swore loudly and shoved it ungracefully aside before running his hands through his hair. There had been many an occasion where Tony seriously considered going to your room to just say something to you that wasn’t a monotonous ‘good evening’ or ‘the milk’s finished’ or something else like that. He wanted to talk to you. To you.

He wanted to get to know the real Y/N – what you were like when you weren’t too busy being bold and refusing to appear vulnerable. As if reading his thoughts, Jarvis’ voice filled the room suddenly.

“Sir, I do believe that Ms Stark is currently locked inside her bedroom. She refused to go to school just this morning.”

“What?” Tony exclaimed, “Why, did she tell you anything else?”

“Just this, Sir, along with a few obscene warnings of not informing you about this occurrence. If I recall correctly, Ms Stark told me she would rip out my sockets with her bare hands had I come to you.”

Ignoring the small smirk that was growing on his lips at the thought of you behaving exactly as he would, Tony wiped his tired hands on a nearby cloth before sprinting out the door and up the stairs to your bedroom.

He knocked on the door.

“Go away Pepper, not in the mood,” came your muffled voice. It was weak and raw – evidently, you had been crying.

Ignoring the poking feeling of dread bubbling in his stomach, Tony knocked again.

“Open up, kid, it’s me,” he shouted.

“Definitely not in the mood, thanks.”

Tony sighed. This was exactly what he had tried so hard to avoid –turning out like his own father. Not knowing how to deal with a daughter properly, he just let you go about your business as you wanted, hoping that it would yield better results than what his childhood had been like. Now, looking back at how much he’d neglected you, he suddenly realised that he had done the exact thing he was afraid of – hurt you.

“Y/N Y/M/N Stark, open the door. Please.”

Perhaps it was the please at the end or the way he acknowledged you as his living, breathing daughter for the first time that made you stagger limply over to the door and push it open.

Your eyes were puffy, red and swollen from bawling nonstop and your brows were knitted into a disapproving frown. It broke Tony’s heart to see you like this.

“Listening,” you sniffed, crossing your arms.

“Okay, why don’t you sit down,” Tony frowned slightly.

You gave another hearty sniff and led him to your bed where you flopped down and watched as he took a seat beside you.

You both sat in a very painful, deafening silence for the next few minutes.

“You didn’t go to school today,” Tony casually remarked as you played with your pillow, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I did,” you said simply.

“Wanna tell me what’s going on?” Tony offered.

“I really don’t,” you admitted as he burst out laughing and you gave a grudging giggle despite yourself.

“Seriously, kid,” Tony said in an undertone, “You’ve gotta open up a bit more. I mean, it’s been like what, two years since you moved here and you never bother telling me what’s going on. And look where that got you – come on, tell me what’s going on. Is it school?”

“Partially,” you quietly said to which he cocked an eyebrow.

“Completely,” you amended, sighing, “Kids, you know, they’re just being – well, mean.”

“Okay,” Tony nodded slightly, “You want to talk about it?”

“They... they make fun of me,” you admitted, “About – about my skin colour and stuff. And I know I’m being stupid, getting upset over this –”

“It’s not stupid,” Tony broke in, “It’s not stupid at all. Nothing gives anyone a right to talk to you that way.”

“Try telling that to them!” you burst out, final letting go of the pent-up emotions you’d been holding for days, “What did I ever do to them – it’s not my fault I look like this, maybe if I could choose what to look like, I’d choose something they want! Just about everyone seems to have a problem – what the hell do they expect me to do? It’s unjust, unfair, unsettling and unkind, but of course they don’t care, do they?!”

Tony didn’t even flinch throughout your entire outburst until you broke down and tears began rapidly pouring out of your eyes once more.

“Hey, hey, stop, listen to me,” Tony sternly said, seizing your shoulders and turning you to face him.

“You’re a Stark,” he said, gazing you dead in the eyes, “You are beautiful, you’re smart and you’re kind. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

This was too much for you to handle and you started sobbing again – sobs of partial happiness and partial guilt that didn’t look like they would stop anytime soon.

“Come here, kid,” was all Tony could say as he pulled you into a hug, allowing you to sob into his shirt while he stroked your hair, trying to calm you down.

“I’m sorry if I’ve ever been mean to you,” you whispered finally.

“It’s okay, kid,” Tony murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I’m sorry I haven’t been a great father all this time.”

You two sat in a now comfortable silence, occasionally clearing your throats or sniffling a bit before Tony finally spoke.

“If anyone says that to you again, I will have them cut up and fed to the fish in my house in Malibu.”

“Thanks, dad.”

[welllpthisishappening]

Hello there, I see you're back on blue-line drabbles! I love them, I am obsessed with this universe. I don't know if I ever came back to say hi after I read all your big fics, but somehow I liked each even better than the last! I don't know how that's possible! But anyway, I think one of the best signs of a good writer/good story is when you're not ready to leave the world once you've finished, and Blue Line is one of the few fanfics I've read where even well after I've finished it, (cont)

(cont) I want to keep living in it and I end up writing my own fic of it in my head (strange, I know). Anyway, for whatever reason, I got really invested in Roland and Lizzie's relationship. Like, how did they end up dating after knowing each other for literally Lizzie's entire life? How did the adults react? Do you have any Lizzie/Roland stories up your sleeve? They would not go unread :)

————

Hello, yes, listen, this ask has lived rent free™ in my head since I first got it and I cannot properly convey how absolutely, goddamn wonderful it is. I am a broken record of outdated references , but it continues and will always amaze me that people are not only interested in Blue Line (more than three years!!! after I originally started posting) but are also interested in other characters in the story who are, for all intents and purposes, original characters at this point. Like the overall size my heart becomes when reading something like that could potentially cause a serious medical condition.

But, like, in a nice way.

So thank you, thank you, thank you. It genuinely warms the cockles of my entire soul. And, like, if you wanna share those fic ideas of the fic, you’ll never hear me say no. Just like I will never turn down the opportunity to write more stuff. Which is what’s under the cut. This stuff includes:

Roland and Lizzie’s first kiss, what I hope is some legitimate banter, more kissing, obvious flirting, and Roland being something of a sap.

Also, uh, it’s entirely possible that I have also already written: Roland and Lizzie’s first “I love you,” their wedding and some other stuff where their kid is involved. Seriously, guys, I am always down to write other relationships in this ‘verse.

————

It was, she figured, something almost passably close to, sort of resembling, definitely inching somewhere nearer to—

Assured. 

Unavoidable. 

Inexorable

Inevitable. 

That was a bad word. That last word. The third one was pretty impressive, honestly. Vocabulary, wise. She’d have to remember that one later. The last one, though. Made teeth Lizzie wasn’t even aware she possessed ache as she ground them together, a pronounced tension in her jaw that was likely affecting her shoulders as well. That word. An awful word. Boasted less-than-positive connotations, letters practically dripping with lack of self-control and overtly aggressive infatuation, but if the world expected her not to be a little in love with Roland Locksley by the time she turned fourteen and noticed that slight indentation in his right cheek every time he smiled, well, then the world had another thing coming. 

Dimple, that was the appropriate description. Another word. More words. Too many words. All of them bouncing off the slope of her skull and scratching at the back of her brain, nearly distracting her from what should have been the very pleasant buzz lingering beneath whatever biological thing made up her top and bottom lips. 

Which were parted in an emotion very similar to overwhelming surprise. 

That was stupid. 

The whole thing was stupid. God, maybe she was stupid. No, that wasn’t true. She’d made Dean’s List last semester. Stupid was—

A stupid word, really. Despite the blush rising in her cheeks and the wide eyes practically boring into her soul, bated breath that didn’t make any noise because that was what bated entailed, and no one else glanced in their direction. Not once. No one else noticed. 

That the whole world had flipped upside down.

Or right-side-up, maybe. Depending on how the next five minutes or so went. 

Because the last two minutes and twelve seconds, give or take, had seen Roland Locksley tilt his head and let his eyes flutter closed before his mouth found hers for the very first time — at midnight for God’s sake. On New Year’s Eve. Or New Year’s Day, she supposed. His parents were standing on the other side of the room.

Suggesting that Lizzie had ever been just a little in love with Roland was a rather monumental lie. 

As far as those things went. 

“So, uh—” she started, only to find blood in her mouth. From her teeth. Wayward and unpredictable, as they were. Biting down on the side of her tongue and Lizzie hated going to the dentist. Doing irreparable damage to her teeth on what was now legitimately New Year’s Day, in the middle of an annual party, was not on her schedule. 

Metaphorical as it might have been. 

She liked schedules. Had plans. Focus, even. People always said that about her — how focused she was, liked to throw around the word drive with startling regularity, as if they were amazed she wasn’t simply willing to rest on her laurels or the pair of last names she proudly toted around with her. As if Lizzie expected doors to swing open on a glance. 

Rather than consistently preparing herself to knock them down. 

She liked the challenge of it all. Appreciated the way disbelief always spiked something in her blood, and that was likely equal parts genetic predisposition and a product of her childhood, but right now, Lizzie was simply prepared to fight for the schedule she’d never allowed herself to mention to anyone else before and it wasn’t like they weren’t friends. 

Talked outside the group chat, even. 

That meant something. Definitely meant something. Had to mean something. Her lips felt like they’d been doused in liquid nitrogen. 

She didn’t know all the scientific properties of liquid nitrogen, but it always made that rather impressive cloud of steam-type stuff on cooking shows. So, it seemed very likely that it did something similar to cause whatever was happening in the region directly surrounding her mouth. Buzzing and tingling, and whatnot. 

When had Roland last blinked? Lizzie couldn’t remember. That would have been impressive in any other situation. Right now, it was sort, kind of, totally— Pissing her off. 

Color dotted his cheeks, no sign of the goddamn dimple because he wasn’t smiling, presumably couldn’t do that when it was clear he was so intent on pulling his lips into his mouth, and that felt a little insulting. Her tongue had just been in that mouth. 

Lizzie was fairly confident in the abilities of her tongue, so she wasn’t all that pleased to be replaced by a pair of lips that could have been doing much better work against the side of her neck. 

“If you sit here right now and tell me that you are,” Lizzie lifted a finger, “one, sorry,” another finger, “two, anything even remotely resembling regretful,” another finger, wiggling close enough to Roland’s nose to make him just a bit cross-eyed, “or, three, too old for me, I will throw my heel at that bruise I know exists on the back of your left calf.”

His lips twitched. 

He really had impossible eyelashes. Seemingly made so he could glance up from underneath them, to meet Lizzie’s steely expression with what she refused to believe could be cautious hope. Passable optimism, maybe. She’d have to look up what liquid nitrogen did, later. 

“I’m standing.” “I hate you.”

“You wanna go in order, or how do you want to work this?” “Where else are you bruised?” Roland laughed softly, a shift of his shoulders and tiny burst of air between barely parted lips. Feeling that tiny burst meant they were standing very close to each other. How they were standing remained another mystery. 

One of those great ones, Lizzie figured. The kind referenced when people talked about the sweeping potential of life and love and— Ah, fuck. 

“Please don’t threaten to attack me anywhere else,” he muttered, before quickly adding, “you gotta know this was not my end game, Liza.” Narrowing her eyes did nothing to temper the…tempest. Swirling in her gut. Threatening the back of her throat. Eating away at vocal cords and vocal boxes and the structural integrity of her entire goddamn larynx. Possibly her tongue, too, just to be especially efficient. 

“Really? Might’a been mine, actually.”

She’d always liked his eyes. 

How they could widen, and it wasn’t like...a normal brown. Nothing about the way he looked was ever dull. Drifted toward regularly excited, and the sparkles were probably a figment of her over-active teenage imagination, but Lizzie liked to think sometimes the sparkle came from her. Because of her, even. When she’d call because he always wanted to hear about her latest lecture and he’d call because sometimes Western swings were exhausting and loneliness-inducing and—

She knew. 

He knew. 

They knew each other.   

Grand scheme, the sparkle-prone eyes still weren’t particularly close to the dimple. On the list of things Lizzie liked. What left butterflies fluttering in her stomach and her heart hammering against her chest. Sparkle was probably a solid fourth. Behind the precise way his curls fell toward his eyebrows when he didn’t have time to get his hair cut. Which rarely happened during the season. Right now, it was happening right now. Well-defined strands that Lizzie knew felt even smoother than she’d ever theorized between her fingers, and she wasn’t sure what she was going to do with that information. 

Obsess over it, probably. 

For at least the next week, or so. 

Still. Eyes. Eyelashes. Too long and too bright, and that was the wrong description order and she was starting to teeter. On the edge of a rather dramatic free-fall. Into feelings and possibility, and this was way too dramatic. For both of them. 

“Don’t do that,” she mumbled, a scrunch of her nose that apparently demanded his thumb. Brushing against the bridge, and there wasn’t any caution there. No obvious fear or concern. For the way it left Lizzie’s lungs pinched, and there must have been a limit. 

To everything her internal organs could cope with in a limited span of time. 

“What was the last one on the list?” She swallowed. “Too old.” “Yuh-huh.” “Pretty flimsy as far as excuses go. You realize I’m not asking you to marry me right now, right?” He choked. On what, she wasn’t entirely sure. Only that it made her stomach heave and her teeth dig into her lower lip, and that was— “Because I know I said, end game,” Lizzie continued, giving in to the need to fill empty space with the sound of her own voice, “but that sounds like several pop culture references all at once, and you know how much I—”

“Hate to come across as disingenuous.” “Mattie’s the pop culture reference machine, anyway.” “Please don’t talk about Matt when I keep thinking about how much I want to kiss you again.” Her eyes, that time. Widened. Bugged. Did something unnatural. “Yeah?” “You’re kidding me, right?” “You’re not an old man.” Rolling his eyes, Roland’s tongue dragged across the front of his teeth. To torture her, apparently. “I was in college when you were a freshman in high school.” “Yuh-huh.” “Liza.” “Nah, nah,” Lizzie shook her head. Crossed her arms. Tried to stand up to her full height, but even the heels didn’t do much to add to the overall intimidation factor. Roland was doing an awful job of fighting off his smile. “Pulling out ancient nicknames is not—” “—It’s not a nickname; it’s literally letters in your name.” “Nick,” she leaned forward, “name. All personal-like.”

Making mistakes was not something she enjoyed very much. It was that Jones competitive streak. Plus, the Vankald stubborn streak. Created a monster of determination, who knew what she wanted, and feeling Roland’s fingers graze her cheek as a strand of hair hung limply in the minimal space between them was the result of Lizzie’s mistaken movement. 

Even as much as she might have wanted it. 

Goosebumps prickled her arms. Stole whatever oxygen she’d managed to get in the last forty-six seconds, or so. Her eyes fluttered. Head tilted. Towards the touch and the warmth, and for someone who spent so much time on the ice, he really was impossibly warm. 

“This is your fault.”

He didn’t move his fingers. Cupped her cheek, instead. “You were doing that eyebrow thing.” “Expand on that for me.” “Lifting ‘em. Happens sometimes. When you’re listening intently. Like you’re a little amazed by new information. They’re these stupid little arches on your face. Drives me nuts.” “The compliment was in there somewhere, I’m sure of it.” “I am so much older than you, Liza.” “Shouldn’t’a played out a bunch of teenage daydreams at once, then.” She was legitimately worried about the state of his tongue. Barely biting back her laugh, Lizzie let her eyes lift. To find Roland gaping at her, drooped shoulders and puppy-dog eyes. And that goddamn dimple. “C’mon, this isn’t...do you think I haven’t made out with people before?” “Wouldn’t classify what we just did as a makeout.” “No?” His eyes darkened. Shivering was probably not a good move, right? Right. Definitely. She wasn’t shivering. It was just...January. And inside. With dozens of people around them. “I would not, no,” Roland said, and the drop in overall volume was some sort of trick. Or, something. 

“How many people do you think you’ve made out with? Ballpark it for me.” “No.” “Is the issue a lack of appropriate numbers to tally that mark, or—” She bit her tongue, again. At the flash of amused frustration sweeping his face and polluting the molecules of whatever air was hovering between them. Permeating was a better word. Lizzie really needed to work on all of that. Words. Being slightly less jealous of potential make outs that didn’t have anything to do with her and definitely happened because there had to be other people out there in the world who simply could not cope with the existence of that dimple. 

“How many people have you made out with, then?” “Scores,” Lizzie snarled, only to get immediately scoffed at. “I’m really, incredibly popular.” “Oh, I’ve got no doubt.” “Boatloads of guys. Lining up to,” she pointed an imperious finger at her mouth, “make out with this.” “Your well-defined chin?” “I’m going to take my shoe off.” “Draw attention with a move like that.” Whatever fight she had didn’t immediately die. It just, sort of, fell. At her feet, threatening all the bones there and there were too many. All of them far too fragile. For whatever metaphor she was running with at the moment. “And we’re not trying to do that, huh? Draw attention.” “Shouldn’t you be out sowing wild oats?” “Really know how to charm a girl,” she grumbled, and that got her a smile. No scoff. Not even the hint of a smile. The whiplash was hurting her neck. “Trust me, the oats have appropriately sowed. If I was ever particularly inclined to farm work.” “I’m starting to be vaguely embarrassed by all of this.” “Good.” Wasn’t quite a scoff. Was more like a half-hearted laugh, and a tinge of desire and that was better than the other emotions, but the decreasing level of Roland’s eyebrows gave her pause. “What about the status of your oats?”

“Well sowed, rookie season,” Roland said. 

“You’re going to change the name on your jersey.” “Not sure that particular fact has a lot to do with anything else. Seven years, Liza.” “I’m perfectly capable of doing math, you know I took that stats class once.” “Because I double checked everything you turned in.” “Makes you slightly less of an idiot than the vibe you're giving off right now.” “A freeway or compliments.” Pulling in a deep inhale through her nose, Lizzie didn’t miss the way Roland’s gaze fell. To the neckline of her dress, lingering on the jut of her collarbones for a few seconds longer than a strictly platonic friendship should allow, and they were friends. Still. She knew that as well as she knew that he believed she thought he was simply being clever with nicknames. 

And not making vaguely incorrect My Fair Lady references. 

Because he’d always been a little annoyed that Eliza had gone back to Henry Higgins. Instead of Freddie.

It was really impossible not to be a little in love with him at all times. 

“You’re really going to hyphenate?” Roland nodded. “Think of all the new jerseys they’ll sell.” “By the box-load, and Gina’s gonna buy the entire stock. She’s—that’s really nice, you know.” “Just a fact. Little late, but—” He shrugged. Lizzie’s smile threatened to split her face. In that same nice way, she’d been talking about. Her lips were still buzzing. She might have been buzzing. With adrenaline. Happiness. The near-desperate desire to find some type of closet and get her fingers back in Roland’s questionably long hair. 

“Of naming conventions.” She couldn’t begin to guess what the record was for shoulder shifts in an emotionally charged conversation between two people who were simultaneously ignoring the point of the conversation, but Lizzie also knew her eyebrows had been halfway up her face as he’d detailed the reasons for making his jersey say Mills-Locksley. From here on out. 

Maybe that was the top of the list, actually. 

He was a good guy. 

Had always been a good guy. The best guy, really. 

Falling into that chasm wasn’t nearly as terrifying as Lizzie expected it to be. 

“Why’d you do it?” Roland’s lips disappeared. His tongue moved, again. She was staring at the area around his tongue. So, like, his mouth. Directly at his mouth. “Because, I uh—have wanted to?” “Oh, don’t phrase that like a question.” “Wanted to,” he repeated, a statement of fact with a certain amount of conviction. Enough to make Lizzie’s pulse sputter. “Which is kind of freaking me out.” “Come back with more compliments.” “Your dress nearly made me fall over.” “Better, actually,” she laughed. 

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Made sense at the time.” “Be more specific.” “Kissing you,” Roland said, enough emphasis that he leaned forward half an inch as well. It was a miracle their noses didn’t collide. Not the most impressive miracle, but—counted. “If I tell you that you might be my best friend does that make the lamest professional hockey player alive?” “Yes, absolutely.” “Matt might challenge you to a duel if he hears me talking like this, you know.” “God, Locksley, didn’t we just talk about the Mattie rules? Also, that made it sound like Mattie wants to kiss you too, so...”

He chuckled. Fingers still tugging on the back of his hair, like he was trying to ground himself in the pull and the self-inflicted tension, Roland looked up. Back at her. And Lizzie didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Held her position and prepared herself to defend the schedule she’d only ever allowed herself to hope for in the silence of that one corner in her brain. 

Filled, as it was, with memories. Of conversations that didn’t have anything to do with hockey. Others that did. Arguing over blue line placement in the brownstone and college rankings. Of movies watched on two different laptops in different corners of the country, bad jokes, and consistent updates, that deep-rooted understanding that came from a life full of expectations and the exact opposite. No overt pressure, but the need to prove yourself anyway, if only because of the name on the back of the jersey, and Lizzie was going to have to buy a new jersey. 

“You like me? Yes, or no?” Roland smiled. Wide and honest, the kind that ensured the dimple was on prominent display. “Yes.” “I am a grown adult? Yes, or no?” Crinkles appeared around his eyes. From the smile. 

“Yes.” “Meaning I get to make my own choices. Romantically, or otherwise. Yes, or no?” “Obviously.” “Wasn’t one of the options.” “Yes,” Roland corrected, fingers trailing over the bend of her elbow. Lizzie hadn’t uncrossed her arms. Or remembered when she’d crossed them in the first place. 

“Ok, good. Same page, then.” “Liza.” “Locksley.” Lifting her eyebrows wasn’t a challenge, per se. Was closer to instinct, really. Specifics didn’t matter, honestly. She did that thing with her eyebrows, and he did that thing with his mouth, the same one she was staring at and hoping would move closer to her, and then—

Well, it did. 

Hands found Lizzie’s hips, pulling her forward sharply enough that she let out a soft grunt. From the feel of hips bumping against hers, and she honestly wasn’t sure who hissed in their next inhale, only that it did something to the flutter-like state of her pulse and the erratic nature of her heart, and it was slow and fast and good and great and not a single person noticed. 

Miracles were arriving en masse, apparently. 

Pushing her fingers into Roland’s hair got Lizzie another hum of approval, the first brush of his tongue making her lips part and her head fall to the side, but then his hand was wrapped around the back of her neck, and she could not be expected to pay attention to anything except the semi-consistent swipe of his thumb against her skin. It left more goosebumps. Caused another chuckle, the kind that rumbled through her and resonated around her, a tiny bubble of that same cautious optimism from before. 

Like a spark. 

Fanning flames and threatening to burn everything because if this didn’t work, then Lizzie wasn’t sure what would, and that was scary and overwhelming and terrifying was a synonym, but she really was working with very limited word-based resources when Roland’s thumb kept moving. Tracing her. Committing the feel to memory, and she wasn’t sure when they’d established the rocking pattern they were moving in, but something deep in the center of her trusted it. 

Someone who regularly strapped knives to his feet and raced around at top speed knew how to stay balanced. And she was a stubborn idiot. Who got what she wanted. 

“Is part of liking me because I told you I didn’t think it was embarrassing that you still got a little emotional about Miracle on 34th Street?” Laughter pushed past her lips. Took root in the pit of her stomach and the spaces between her ribs. Laced through her heart. In the kind of way that cemented itself. Right in the middle of Lizzie. Right in the middle of this. Them. 

There was a them, now. 

“Was definitely a factor, yeah,” Roland said, not bothering to pull away. “You, uh—you snuck up on me a little, Liza.” “Peak romance.” “Want me to talk about your dress some more?” She shook her head. “Unnecessary. And you didn’t.” “That might be part of the problem.” “Nursing old crushes, you mean?” Her hair hit her cheek. And his hand. He couldn’t seem to let go of her. “Nah, this wasn’t like...there was no torch, not really. I—I wasn’t hanging posters of you on my wall if that’s the picture you’ve painted for yourself.” “Kinda disappointing, admittedly.” “Pick a lane, babe.” No sparkle, that time. Just flash and want and the very thin line Lizzie’s lips had become. “Be more specific,” Roland repeated softly. “You’re not standing on a pedestal. Just you, Rol, as is.” He waited. That was fair. There should have been more. Should have been a detailed list of all the reasons the grown-up version of her liked so many parts of the grown-up version of him, but that all felt a little extraneous when she was still thinking about closet-type possibilities and that stubborn streak was a mile wide, anyway. 

Roland nodded once. “Good.”

Both of them jumped. At the pop of another champagne bottle and Lizzie never understood how Regina managed to order so much champagne every year, but she felt a bit like she was floating on the bubbles, and they didn’t decide. Explicitly. To keep the whole thing—

Secret. 

Another bad word. With bad connotations and shadows that clung to the definition, but this was them and only them and, for right now, that was enough. And if no one noticed the way Roland’s hand drifted over the small of Lizzie’s back during David’s speech, then that was a miracle she was willing to accept. 

[sunsetinmyvein]

The Radio Station - Chapter One - Think About How to Think

"I’m still not quite used to these proper radio interviews.” He said as he reshuffled the headset over his clean shaven mohawk. “It all… feels so professional.” She laughed in response to that, “Well, it’s nice to know I’m doing my job right, then!”

Eyyyy, I’m back! A sort of different story compared to what I've done in the past. Small snippets in time, across quite a bit of time, focused around radio interviews. Almost all of Matty's interview answers are verbatim transcribed from various interviews, but it's what happens around those answers that's the important stuff.

Taglist: @dot-writes​ @imagine-that-100​ @robinrunsfiction​ @tooshhhy​ and feel free to give me a shout if you wanna be added :D

6th of December, 2012

Adjusting the microphone in front of her, she watched while the last few seconds of the song played out. “You ready?” She asked the man sitting in front of her. He looked up from picking at the sleeve of his jacket, nodding apprehensively as she switched the microphones back on. “That was Sex by The 1975 - and as promised, we have here Matthew Healy of The 1975 with us in the studio this morning.” She spoke, turning on the radio presenter voice.

He leaned towards the mic slightly before speaking, “Hi.”

“How are you doing?”

“Yeah, erm… good?” He said with a small laugh, sounding unsure of himself. “A bit nervous.” He admitted as an afterthought.

“About your show tonight at Barfly?” She asked, remembering her conversation earlier in the day. Her managed warned her not to drag the interview out too much as they had a gig later that evening to prepare for.

“Uh, yeah, that, and I’m still not quite used to these proper radio interviews.” He said as he reshuffled the headset over his clean shaven mohawk. “It all… feels so professional.” He shrugged, looking around the studio for the millionth time. When he’d come in, the process of actually having to check in through a receptionist and wait before he was ushered through was fairly intimidating.

She laughed in response to that, “Well, it’s nice to know I’m doing my job right, then!”

 She figured it would be best to just get the ball rolling to try and give him something better to talk about than his nerves, “So, you guys have two EPs out now. How many more are there on the cards before an album?” She questioned, glancing down at the sheet of question prompts in front of her.

He appeared instantly more comfortable as soon as the topic switched to something that he had better familiarity with, straightening up in his seat and looking more engaged, “There’s probably another couple to come out before we bring out the full album.”

“It seems that the band is getting some good traction with what you already have out.” She pointed out with a nod. Over the last few weeks at the station she’d had a chance to hear the EPs in passing, and she thought that they were pretty decent. But the station itself had been receiving a fair number of requests for them and pretty good feedback whenever they were on the air.

“Yeah! We’re really humbled that we’ve been given the opportunity to live this past year, and we’re only getting closer as a band.”

  “Is there a strategy with how you’re releasing things?” She asked. “Is this all part of some grand plan,” She saw him smile at that, “or a secret to getting your name out there?”

He thought about that for a second, “Kind of a bit of both? When we wrote the first EP, shortly after we’d written the majority of the album, we kind of… I dunno, we just wanted people to…” He paused, taking a short breath as he recomposed his thoughts. “If we were gonna do it, it’s such a personal endeavour, this band. If people are embracing the music, we wanna do it properly. We want people to fall in love with a band the same way you fall in love with a person – the more you know about somebody over a longer period of time, the more you both invest in the relationship.” She was taken aback somewhat by his statement. For a band just starting their career, that was a pretty profound thought process. “That was kind of…” He continued, clearly debating over his words slightly. “We had ideas for a lot of material. We wanted records that went against the grain of most EPs nowadays that are just a single. We wanted to release these little records that kind of almost culminated in a debut record.”

  “That all sounds pretty well figured out.” She noted, still rather surprised at the extent of his answer. It was intriguing watching him stumble over his choice of words to try and get across exactly what he meant. “Does that mean that the tracks from the EPs are going to be on the full album?”

“There’s a lead track off each EP on the album, yeah.” He nodded eagerly as he leaned forward in his seat. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding that our material works chronologically. We wrote the album pretty much before we wrote the EPs. We took singles off the album and wrote EPs around that to take a bit of the story and embellish it a bit. Create a feel for what the album is gonna be like.” He explained, his hand motions getting more enthusiastic the more he spoke.

She made a soft noise of understanding at his answer. Thinking back to the vibe of the two EPs she had listed to, what he was saying made sense. “From what we’ve heard from you so far, it seems The 1975 has a knack for creating upbeat music with fairly deep lyrics in comparison. Is there a reasoning behind that? Is the album going to be similar?” She asked as she flipped her notepad over.

  He let out a sigh as he stared up at the ceiling of the studio, “I dunno… we’re just a band… for ourselves? We just wrote music for ourselves and have since we started when we were kids.” He started, leaning back into his seat. “Because we grew up in punk and pop punk playing around, we were kind of a bands band? Our music just became very, very personal and very, very kind of…” He made a vague gesture with his hands, “I suppose, it’s our only expression? It’s the only thing we’ve ever known how to do. It’s the only form of honest expression we’ve got. A lot of the time it’s quite self-deprecating for me – lyrically. I kind of find solace in it. But I suppose now it’s been romanticised a little bit.”

She wasn’t entirely sure if that answered her question, but pressed on. “Certainly songs like Sex seem to have a lot of girls romanticising you.” She threw in with a laugh. He cracked a grin at her remark.

“I think that is a reflection of our music – coming across as sexy. Not just because of, y’know, all this.” He shot back with a wink as he held a hand proudly on his chest. Any awkwardness he had been carrying at the start of the interview seemed to have dissipated now.

  “All right, we are gonna play another 1975 song and then we’ll be right back. This one came off of the first EP. This is The City.” She announced, happy to segue away from having to discuss whether she thought Matthew Healy was or wasn’t sexy on live radio. As the track started, she lowered her headphones to sit around her neck, the man across the desk from her following her lead. “You’re killing it.” She reassured him.

“Yeah?” He smiled.

“Yeah.” She chuckled, his enthusiasm now that he was on a roll was contagious. “You obviously know what you’re about.”

“Well, I’ve been fuckin’ thinking about it all for long enough.” He laughed loudly. “We spent ages working out what to do before stuff finally started happening for us.” He added for clarification.

“You’ve been the same group since you were kids?” She asked out of genuine curiosity. He looked like he was in his early twenties now, which would mean that they’d already been a band for quite some time. It seemed odd if that was the case, that they’d only had these two releases.

“Yeah, the four of us since we were fourteen or something. Just messin’ about trying to work out what sounds good.” He confirmed.

“Fourteen? That’s pretty young to start a band.” She said in astonishment.

“Yeah, well… I’d just moved to Manchester; I grew up in the very north of the country…” He started, looking like he was about to launch into another story. Part of her wished she had saved this line of questioning for the interview, but another part of her was secretly mildly honoured he was only giving this information to her. “But I went to high school and there was this kind of thing that was going on where the council were letting old people’s kind of bingo halls be used by kids to start bands. And after a couple of weeks it became this scene and everyone started making punk bands.” He explained.

  “So, you got dragged into it by your mates?” She asked.

“Well, in the end our whole social group oriented around that scene.” He shrugged. “We started there at fourteen just because of how fun it was. The fact that we realised we could be genuinely creative but also really indulgent? It was the most fun we could have.” He had a fond smile playing on his lips as he spoke.

“Plenty of time to experiment and work out what you want to be as a band.” She nodded in understanding.

“Exactly.”

“And clearly it’s starting to pay off.”

“You reckon?” He had a genuine look of disbelief.

“I’ve liked what I’ve heard,” She admitted, “and we’ve had nothing but good things coming in about the EPs.”

He scoffed as he ran a hand through his hair, “That’s a lie and you know it. I’m not oblivious to the critics.” He rolled his eyes, but was still smiling. “Thanks, though.”

  They had some more casual chit chat between them until the song came to an end and she switched the audio back over. “And we are back!” She said into the microphone, pulling her headset back on. “Still here in the studio with Matthew Healy, the lead singer of The 1975. Now, I believe that you guys had a few name changes before you finally settled on this one?” She asked as she crossed that prompt off of her list. In an effort to be prepared, she’d tried her best to find out as much about the band online as she could to form some half decent questions. She hated feeling like her interviews were just the same as everything else out there.

“Yeah, we did, but that was when we were just a live band, really. We didn’t really wanna put any music out officially until we were really ready. There were also issues with the old names that we had picked. One of ‘em there was another band called that already, Big Sleep, in America, so we couldn’t call it that. Another we didn’t really like, The Slow Down…” He said with a shrug. “People like to idealise quite a lot of things… in the end, it kind of became our thing? Changing our name. We didn’t really think people cared about our band, anyway.” He laughed softly.

“They certainly do now.” She smiled across at him, earning what appeared to be a delighted look in response. “So, is there any importance to what you finally settled on?”

  “The date doesn’t have any, no.” He said as he shook his head. “It’s this story, that’s been quite over dramatized, to be honest. When I was like… nineteen? I was on holiday with my family. There was an artist who lived in the village who was kind of a local drinker who befriended everybody. I spent a couple of days with him at his house, and he gave me loads of literature to leave with, like Kerouac and beat poetry, you know. Basically one of the books I ended up readin’ six months later, and it had kind of been treated as a diary by the previous owner. And it was dated ‘first of June the 1975’. The use of ‘the’ I felt was quite interesting.” He answered.  “It just stuck with me as a kind of… why? What made them write the 1975? I don’t know, but I think it really works with the fact that we were discovering a lot about ourselves, and we weren’t really sure who we were.” He gazed off into the middle distance for a second, looking like he was zoning out. “George felt it was a bit long at first, because you know, seven syllable band name. But once a band name becomes a band name it’s just there. It’s like that Pavlovian reaction. But I think when we went in for a meeting with our publisher, we’ve always liked to pitch things left of centre, we said ‘we’re gonna call the band The 1975‘ and they said ‘absolutely no way, it’s too long and there’s never been a big band that’s just been numbers.’ And then we looked at each other like ‘that’s the name.’ so I went and got it tattooed on my arm that day.” He laughed loudly. “Sent them a photo of that-” He held out his arm to emphasise the numbers inked there, “-like ‘that’s the name of the band now!’ As soon as they said there’s never been a big band that’s just numbers, we just thought… excellent.”

“The impulsivity worked in your favour, then.” She noted with her eyebrows raised in surprise. To go out and get something like that tattooed as an act of defiance to your creative project was impressive. “Good thing you’ve not had to change it again since.” He just chuckled.

  “It seems to fit in quite well, though, the name. What with the whole black and white aesthetic that you guys have created.” She continued, eager to hear what he had to say on this image that they had surrounded themselves with. Everything she had been able to find out about their ‘look’, how they presented themselves, it all seemed highly thought out and planned. But thinking back to what he had mentioned before, if they’d been a band since they were fourteen, it probably had been.

“If you’re quite altruistic in personality, that’s normally twinned with a certain amount of self-awareness. Because you’re exposed to many situations where you’re putting yourself out there a lot.” He started as he fiddled with the cord of his headset. “I think if you’re an artist and you’re like that, you find solace in maybe… detaching yourself from reality a bit? Because you’re not as exposed as normal. We find a lot of comfort in everything being in black and white, because… Yeah, that’s it, you’re not fully exposed.” He explained as if he was mostly talking to himself, or trying to sort out his answer as he said it. “But it really works for our band because it makes it… a bit out of reach?”

“How do you mean?” She frowned.

He hummed thoughtfully to himself before speaking, “There’s a great quote by Kafka, which is that ‘a camel is a horse designed by a committee’…” He said with a pointed look. “Which is like… one person’s vision is always going to be a lot more concise than something that’s been diluted or compromised by a committee. If you want to project a certain image it needs to be an individual’s own vision in order to be really palatable and really concise and really consumable. So, it’s all about creating something that isn’t that accessible, because we live in an industry where accessibility is paramount.” She was starting to realise that this man truly had very roundabout ways of answering questions. However, it was fascinating listening to his unfiltered thought process as he tried to work out what he wanted to say. She couldn’t say she’d had a lot of interviews with people are interesting as Matthew seemed to be.

  Taking a quick look at the time, she could see that they had to wrap this up shortly. Between the long-winded questions and the songs, her twenty minutes had gone by quite fast. She’d better start winding this down. “What’s next on the agenda for you guys?” She asked, looking back over to him.

“Uh, let me think…” He racked his brain for what their immediate plans were for the near future. “We’re heading out on tour after Christmas, and then pretty much we don’t stop ‘til sometime next year.” He confirmed.

“Sometime?”

“We’re in high demand, what can I say?” He said with a laugh.

“That’s not surprising, I’m sure it’ll only get harder to get a hold of you guys in the future.” She concurred. “Well, it’s been a pleasure chatting with you, Matthew. All the best for the tour and for the next EP.” She nodded. He looked caught off guard for a second. Glancing down at his phone, he was surprised to see how much time had gone by. “Thanks for coming in.”

“No, no. The pleasure’s all mine, truly.” He grinned. “Thank you for having me on.”

“I’m sure we’ll be hearing again from you soon.” She finished up, switching his microphone off as she did her outro spiel. He took his headset off, stretching his arms up above his head before standing up and heading towards the studio doorway. It took her a second of seeing him linger in her peripheral vision to realise that he was waiting to say goodbye. As she started the next track, she slipped her headset off and spun her chair to face him.

“Erm, thanks.” He said as he scratched at the back of his neck. “I’ll see you around?” He asked hesitantly. It was curious to see him go from charismatic interviewee to nervous guy in her studio so fast.  

“As I said, I’m sure we’ll be hearing from you soon. You’ll be back here in no time.” She assured him. He nodded to himself, looking pleased as he headed back outside.

  It was another twenty minutes after Matthew stepped out before her shift ended. Thankfully, she was able to get out of the office pretty quickly. Sometimes she ended up being held back for up to a couple of hours if there were meetings and such that required her attention. And today wasn’t a day that she wanted to deal with any of that. It had been a pretty shitty Thursday to start with. She’d had terrible traffic on the way in, couldn’t find a parking space, had to trudge her way to work in the cold, dropped her coffee when someone ran into her on the way – she just wanted to end a long day. It was approaching evening as she stepped out into the brisk winter air, letting out a sigh as she looked around the street. She started making her way to her car only to catch sight of a familiar mohawked man standing at the side of the station building, smoking with a few other guys. As soon as he spotted her, he shouted her name and waved her over. She debated whether she should go over and talk to a group of more or less strangers or not, but he seemed pretty keen on her joining them. He turned briefly back to the guys he was standing with and as she approached she heard the tail end of him explaining what had happened in the interview.

“This is the band!” He said excitedly.

“Oh!” Instantly, that made a lot more sense than him larking about with a bunch of random people. She took in the other three men he was standing with, noting that they were all quite a bit taller than he was. “You guys could’ve come in to the interview, you know.” She said as she wrapped her arms around herself to try and block out some of the cold threatening to seep in through her jacket.

“Nah, it’s fine.” One of them with somewhat of a beard shrugged.

“We’d rather let him do the talking.” Another quietly agreed.

“He’s loud enough for all of us.” The last one, that also had a kind of mohawk thing going on, spoke up.

“Hey! Fuck off!” Matthew shoved the last one with a loud laugh.

She stood around with them for a bit while they smoked, listening to Matthew talk about the interview and answering the odd question that the band members had for her. This man seemed far more sure of himself than the uncertain one she kept seeing in the interview. He prattled on excitedly about tour and the next EP and just generally seemed more confident. The band only spurred him on as well, encouraging him and getting into in-depth conversations about the tiniest details. She could see where those long-winded answers had come from in their interview. If he held this level of passive confidence and enthusiasm in a casual environment, it was only a matter of time before that started shining through in his career. And it was truly no surprise after speaking with them that this band was getting popular at the rate that they were. They were obviously talented, and had enough drive and direction to push themselves through whatever challenges they faced. She could tell that The 1975 were only just beginning their music industry journey. It was after about fifteen minutes that she figured she had better excuse herself and actually go home – she didn’t really have any reason to hang around here, even if it was nice to chat with such an interesting group of people.

  She waited for a lull in the conversation (which wasn’t very forthcoming) before finally making her move, “I might get going…”

Matthew’s face fell a little before he recomposed himself. “Why don’t you come down to the pub with us for a bite?” He suggested.

“Ah, thanks for the offer but I’ve got places I need to be, and I don’t usually mix business with pleasure as they say.” She chuckled lightly. “Nice to keep things separate.”

“It’s also nice to make exceptions sometimes.” He shot back; a challenging eyebrow raised. “But it’s cool.” He said with a shrug as he dropped his cigarette onto the ground, snuffing it out with his shoe. “For real, though, thank you for all the kind words about the band and the music in the interview. A station with as many listeners as yours… your words mean a lot.” He nodded, looking pensive about whatever was going on in his head.

“It’s really no problem. I meant everything I said.” She smiled back at him. Before she could get on her way, he pulled her into a tight hug. She hadn’t overly expected that from the man she’d known all of about an hour, but she hugged him back regardless, happy for the brief warmth after standing in the icy street. “I’ll, uh,” She cleared her throat, attributing the heat she could feel in her cheeks to being in the cold for so long, “I’ll see you at the next interview.” She said as she finally headed towards her car, leaving Matthew staring after her before heading back to his band mates.

Next Chapter

[ofjaejin]

oh  hi  ..  it  me  again  ,  nala�� ,  coming  at  you  with  my  second  bub  ,  jaejin  .  as  with  harley  ,  you’ll  find  some  information  and  headcanons  below  .  if  you’d  like  to  plot  ,  just  color  that  lil  heart  and  i’ll  come  bug  you  !

hey  ,  do  you  know  moon  jaejin  ?  he  looks  like  woo  dohwan  ,  a  twenty  -  six  year  old  model  who  is  known  for  being  astute  and  protective  yet  reticent  and  empathetic  .  no  ?  well ,  if  you  happen  to  see  them  around  ,  do  let  me  know  !  

important  link(s)  :  pinterest  |  wanted  connections  (  +  reblogged  )

♞  statistics  !!

------  birth  name  :  moon  jaejin  . ------  nicknames  :  jae  ,  moon  ,  mj  . ------  date  of  birth  :  28  april  ,  1994  . ------  age  :  twenty  -  six  . ------  zodiac  sign  :  taurus  . ------  language  :  native  tongue  is  korean  ,  but  he’s  also  fluent  in  english  ,  japanese  and  mandarin  ,  &  his  taiwanese  is  at  an  intermediate  level  . ------  orientation  :  bisexual  &  demiromantic  . ------  occupation  :  model  . ------  inspiration  :  um  ..  i  essentially  pulled  him  from  a  hat  ,  so  there  is  no  real  inspiration  except  a  few  facets  of  my  own  personality  .

♞  characteristics  !!

------  positive  traits  :  astute  ,  protective  ,  analytical  ,  wholesome  . ------  negative  traits  :  reticent  ,  empathetic  ,  insecure  ,  workaholic  . 

♞  history  !!

tw:  brief  mentions  of  alcoholism  &  abuse  ,  along  with  paternal  death  in  background  .

------  born  to  a  mother  and  father  ,  he  was  the  light  of  his  parents’  life  ,  however  his  existence  wasn’t  enough  to  save  the  relationship  between  the  two  and  so  ,  they  split  .  of  course  ,  his  mother  caught  all  sorts  of  hell  about  doing  so  from  her  friends  and  family  ,  even  receiving  scorn  from  neighbors  and  strangers  ,  but  she  kept  her  head  held  high  .  his  father  on  the  other  hand  ,  lived  his  life  in  whatever  manner  he  wanted  .  shortly  after  his  split  from  jaejin’s  mother  ,  he  shacked  up  with  another  woman  and  it  wasn’t  long  before  the  pair  were  living  together  .

------  jaejin  spent  the  majority  of  his  time  with  his  mother  (  which  is  something  he  preferred  )  ,  however  ,  once  he  had  started  school  ,  his  mother  forced  him  to  spend  time  with  his  father  every  other  weekend  .  those  were  the  times  jaejin  hated  most  .  you  see  ,  his  father  had  fallen  off  the  rails  ,  with  the  help  of  his  new  girlfriend  ,  and  jaejin  only  seemed  to  see  the  pair  when  they  were  hammered  .  the  alcohol  itself  never  bothered  him  ,  social  drinking  has  always  been  a  prevalent  thing  in  korea  ,  but  his  father  was  a  mean  drunk  .  jaejin  didn’t  have  the  courage  to  tell  his  mother  ,  though  ,  for  fear  that  his  protective  mama  bear  would  end  up  doing  something  she  might  regret  or  couldn’t  take  back  ,  so  he  did  the  only  thing  he  could  :  lived  with  it  .

------  things  got  worse  as  he  grew  older  ,  but  when  it  happens  on  such  a  regular  basis  one  learns  how  to  take  the  hits  thrown  their  way  ,  which  is  exactly  what  jaejin  did  .  his  saving  grace  ,  however  ,  finally  came  when  he  was  fourteen  .  his  mother  finally  feeling  like  he  had  witnessed  his  father  enough  ,  without  her  influence  ,  to  form  his  own  opinion  and  so  she  told  him  ,  “  now  that  you  know  your  father  ,  you  can  make  your  own  choice  :  either  you  continue  to  see  him  whenever  you  want  and  have  your  own  relationship  or  you  don’t  ,  but  whichever  you  choose  is  alright  with  me  and  we’ll  respect  it  .  ”

------  his  mother  respected  his  choice  ,  as  she  normally  did  ,  but  his  father  was  another  story  .  he  constantly  bombarded  jaejin’s  mother  ,  complaining  about  his  son  avoiding  him  and  wanting  nothing  to  do  with  him  ,  but  she  continued  to  stick  up  for  her  son  .  of  course  ,  there  were  certain  occasions  in  which  he  gave  his  father  chances  to  prove  him  wrong  ;  birthdays  ,  holidays  ,  big  events  ,  but  he  was  always  met  with  violence  and  disappointment  ,  so  finally  ,  he  told  his  father  himself  how  he  felt  .  told  him  that  he  no  longer  wanted  anything  to  do  with  him  and  as  far  as  jaejin  was  concerned  ,  the  two  weren’t  even  family  ..  his  father  nothing  more  than  a  sperm  donor  . 

------  so  ,  the  pair  kept  their  distance  ,  and  years  had  passed  before  jaejin  heard  from  his  father  again  .  by  that  time  ,  he  had  just  finished  his  training  and  debuted  as  a  model  for  his  company  ,  a  gig  which  had  fallen  into  his  lap  thanks  to  his  mother  .  jaejin  ,  unwilling  to  trust  a  word  that  came  from  his  father’s  mouth  ,  never  believed  his  father  whenever  he  attempted  to  reach  out  stating  he  was  finally  sober  due  to  health  issues  .  a  few  months  after  continuously  pushing  his  father  away  ,  he  received  the  call  from  his  mother  that  he  had  passed  ,  but  as  his  next  of  kin  ,  jaejin  was  required  to  identify  the  body  in  order  for  them  to  proceed  .

------  this  devastated  jaejin  .  mostly  because  the  guilt  was  crippling  ,  but  also  because  he  never  expected  to  actually  mourn  his  father  .  the  twenty  -  two  year  old  jaejin  spiraled  ,  turning  inwards  and  throwing  himself  into  his  work  .  he  didn’t  eat  or  sleep  properly  and  after  two  years  of  mess  ,  his  mother  asked  if  he  could  give  therapy  a  try  .  even  if  he  were  only  doing  it  for  her  at  first  ,  she  didn’t  care  .  without  hesitation  ,  he  did  ;  there  wasn’t  anything  he  wouldn’t  do  for  his  mother  ,  after  all  .

------  throughout  therapy  ,  he  eventually  learned  to  process  the  trauma  he  had  been  given  and  slowly  pulled  himself  from  the  self  -   destructive  rut  he  had  fallen  into  .  he’s  still  a  workaholic  who  often  gets  so  focused  he  forgets  to  take  care  of  himself  ,  but  he  no  longer  goes  to  the  dark  places  anymore  ,  and  now  ,  he’s  one  of  the  most  sought  out  models  .   

♞  headcanons  !!

------  normally  ,  empathic  is  seen  more  as  a  positive  trait  ,  but  i  chose  it  for  one  of  jaejin’s  negative  ones  because  of  how  his  emotional  empathy  often  causes  him  to  react  .  due  to  the  guilt  he  still  feels  about  his  dad  ,  he  allows  himself  to  fall  victim  to  many  “  energy  vampires  ”  and  because  it’s  so  easy  for  him  to  feel  the  emotions  of  others  ,  he’s  not  the  most  helpful  when  you’re  feeling  down  (  if  you’re  crying  ,  so  is  he  )  .

------  he’s  very  closed  off  about  himself  .  he’s  the  type  of  person  who  can  say  a  lot  without  actually  ever  saying  anything  .  sometimes  ,  people  realise  that  fact  ,  but  for  the  most  part  ,  he  does  a  very  good  job  at  hiding  things  .

------  he’s  resourceful  and  it  doesn’t  take  him  long  to  assess  a  situation  and  react  in  a  way  that  ensures  things  work  out  in  his  favor  .  obviously  ,  he  never  uses  this  for  poor  reasons  or  monetary  gain  ,  but  it’s  important  for  him  to  never  feel  the  way  he  did  growing  up  .

------  still  a  big  mama’s  boy  ,  loves  her  to  pieces  and  would  go  through  all  sorts  of  hell  for  her  .  she’s  the  healthiest  relationship  he’s  experienced  with  a  family  member  and  he  wouldn’t  trade  her  for  the  world  .

------  #SoftBoy  ,  even  though  he  has  a  tendency  to  look  just  the  opposite  .

------  definitely  prefers  print  modeling  ,  but  has  a  few  CFs  ,  music  videos  ,  and  runways  under  his  belt  .  when  it  comes  to  modeling  ,  he  doesn’t  turn  down  any  job  that  comes  his  way  .

------  also  ,  because  of  his  occupation  ,  he’s  gotten  into  photography  .  at  first  ,  it  started  out  as  a  hobby  ,  mainly  something  he  did  to  help  him  when  he  was  in  front  of  the  camera  ,  but  over  time  ,  his  love  for  it  grew  and  now  he  does  that  almost  as  often  as  he  models  .

------  eventually  wants  to  segway  into  acting  ,  but  he’s  nervous  to  take  that  leap  ,  which  is  why  he’s  passed  on  every  offer  he’s  received  thus  far  .  though  ,  once  he’s  offered  ,  what  he  feels  is  ,  the  right  role  ,  he’ll  jump  on  it  .

------  he’s  very  open  to  sexual  relationships  (  and  enjoys  having  them  often  )  ,  but  it’s  hard  for  him  to  feel  anything  romantically  for  another  unless  he’s  been  able  to  form  a  deep  emotional  attachment  to  you  ,  which  ,  even  with  his  innate  emotional  empathy  ,  doesn’t  happen  that  often  due  to  him  always  keeping  himself  at  a  distance  ;  it’s  not  impossible  ,  though  . 

this  is  all  i  can  think  of  as  of  now  ,  but  if  you’ve  read  any  of  this  ..  thank  u  ily  .

[absynthc]

BASICS.

Full name: Sofi Sayid, but she hasn’t gone by that in almost two decades. Nicknames (if any): Ripley to most. Rip to a rare few. Gender / Pronouns: Cis female & she/her Classification: Human Abilities (if any): She wishes. Age: Thirty-six Occupation: Farmer. Dealer.

PERSONALITY.

Traits: Strategic, blunt, secretive, sarcastic, arrogant, obsessive, loyal. MBTI: INTJ – The Architect Zodiac: Capricorn. Character Inspiration: Theo Crain ( The Haunting of Hill House ), Lia Haddock ( Limetown ), Tommy Shelby ( Peaky Blinders ), James “Sawyer” Ford ( Lost )

Content warnings for suicidal ideation, drugs, addiction, grief, death, depression, implication of self-harm, allusions to police brutality.

AESTHETIC.

Sitting on your balcony alone, smoking a cigarette at one in the morning. Biting into a ripe peach, the juice dripping down your chin. Collecting old sci-fi movies from before the world burnt.  The smell of rose water and honey. Calling the voicemail of someone gone just to hear the sound of their voice. Hiding your profits in the walls of your apartment. Biting down on your knuckles to muffle a scream. The crispness of cold sheets. Flickering neon signs pointing to narrow back alleys. Always paying in cash. Always.

(BRIEF) HISTORY.

tl;dr everyone rip has ever loved has either died or gone missing, and she’s convinced she has the power to talk to the dead, she just needs to figure out how to “activate” it, so that’s why she’s trying to amass wealth via dealing synth (my fun lil punny drug idea for metropolis) because money = power baybeeeeeee

Ripley grew up as a part of the working class of District Two. She’d never met her father, who disappeared mere weeks before she was born. No one knows why. It was as if he vanished into thin air, and her mother, Nairi, never talked about him.

Nairi worked at the Farm, and she did so tirelessly, legitimately believing the old adage that if you work hard, it will lead to a better life. Ripley saw time and time again how Nairi tried so hard to do everything right, do everything honestly, and how she was rewarded for her sincerity with scraps, while the Chancellor and her Watchers paraded around the city like tyrants.

And the ultimate cherry on top came when Nairi died in an accident on the Farm, killed by a wound that festered, by an infection in her blood, something that never would have happened had they been in a different district. But Ripley wasn’t able to grieve. At fourteen, she was an orphan, with no means of supporting herself, and all she could do was take up her mother’s job at the Farm in the hopes that one day, she’d make it out of here. One day, she wouldn’t have to do this anymore.

She was twenty-three when she met Joy, a technician at the Farm. It was a short courtship that led to a long marriage, and for a while, things were better. Ripley started getting used to the idea of happiness, started believing it was possible for her... only to have it all ripped away. The Watchers came, ransacked their apartment, took Joy away, interrogated Ripley for hours, told her that her wife was a traitor to Metropolis. After that day, she never saw Joy again.

Until she did, one night at the Boneyard. After her mom died, she started coming here, convincing herself she could feel her mother’s presence. And then, she started feeling Joy’s presence too, and that was all the proof she needed to herself that the one person she’d truly loved, the only hope at happiness she ever thought she’d get, was dead.

She started using. More than just casually, as she’d done her whole life. Methodical, addictive, meant to numb every feeling she’d ever had. And she had every intention of wasting away the rest of her miserable life until – a rumor overheard at Bliss, the idea that you could trigger powers within you...now that captured her attention.

She was singleminded in her pursuit of her “power” – which, she believes, is necromancy, the capacity to speak to the dead – because all she wanted was to say one last goodbye to the people she’s lost. It’s selfish, really, but she convinced herself, maybe she can use it for the greater good. To understand the future is to understand the past, and secrets disappear from the world with the dead.

Ripley was fucking tired. Tired of being a cog in the wheel of a broken machine, tired of being stepped on by the boot of the world, and in order to get where she needed to go, she needed power, money, and influence. What better way to do that than to control the stream of drugs into Metropolis? It was a slippery slope from using to dealing, but she made the most of the fall, and now, she’s created a tiny little monopoly for herself, pocketing almost all of the profits and trying not to get too greedy. Because it’s all in service of a larger goal, even if she refuses to acknowledge that she threw off one set of chains just to put on another. New game, same rules, and the stakes are much, much higher.

FULL BIOGRAPHY HERE.

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

THE CLIENT’S ALWAYS RIGHT – This is one of Ripley’s regulars. Maybe it’s her favorite customer, someone she has an easy repartee with. Maybe it’s someone Ripley feels conflicted about selling to, for whatever reason. Maybe it’s someone she cannot fucking stand, but hell, they’re paying her, so what does it matter. Regardless, give Rip some clients and populate her business!! Walter White, who?

RUBBING ELBOWS WITH THE RIGHT PEOPLE – Ripley’s trying to advance her own agenda in terms of activating the power she believes she has. Maybe this person has information she needs, and she’s willing to pay to get it. Maybe she thinks she can manipulate this person to get to someone she actually wants to meet. At the end of the day, Ripley’s taking her first stab at “playing the game” of Metropolis, and boy is she vastly underprepared for what that means.

FELLOW FARMER – Ripley still works the fields as a cover for what she’s actually doing. This can be someone she’s known for years, maybe even her whole life, or it can be someone who just started working here last week. I’d imagine Ripley’s one of those people that’s become a staple of the Farm, someone everyone thinks will always be there and someone who tries to take the new kids under her wing a little bit, give them the advice she never got.

(WO)MAN OF GOD – While she isn’t inherently religious, Ripley has a strong affinity towards belief systems, and she believes with absolute certainty in her bones that she’s right about how she sees the world. Most specifically when it comes to the idea of her having powers. This is someone who believes the same thing as her or could be inclined to be swayed over to Ripley’s way of thinking. Maybe a new friend, a welcome reprieve from the cynicism Inkwell is always giving her. Someone who’ll go down this rabbit hole with her.

HEADCANONS.

Ripley named herself after Sigourney Weaver’s iconic Ellen Ripley of the Alien franchise. It was the only movie they had at home growing up, and Rip watched it again and again, can still recite it verbatim to this day.

Ripley’s got a fair amount of tattoos, all of them courtesy of Inkwell. No, she will not tell you why she got them. Sometimes a cow’s just a cow.

Since starting her little drug empire, Rip’s developed a gnarly caffeine addiction. It wasn’t something she could afford as a lowly farm worker, but now that she knows what a steaming cup of freshly brewed coffee tastes like, she’s absolutely done for.

Ripley’s hair is always up if she needs to focus or if she’s working. A tight, sleek ponytail, a low bun, but most commonly, a long braid down her spine, just like how Nairi would do it for her when she was a young girl. She rarely, if ever, wears her hair down, despite it being so long.

There’s stray cat in her apartment complex that Ripley stared feeding. Since he’s so orange and so massive, she started calling him Cheeto. Cheeto now has his own litter box in Ripley’s apartment... and yet, she still calls him a stray and refuses to admit she owns a fucking cat.

Ripley takes pretty good care of herself physically. Her favorite form of exercise is boxing, and she doesn’t get nearly enough practice with sparring partners, just punches a bag she set up behind her building, so if you’re trying to Fight, hit me up.

And last but... not... least.... can’t sit properly in a chair because she’s gay....

[wolfpawn]

I Hate You, I Love You, Chapter 58

Chapter Summary - After returning from their walk, Danielle and Tom end up minding his niece for a while and after that, they go to have dinner again in Diana's, where it is revealed that due to the summer, Tom has not spoken to his father since then, something Danielle thinks to rectify.

Previous Chapter

Rating - Mature (some chapters contain smut)

Triggers - references to Tom Hiddleston’s work with the #MeToo Movement. That chapter will be tagged accordingly.

authors Note - I have been working on this for the last 3 years, it is currently 180+ chapters long.  This will be updated daily, so long as I can get time to do so, obviously

tags: @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog​ @jessibelle-nerdy-mum​ @nonsensicalobsessions​ @damalseer​ @hiddlesbitch1​ @winterisakiller​ @fairlightswiftly​ @salempoe​ @lys-syl @youcantcatchafallingstar

If you wish to be tagged, please let me know.

After the walk in the woods, and a small towel dry for Mac, Danielle and Tom contemplated sitting down for a quiet read, but their idea was quickly shattered when Sarah arrived with her daughter. “Half an hour, I beg you.” she pleaded. Tom looked at his sister in concern. “My head is spinning, I have literally watched four movies in a row, I need half an hour.”

“Give us one and a half, she’ll be fed and all.” Danielle smiled. Sarah did not even bother asking if she was sure, she turned and fled. “I guess that answers what our afternoon includes.” She commented to Tom.

“Prepares us for the weekend we have you I suppose.” Tom grinned at his niece. “Have you had lunch?”

“Nope.”

“Well then, how about some of Ellie’s homemade soup and brown bread?” Tom ushered her into the kitchen. Danielle smiled as she walked in after them, Tom getting some of the soup Danielle had made them after their walk and the bread she had baked before getting injured on Christmas Eve. Tom saw her looking at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” She smiled. “Just nice seeing you make yourself at home here.”

“Well, just remember to do the same in London.”

“I might just.” She winked, going over to the kettle to make herself some tea. “Do you want one?”

“Please.” Tom was about to put his arms around her when she moved slightly to avoid it and indicated to the six-year-old who was currently eating at the table. “Sorry.”

“Have to remember to behave in front of children.” She chastised. “So, what movie will we watch when you are finished your lunch?” She asked said child as she placed a glass of apple juice next to her.

“Cinderella.”

“The film or the cartoon one?” Danielle offered.

“Film.”

“There’s a film of it now?” Tom asked.

“Yeah, Kenneth Branagh is the director, it’s brilliant, so colourful,” Danielle informed him.

“Ken loves using colour.” Tom nodded. “Sounds good.”

When Sarah returned almost two hours later, she was shocked to see Tom and Danielle playing hide and seek with her daughter. “You two are worse than her.” She chuckled to her brother.

Tom came over to her and put his arm around her, “Feel better?”

“Too much wine yesterday, tired and over my fill of movies, thank you both so much.”

“We are happy to have her.”

“She loves you both, she has not stopped going on about wanting you to marry Elle.”

“I know, I was informed yesterday on our walk that she is to be the flower girl, no arguments.”

“No pressure.” Sarah laughed.

“No, none. So what time is dinner?”

Sarah groaned. “No one is in the mood for turkey, not even mum.”

“I know, the idea of it is not too appealing.” Tom agreed. “Though…” He walked out to the end of the stairs. “Truce,” he shouted up. A moment later, two smiling faces poked around the top of the stairs at him. “Why is your hair tossed?” He asked almost worriedly.

“We…”

“Shh,” Danielle put her hand over the girl’s mouth for a moment. “We can’t let him know where I hid you.” She giggled. “What do you want? Surrender?”

“Not a chance.”

“Then why call us?” She asked.

“You cooked a lasagne on Christmas Eve, right?”

“I did.”

“Is there enough for everyone?”

Danielle took a moment to think. “There are fourteen portions, so I think it’s safe to say yes.”

“Why did you cook that much food?” Tom frowned.

“It’s easier to cook a lot and freeze, so I did.” Danielle shrugged.

“Can we use it for dinner, no one is really in the mood for Turkey?”

“Actually, that sounds really good.” Danielle came down the stairs, Tom’s niece in tow, she turned to look at her. “What do you think?”

“I want Garlic bread with it.”

Tom grinned, “That sounds like a great idea. But I am not sure there is any.”

“I have store-bought in the freezer too.” Danielle smiled.

“I love you.” Tom declared.

“You two are nauseating.” Sarah laughed.

“All men declare their undying love to the one that feeds them, why do you think they all love their mammies!” Danielle laughed, going to the kitchen to get the food. “How are you now?” She asked as she opened the freezer.

“Better, thank you, I had a cup of tea and a power nap. I think everyone was a little drained.”

“Well, you know where I am.” Danielle offered.

“Aunty Ellie?” Danielle turned around. “Why do you say mammy and not mummy or mommy?”

“Because I come from Ireland, and in Ireland, we say mammy.”

“Uncle Jack is from Ireland too and he doesn’t sound anything like you.”

“Uncle Jack comes from up at the tippy top of Ireland, so his accent is different, like your granddad comes from Scotland, so he has a different accent to your nan.”She explained.

“Okay.” With her curiosity sated, she walked off again.

“You didn’t correct her.” Sarah grinned.

“What?”

“When she called you ‘Aunty Ellie’ you never corrected her.”

“I didn’t even notice.” Danielle shrugged.

“Well, it suits you.” Sarah grinned. Danielle stared at her worriedly. “What do you need me to bring over?” Rolling her eyes, Danielle pointed to the food they would need.

*

“Okay, that was more delicious than I thought.” Jack conceded as he finished another portion of lasagne. “How are you not the size of a house?”

“Self-control.” Danielle laughed. “How are you not sick?” Jack shrugged.

“And it was not beef?” Jakov looked at the food in front of him.

Danielle shook her head. “Lamb, less chewy.”

“That is actually delicious,” Sarah declared. “I am stealing some.”

“Or I could just give you some.” Danielle laughed.

“That too,” Sarah conceded.

Diana smiled as she looked around the table, “Are any of you going to see your father soon?”

“Jack and I are going after New Years, on our way back from Jack’s parents,” Emma stated.

“We went a couple weeks ago, I will see when I can get up again,” Sarah informed her.

Everyone turned to Tom. “I...I haven’t spoken to him in a while…” There were a few moments of silence.

“Since the summer?” Danielle ventured, seeing no one else was going to ask, though everyone seemed to be thinking it. Tom nodded. “Have you spoken since?” He shook his head. “Well, do something about it.”

“How?”

“You get off your ass and you go to Scotland, obviously.”

“He…”

“Will give you a clip across the ear and then you apologise for embarrassing yourself, your family, your forefathers, your descendants, your pets, neighbours and even your preschool teacher and you get on with life.” Tom gave her a disbelieving look while the others laughed.

“What wiring is wrong in your head to say you say the stuff you do?” Jack shook his head.

“You’re just jealous you are a boring Tyrone shite that only wishes he was as brutally honest as me.” she retorted.

“Language.” Diana admonished.

“He started it.”

“You are the biggest child to ever exist, are you sure you don’t have any siblings?” Emma laughed.

“Nope just learnt all this from your crazy butts.” Danielle looked to Diana, who nodded her approval of Danielle toning down her language. “Why don’t we see if he is free over New Years, I know you wanted to go to see a few of your friends, but I think it would mean more to him if you made the effort to go up and show him you are not as mental as everyone thinks you are.” Tom gave her an unsure look, which Danielle chose to ignore.

“Can I just absorb some of your ability to just say what I am thinking?” Emma asked.

“I can be honest or I can not hurt your feelings, not both, most of the time.” She grinned. “So, get off your ass and ring him.”

“He…”

Danielle shook her head, “Emma, give me your phone,” Emma gave it to her and Danielle typed in the code and the screen unlocked. “Dad or James?”

“Dad.”

“Got it.”

“Elle,” Tom warned.

Danielle ignored him and continued. “Got you,” She pressed the dial button and put the phone to her ear. When a Scottish accent answered she smiled. “Hello, Dr Hiddleston, this is Danielle, I was a bridesmaid at Emma’s wedding.”

“I recall, what can I do for you?”

“I am ringing because Tom is under the impression you are not willing to speak to him, I wish to know if this is true or is he just being dramatic?”

“Is that little tart gone?”

“You mean the American singer?”

“That one.”

“Yep.”

“Is he there?”

“Right next to me, Dr Hiddleston.”

“Put him on, and for Christ’s sake girl, I told you enough times that day, it is James.”

“Sure thing Dr Hiddleston. I hope you had a lovely Christmas, take care and here is your idiot son.” She held the phone out to Tom, who was glaring at her.

Anxiously, Tom took the phone and rose to his feet. “Hello, dad.” He walked from the room talking.

“There, done.”

“Carpe Diam?” Diana smiled.

“More like ‘Carpe Scrotum’.” Danielle laughed as she took a drink of her water to the sounds of laughter around her.

*

“Thank you, I think.” Danielle turned to see Tom behind her.

Danielle faced him properly. “For the record, I would never have forced you to talk to your dad if you didn’t look like it was the one thing you wanted more than anything else in the world, that would not have been fair.” She stated. “I completely understand if you are annoyed with me and want to stay over here tonight. I just don’t want to see you not talk to your dad about something that is over, he is not exactly young. My dad always said to me, that no matter how bad we argue, never leave it longer than a day to say sorry, time doesn’t wait for you to.”

Tom looked at her for a moment. “I was pissed off you did it, but I am glad you did. We spoke for a few minutes, he just didn’t want me ruining everything I have worked so hard for. He mentioned you too.”

“Well, I was the one that called him.”

“He asked why I couldn’t ever see you as a suitable woman, you are, and I quote ‘copped on, intelligent and well able to give me a clip cross the ear’ he impersonated his father’s Scottish accent as he did so.”

“He forgot funny, charismatic and generally awesome,” Danielle laughed. “What did you say to that?”

“I told him I did, and that I convinced you to come to London to me for a few months.”

“Well, there’s his idea that I am copped on and intelligent gone out the window.” She stated solemnly before giggling.

Tom pulled her to him and kissed her as he chuckled too. “He said about fucking time, and that should I find my way to Scotland anytime soon, I am to bring you.”

“Woohoo, very nice. Got both parents on side, I am rocking at this girlfriend thing.” She smiled.

“I think you may have it down indeed Ms Hughes.” He agreed. “By the way,” She looked up at him. “He said to stop calling him Dr Hiddleston.”

“I can’t, it annoys him too much.”

[hpdabbles]

Student Involvement Club Founder

Harry Potter was everything and nothing like Sirius Black imagine he be when he first meets his godson. 

Yes, ten years have passed since he’s last seen the little copy of James, and he knew that while Harry was James’ son he wasn’t exactly James. There were bound to be some difference between them varying form different areas. For example, James was raised in magic and Harry was handed over to Muggles to start them off.

There was a large possibility Harry could be nothing like James.  He knew this. Was willing to accept it once he learns it was Harry that proved he was innocent. Apparently, his godson was the top student of his year and was quickly gotten the title prodigy. 

He was the one that discovered his friend’s rat was Peter Pettigrew, after casting a spell over the rodent in an effort to change colors and realizing something was off with his spell. 

The boy forced his magic to “set the rat to its original state”. (Accounts from eye witness even claim Harry was too confident guiding his magic for a boy his age)  Since the rat was very much alive, Sirius’ case was open and people realize he never had a trail.

He was released with the public aware he had nothing to do with the Potter’s death and slowly been getting help to re-enter the populace. He would become Harry’s legal guardian when he could prove he was mentally stable enough to do so. 

It took him a while, nearly a year, but he was finally allowed to be near Harry. He was ecstatic, having heard so much about the boy from others- like Remus who had been Harry’s teacher last year- and sending each other carefully crafted Owls but nothing beat seeing the boy face to face.

Yet, he wasn’t expecting the boy to be so very this.

Sirius sits awkwardly in the chairs before the reception desk watching the organized chaos as the office of the Student Involvement went about their business. He wanted to visit Harry, especially since the boy was brilliant enough to ask Bill Weasley to return to Hogwarts with a crew of Curse Breakers to finally get the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.

His boyfriend- that still makes him giggly to think about- could stay as the Professor as his students all adore him. Remus spent days in a daze, amazed that the general populace of the kids didn’t mind his werewolf status.

Apparently, this was due to Harry again. The boy had been campaigning to have his classmates open their minds and with his influence and fame was able to get most of the youth behind him during his first year. 

Sirius couldn’t have been any prouder of his ward. So he had hoped into the Floo hoping to see the boy and invite him to dinner with Remus. (Also to finally tell the boy he was in a relationship since he’s been putting it off too long)

But Harry was booked in meetings and appointments until late evening. So Sirius had to sit in the small chairs feeling awkward to be gaping at the effective office the Student Invomelent Club create. 

Dennis Creevy had been kind enough to offer him coffee while he waited, handling the reception desk like the small boy was meant to be there. He had greeted him with a bright smile and an easy “Can I help you? Do you have an appointment with one of the division Heads?” the second he stepped through the door.

It was so weird. This kid’s like elven, he shouldn’t know how to properly greet customers! At least, not better than Sirius. 

“Hermione! Where’s the spreadsheet for the Margical and Muggle Art Exhibition?! I need the expense rates before Friday!”  Harry shouts over the sound of various Hogwarts students chatting and working over their own little desks. Students from all house, each with their own cubical covered in quills, files, and rolls of scrolls, lined behind Dennis’ small back.

Some of them glance up to the head desk where Harry sits but upon realizing the Boy-Who-Live wasn’t asking for their department return to what they were doing.

 A young fourth-year girl with big bushing hair sprung up from her desk, desperately grabbing sheets and running over to the young man that may as well be a muggle CEO.

Maybe he is. 

“Luna! I want the list of creatures for the self-study program yesterday! Headmaster needs the approval before midnight!” 

“Of course Harry”

“Colin, I thought I told you to have the Yearbook and Photography club meetings schedule set. These ones are overlapping and creating a time conflict. Fix it!”

“Yes Harry, right away!”

“Ron-”

“I know Harry! I’m on it! Muggle Movie Night will be on schedule I swear.”

The boy was snapping orders but not unkindly, and it was obvious the children loved to work for him, yet Sirius couldn’t help but notice how adult-like Harry is. His mannerism never seems to fit his physical age. Somedays he wondered...

“He’s just stress,” Dennis tells him, appearing at his side silent as a grave and making the adult jump. The boy is holding a tray with a steaming cup and smiles when grey eyes lock on it.  “Harry’s in charge of all the Student Involvement Club so he has to write and approve the reports. Some of the department heads slack off so now everyone a bit rushed.”

Taking the cup, Sirius twirls it in his hands.  “What departments are there?”

“Oh, what isn’t” The muggleborn laughs.  His eyes turn a bit starstruck as he leans into stage whisper.  “Harry tried to have anything the students may be interested in approved and organize into clubs for us to enjoy. Sports, Studies, Hobbies; if you can name it, Harry will work for you to be able to enjoy it here. He got permission to have Muggle Movie Nights. With Popcorn and everything. We watched Aladdin last month!”

Sirius has no idea what Aladdin is but he nods like he does. Anything to get this kid out of his face.  He was leaning too darn close.

“ Harry even got the Headmaster to sign for a GSA.” The boy says smiling so wide his face may split. He shows off his rainbow Alley badge with a proud puff of his chest. But upon seeing Sirius’ face he explains.  “Gay-straight alliance. It’s a muggle name. The wizarding world is accepting but it’s nice to have a place to go in complete support you know? My brother even found a boyfriend! ”

Yes. Remus had been over the moon- heh pun- about it. The GSA passed out information about bisexuality and it was refreshing well researched. His lover was always up for his sexuality to be spoken about with respect.

The receptionist snaps his fingers.  “Oh hold on, we just created scrolls that explain everything we offer.” 

Running over to his desk, Dennis ducks under Draco Malfoy’s newest statue the boy brought in. If you were ever to ask Sirius if he thought he see a Malfoy happily doing office work he laugh in your face a few years ago, but Harry had apparently been able to see the boys love of supplicating and convert the pureblood into a Department Head for the said subject/club.

Dennis returns handing Sirius the roll, with a smile, leaving just as quickly and the adults spend a good twenty minutes looking over all the programs and events Harry has started.

Each title had a description, follow with fees, dates and meeting times, materials needed and the contact information for the desired Department Head if the student wanted to join. Some Department Heads overlapped other subjects but all in all, everything was well organized and evenly distributed of labor. 

  If any other student ever leaves a bigger Hogwarts legacy after the young Potter they may have to rebuild the school.

“My godson is very impressive.” He mumbles.  “Oh James, you sire a business CEO.” 

“I prefer student activist,” Harry says as he walks over.  “Sounds better and less cold.”

Barking a laugh, Sirius stands to bring his fourteen-year-old- goodness he’s only fourteen!  How can he possibly have a better system then the Ministry set up at this age? - into a hug.  Like always Harry stiffens up but returns the hug, and it makes Sirus bite back swears at his muggle relatives. 

“How are you so impressive?” He asks instead, not wanting to embarrass Harry.

“It’s cause I’m actually a time traveler who used his future knowledge to set things right but got bored so now I help run clubs.” Harry is quick to say and like always it makes him roll his eyes.

It’s nice to know some of James was inherited after all.  (He never spots the honesty in the eyes of a boy who shouldn’t have such age in those green gems)

[ittakesrain]

Track Your Shit

I sat on the couch in my psychiatrist’s office with my arms crossed and steam billowing out of my ears.

“Are you on cocaine?” he asked without a hint of sarcasm.

“No,” I shot back, completely bewildered but appropriately defensive.

“Then you’re bipolar.”

Yup. That was how I was diagnosed.  And to my memory, that was really the only major piece of information my psychiatrist gave me that day.  There was no supplemental information given to me, no sort of enlightenment or introduction into the all-consuming project that would be managing my difficult and sometimes debilitating condition, and I left the office with what felt like a really random label and a higher dose of Abilify.  I was nineteen years old, I was a chemistry major in college, I’d kicked the hell out of an eating disorder, and I was bipolar. The facts didn’t matter too much. Right?

Over the next several years, I really didn’t hear the word “bipolar” all too frequently, in or out of my psychiatrist’s office, despite the increasingly, uh, intense fluctuations in my moods and energy as well as steadily growing anxiety and irritability. Weird, am I right? For a diagnosis that impacts pretty much all aspects of a person’s life, in one way or another, to not be mentioned nearly enough times? There are more fitting words, but sure, we’ll go with ‘weird.’

By the time I graduated college, I knew my diagnosis was playing a larger role in my life that I originally assumed it would.  I started keeping track of when I took my meds (and with that tried not to miss any doses). I recorded my moods more frequently.  I did some cursory research into my disorder. And I finally started noticing patterns in my cycle and knew to watch out for specific warning signs.  And mind you, doing all of that was a pretty big accomplishment for someone who was given virtually no guidance. Not to mention a medication regime that was significantly lacking.

The first thing I realized was that my episodes often began with feeling “emotionally itchy,” or “like I want to rip my face off” and “jump out of my skin and out of who I am as a person.” Thanks to the knowledge I have now, I can use different language to describe what actually goes on as I inch ever closer to a major episode. I become incredibly irritable and experience what’s called “dysphoric mania.”  I have the racing thoughts and flight of ideas that come with manic episodes, meaning my brain is running at a million miles a minute and I can’t keep myself focused on one idea long enough to think it through, but it’s not what anyone would call a happy feeling (not that mania is to be confused with mere happiness). In my dysphoric state, I have too much energy, so much so that it physically hurts me as it swells from within me and threatens to burst open at any second.  I often cut myself in such a state because I need the assumed and metaphorical emotional release as well as the physical release of endorphins in response to injury.

Then I began to see that if I missed my meds for any period of time longer than a day or two, I felt the effects about two weeks later. If I forgot (or “forgot”) to take my Abilify for let’s say a full week, I’d be in the middle of a relentless and torturous depression in about fourteen days. Sidenote, I shouldn’t have missed ANY days of meds, but lo and behold, I wasn’t exactly warned all too well against it. But to see a pattern, to determine the cause of a specific (and dramatic) dip in my moods, was hugely influential in my life. Not to mention, it brought me to google how the medication I was prescribed actually works. And, spoiler, every single human being who is prescribed any medication at all should be aware of what the fucking medication does and how it works and all of that. Seriously. So important. Turns out Abilify is “long acting” and takes about two weeks to leave my system.

Furthermore, Abilify is a type of drug called an “atypical antipsychotic.” Those types of drugs are frequently used as mood stabilizers. They’re the second generation of drugs that you’ve probably seen being used on dramatic medical shows or movies about psychiatric hospitals that knock people who are acting “insane” out. They’re used as tranquilizers. Haldol is an example of one that works fast and Thorazine is an example of one that works somewhat slower. Those are called typical antipsychotics. Atypicals like Abilify have fewer side effects. They work to influence serotonin (the neurotransmitter sometimes called the “happy molecule”) as opposed to blocking signals from dopamine (the “pleasure and reward” neurotransmitter).

Right. So as you see I’ve become fairly well-versed in the goings-on of impending episodes and the key pieces of information surrounding them. Again, this is phenomenally helpful. But my point is that I should have been given this information from the get-go. I should’ve been prepared and taught, should’ve been armed with education given to me by a human being who knew what the fuck was happening to me and how bad it would potentially get if I didn’t have the fucking said information! I got there myself, and I’m damn proud of myself for doing so. And it still brings me peace of mind and a sense of control to research bipolar disorder, and learn new things about treatments and meds and biochemistry, and to work through my recorded moods and symptoms to find existing patterns or warnings. But for fuck’s sake, why wasn’t I told about the importance of recording the fluctuations or about psychoeducation as a tremendously powerful tool?

Alright alright, not going to continue dwelling on the past and how I was royally screwed (at least not in this particular blog post). Because as I look to the future, I know things will at the very least make more sense. I’ll at least be able to understand this bullshit and from there hopefully combat it better.

Which brings me to a few months ago as I began to embark on a new and more um, intense journey of self-discovery and understanding –which, in turn, is allowing me to feel significantly less dread about my eventual (and inevitable?) next episodes. It started when I wound up in the emergency room for the first time in October 2018 when a depressive episode took a terrible turn for the worse. I was 27 years old and at the end of my rope. Exhausted from years of worsening symptoms and my cries for help going unheard, my begging and pleading remaining unnoticed, I collapsed into chaotic despair.

The good that came from that particular visit to rock bottom was that I subsequently found a therapist (no, I hadn’t been in therapy previously and yes, that was really dumb) who is literally the coolest person ever, in addition to being really fucking good at what she does. And a few months after that, my amazing therapist helped me find a better psychiatrist, and from there we all began the arduous task of getting my act together and trying to stabilize the shitshow of my life.

As it turns out, since I was on a medication that didn’t do much for me for such a long time, my bipolar disorder was able to “mature.” To further develop and overall just get worse. Literally look it up. It’s a known thing that bipolar worsens if left untreated, and I absolutely feel that mine at the very least wasn’t being treated properly. Lucky me.

But since beginning to see my therapist in November and my new medication provider in February, I’ve learned like, so so so much. I know to stop and breathe when I start to get worked up, because I know I have gone for long periods of time without inhaling and exhaling like a functioning human. I know that I fidget around and repeat purposeless motions (“display signs of psychomotor agitation”) because it comforts me when I’m anxious. I know I have issues with control, with the desire to feel safe, with things that aren’t fair.

Also. Insomnia is a huge red flag for me and for the majority of bipolars. It’s both a symptom of approaching mania and a trigger for it. Meaning, when you start staying up all night long, you’ve gotta find a way to get some sleep before it gets worse and leads to an episode. It also means that you can’t voluntarily pull all-nighters (if you can help it) because that might land you in the middle of a manic break as well. And as if that wouldn’t suck enough, a despairing depression would most certainly follow the agitated (hypo)mania.

Alcohol is another one. Now, I’m not huge on drinking. I never partook in any of that before I was of legal age anyway (which is perhaps a testament to my nerdy younger self haha), and once I started drinking, I had trouble getting past the gross taste. I still do. But when I drink as an adult (which I haven’t done in a few months, mind you), I drink to get fucked up. So basically, I drink in a way that’s literally terrible for my bipolar. It’s a cycle, too.  I’ll have a bad day and come home and take five shots of fireball, and I get shitfaced so I have a terrible day the next day. It’s similar to insomnia in that it perpetuates itself and that I’ve gotta be responsible about it.

[On that note, by the way, I should say that maintaining stability involves quite a few key things (such as sleep hygiene, med compliance, the nutrition you fuel your body with, the way you move your body, being mindful and having the ability to focus on breathing, following pre-set routines, your support system, your coping skills and crisis-management tools, and your healthcare professionals…to name a few). It’s imperative to keep up with each thing to prevent all hell from breaking loose.]

I’ve also come to see that, for whatever reason, my major episodes usually have a definitive end but not a clearcut start. As in, I can identify the specific day my depression ends, but the irritability and frenetic energy and aggressive outbursts start out kind of slowly and increase steadily until my moods surrender into despondent melancholy. At this point, I believe the phenomena has to do with my tendency to ruminate and nearly drown in repetitive thoughts. I really struggle with redirecting my brain away from negatives. It could also be because of my coexisting ADHD, but either way, I can’t knock myself out of a bad mood as easily as most people can. So even something small going wrong has the potential to send me spiraling. I can’t think myself out of it. But I can easily make it worse –by ruminating and letting the negatives repeat like a broken record in my head. The decline, therefore, moves like a ball rolling down a ramp. On the opposite end of a “crazy spell” (as I called them way back in the day before I learned all this enlightening information) we have the ball being yanked back up as if it was attached to a string or something. As in, something good can happen that completely “snaps me out” of a major depression. It’s wild to think about. Like, fuck, why can’t more good things happen? Maybe then I’d spend less time wanting to die. I have, however, come to learn how to put myself in the line of things that have the potential to knock me off the crazy train. File that under “bitchin’ coping skills.”

Thanks to psychoeducation, I’ve also come to understand some of my personality traits. I’ve often called myself “volatile.” I fly off the handle fairly quickly, I accelerate from zero to 100 faster than the Kinga Ka roller coaster at Six Flags. My therapist calls it being reactive, and I prefer that phrasing now. My reactivity is part of my personality, but I understand it more clearly by looking at it through the lens of what I know about bipolar disorder. Similarly, in addition to reacting more, I react bigger. I guess some people might call it being dramatic, but again, I prefer to think of it in terms of how my therapist explained it: I’m wired intensely. I feel things in a bigger way. She once said something along the lines of “you can light up a city with your emotions,” and I don’t think she used the word emotions, but that was the gist. My intensity if a part of who I am. And honestly, as much as it can be super annoying and anxiety-producing, it’s not all bad and I choose to label it as a good thing.

Oh, and I pretty much knew this already, but I like to write/type because in my bipolar brain, the thoughts move more quickly than my mouth can move. It causes me to stutter, or stumble over my words, or lose my train of thought because I didn’t say something the right way and I can’t make my mouth move in a way to correct myself because I have fifteen thousand other thoughts flying through my mind and I can’t focus on any of it now. I exhibit pressured speech. Oh yeah, that’s one of my faves.

Thanks to psychoeducation, I’ve learned why I cling to my routines with a death-grip. Doing so is legitimately helpful to people with bipolar. Which is why going on vacation or starting a new job or a new chapter in life can throw bipolar people off in such grand ways. Circadian rhythms are screwy in us. We need to work hard to keep that shit in check. And the sleep-wake cycle and yes, routines, are part of that.

Okay then. With all of this knowledge being attained and a few more trips to rock bottom (and the emergency room) since October 2018…here I am. Still holding on, and doing better at that holding than I have in a while. A month and a half of normalcy without anything rocking the boat? I feel pretty damn good, thank you very much.

Oddly enough, stability can be just as scary for me as the complete and utter chaos of the rest of it. Like, now I have no excuses for not moving forward. Ugh, I have to move forward. But ya know what, I will. Because I’ve got the bipolar symptoms under control at the moment. There’s really nothing stopping me, so I’m sure as hell not gonna stop me.

Keeping records is absolutely fucking necessary. I’ve got no choice but to record my moods, anxiety, and irritability. I’ve gotta take my meds every fucking day and keep track of if I ever miss a day (which I shouldn’t). I need to write down other factors that play a role, such as my periods and when I have therapy and life stressors and stuff like that.

It’s taken, holy shit, so much work to acquire the awareness I currently have. And moving forward will require consistently working on what I know and actively seeking more information. But dude, I’ve come this far. I’m not gonna stop now.

[hzcleski]

hello friends! you probs know who i am already but if not hello! i’m sam aaand this is my newish muse! i played hal here for a minute one time but i’ve decided to give him a huuuuge revamp so character info is under the cut! lmk if you wanna plot! messaging me @ellvie​ is probably easiest!

╰☆╮ DYLAN O'BRIEN ─ HAL ZALESKI identifies as CIS MALE and uses HE/HIM pronouns. they’re a FORMER OLYMPIAN/NHL PLAYER, and they’re only TWENTY THREE ! they’re said to be CAPABLE, but also TURBULENT. i guess that’s why they’re known as THE LEGACY in the tabloids.

quick disclaimer that this is a sideblog so i might post to the wrong account sometimes

other disclaimer a lot of my hockey information is from google ok

nathan harold zaleski jr was practically born with a pair of skates on, which makes sense considering his family is hockey royalty. his father is nathan harold zaleski sr, aka a legend and one of the biggest names in sports to this very day. olympic gold medalist several times over, beloved longtime defenseman for the toronto maple leafs, at the very peak of his career and married to a beautiful wealthy socialite when his only child was born.

listen...this is an au where the maple leafs are good or like, had one genuinely good star player in nathan sr. okay thanks for coming to my ted talk!

he’s got dual citizenship because he was born in canada even though he hasn’t lived there since he was ten, but his parents were us citizens, which doesn’t seem important but WAIT FOR IT

nathan jr, who would begin going by the nickname of hal early on in life, probably learned how to skate before he even learned how to walk because of course he did. his father’s intention was always to have another him. i mean for fuck’s sake they have the exact same name. hal’s purpose in life has never been in question, not by him or anyone who’s ever seen him play.

his natural talent for hockey became apparent from a very young age, which didn’t surprise anyone ofc. his father saw it as a sign and began pushing him even harder, hiring the very best trainers and coaches to help perfect his game while nathan sr focused on his own career.

except that he was running out of steam and fast. nothing happened like there was no huge scandal or career ending injury. nathan sr was just...getting old. fans were simply losing interest in him as newer and younger players joined the league and there was nothing he could really do about it except make sure his legacy lived on.

hal was ten years old when everything seemed to finally fall apart. his dad was hanging on to the very last threads of his career, let go from the maple leafs and almost certainly picked up by the new york rangers purely out of pity. meanwhile, hal’s parents finally divorced which he took almost alarmingly well for a ten year old, but it’s not like his parents were ever a shining example of a deep, loving marriage. they spent years settling the divorce, fighting back and forth while suing the shit out of each other across whole fuckin countries. lowkey they almost wound up being more famous for the legal drama than they were for hockey.

hal’s dad finally retired when he was twelve, won sole custody of him when he was fourteen, and pulled enough strings to get him a spot on the canadian hockey team dual citizenship! going to the 2010 vancouver winter olympics when he was just a teenager, making him one of the youngest players to ever compete in the games.

and canada won gold that year so hal was making history again in no time, being one of the youngest players to ever become a gold medalist in the winter olympics. now he didn’t actually see a lot of playing time that year. his skill was undeniable, but no one seemed to think that he was ready for the big time rush. tbh they probably weren’t wrong, but nevertheless his name and his win made an impression on everyone.

up until that point hal was homeschooled bc ofc education came second to hockey, but he always wanted to attend an actual school and he did! after his first olympics his dad finally sent him to the same private school in the city as all the other rich kids and it was...weird! he started in the middle of the year and was instantly an outsider among his classmates. everyone else had known each other all their lives so hal immediately at a disadvantage. it didn’t help that he’d never really...had a single friend before. tbh his peers were probably intimidated by him. he was just a high schooler and already an olympic gold medalist like...ofc no one wanted to be the person to go approach him and say hi.

played for canada again dual citizenship! at the 2014 winter olympics in sochi when he was eighteen and this time HE WAS THE STAR. absolutely at the top of his game. anyone who still thought that he was a joke before the games started shut up real quick when he won his second gold medal.

he got home and was eventually drafted into the nhl, so he sorta ditched school oops. technically he finished but like...barely since he went back to being tutored for the last few months.

several teams wanted him and tried to throw a shit ton of money at him, but hal settled on the new york rangers with a huge multi million dollar deal

he quickly stole hearts on and off the ice. whether fans admired his skill or followed him during the olympics or remembered his father, for one reason or another he was winning people over left and right. unsurprisingly he’d go on to win the 2014-2015 rookie of the year award, presented to him by the president of the nhl and everything.

he did not attend the 2018 winter olympics in pyeongchang as the nhl famously refused to release their players. hal himself was a major part of the uproar. the whole country of canada dual citizenship! practically threw a fucking fit bc the nhl was disqualifying their star player from winning them their third gold medal in a row and hey big surprise...canada didn’t win gold in 2018 :)

hal’s in the middle of his fifth i think? year of pro hockey rn and so far his career has been solid. his dad is really pushing him to sign with a “better team” and he has gotten offers, but he isn’t really interested. he likes playing for new york & he likes living in new york. maybe someday....maybeeee....but for right now he’s happy with where he is.

okay now for some fast facts!

literally always looks like he just got into a fight, probably bc he just did during his last game. is usually sporting some injury like a black eye or split lip or cut cheek. fortunately hasn’t completely given in to the hockey player stereotype by getting all of his fuckin teeth knocked out...yet

notice that i hardly mentioned his mom? that about sums up their relationship tbh. hal was practically raised by nannies and trainers. his mom always had some brunch or gala or public appearance she was far more invested in. literally she didn’t even really...want custody of him when she divorced his dad, but she claimed to just to be petty and give nathan sr an even more difficult time. yeah they kinda hate each other now and since hal has always been closer to his dad, his mom isn’t even really that interested in seeing him lmao. she’ll call like once a month and invites him to brunch if she happens to be in the city, but ngl hal probably hasn’t seen her in like...a couple years at the least. he’s not really broken up about it either.

right so...walking talking endless pit of daddy issues? you bet! just because hal prefers his dad doesn’t mean that they get along or that his dad is a good person. he still has his perfect public image and he isn’t complete garbage but...yeah their relationship is extremely toxic. he’s always been very harsh with hal, pushing him and pushing him to be the best bc nothing he accomplishes is ever good enough.

so what if he's won two olympic gold medals? so what if he was rookie of the year? so what if he’s considered one of the best and most beloved players in the nhl? he can do more, he can be even better. his dad is a constant voice in his head even though he’s always around anyway. he never misses a game or an opportunity to point out hal’s every flaw.

ofc as a result hal’s always been very hard on himself. every single day of his entire life has been spent basing his self worth off what his father thinks of him. it was awful for his self esteem bc no fucking duh.

HOWEVER. it isn’t public knowledge at this time, but as of right now? hal’s relationship with his father is falling apart faster and faster by the moment. they’re a ticking time bomb & it’s literally only a matter of time before they explode yikes!

fortunately hal could sorta sense the direction things were heading and did something about it. he finally moved out when the hockey season started back in october and he’s been feeling better ever since. like he has more control over his life even though his dad is still WAY too involved.

personality: a douchebag who means no harm, mostly because he's never really trying to be a jerk. tends to come across as a typical meathead jock for good reason bc that’s exactly who he is. in conversation he's usually very blunt and a little awkward bc he’s still learning how to socialize with others. hockey is basically his whole life so it’s all he knows how to talk about, which can either be endearing or annoying. a genius hockey player, but a ditz in every other area. very short - tempered and impulsive. always means well and wants the best for those he cares about, but might go about expressing those feelings in a weird way bc he was never taught how to properly deal with his emotions.

CONNECTIONS

family

step sibling he grew up with - sabrina miller

paternal cousins - warren daily and wren daily

cousin by marriage - rosalind cox

maternal cousin - open. his mom is polish for reference!

romantic

girlfriend - genesis iver

ex fiancée - ginny baker

ex on good terms - margo massey

ex who cheated on him - isla thompson

former fwb - amethyst armenta, open to more.

former toxic on / off relationship - reese monroe

exes, open to more.

hal has a ton of other exes and i don’t feel like listing them tbh all so i’m just gonna assume that y’all know who you are ok

platonic

best friend 5ever - marialena goldstein

confidant - open.

family friends - sullivan ramsey, open to more.

childhood friends - open to more.

close friends - open to more.

friends - mia kauri, chance kauri, theo cannon, angel almeida, open to more.

bickering friends - open to more.

workout buddy - open.

negative

on bad terms - kennedy drakos, jay weston, open to more.

these are just a few plot ideas! i’m most definitely open to other stuff so if you have any ideas please free to share! i think that’s enough from me soooo yeah! mssg me if you wanna plot & as always i’m super excited to write with everyone!

[morningsound15]

they’re bad at parenting (but they try their best)

Root has this annoying habit of nearly getting herself killed on every other job. After her most recent mission, the Machine orders her to take at least a month off, in order to fully recover. Because she’s a wandering vagrant on the best of days and a borderline-psychotic flake on the worst, she doesn’t exactly have very many options for places to crash. Shaw (reluctantly) agrees to let her stay in her apartment. At the very least, she figures, they haven’t seen each other properly in a while and the sex marathon Shaw has been planning for going on a month and a half now is sure to be a good one (once Root is healed enough, that is.)

So imagine her surprise when a precocious fourteen-year-old shows up outside her front door with a suitcase in tow and a curious expression on her face.

**

OR: The one where Gen has to live with Shaw for a few weeks and everyone is uncomfortable about it.

Read they’re bad at parenting but they try their best on AO3

Rating: Teen + Up

Word Count: 7772

There’s a knock on the door. Root pauses where she stands in the bedroom, her fingers stilling on the buttons of her shirt. She quirks her head in the silence that follows, wondering for half a moment if she just imagined the sound. Maybe she’s just hearing things. Not exactly an impossibility, given the fact that she only has one good ear and the other one has the voice of an artificial superintelligence constantly whispering instructions to her.

It’s not exactly common practice for people to be knocking on the front door this early in the morning. Or at all, really. Both of the usual inhabitants of this apartment are legally dead, after all. Officially speaking. So it’s not like they’re in the habit of receiving visitors.

If someone did just knock — and if she hadn’t been imagining things, which seems increasingly likely the more she thinks about it — she wonders who it could possibly be. Root figures it can’t be Harry or John, since they always call her for help with a new number — and they’re not exactly the type to stop by unannounced for a quick morning coffee, either. And it can’t be Lionel, since Shaw would rather cut off her own ear than tell him where she lives. And since She isn’t providing Root with a half-dozen exit strategies out of here, then it can’t be any kind of threat, either.

The knocking sounds again — louder this time, and a little more urgent.

So she hadn’t been imagining it.

It could be Shaw, Root thinks as she makes her way across the empty apartment and towards the door. If she forgot her keys, maybe. But that doesn’t feel like something she would do. And either way, Sameen is more than capable of breaking into her own apartment, if need be.

Root grins as she approaches the door. It’s probably a solicitor, or someone who came to the wrong door looking to call on one of Shaw’s many neighbors. Root runs a hand through her hair, and starts to swing her hips with a little more saunter. No harm in having a little bit of fun and putting on a show for whatever poor unsuspecting sap has had the misfortune of trying their front door. He’s lucky she’s the one around to answer it, and not Sameen. With her, he’ll get a very-pleasant-but-very-uncomfortable interaction; but at least he’ll make it out alive and unharmed. The same can’t always be said for Shaw.

She’s wearing very little, as far as these things go: just one of Sameen’s button-down shirts (so of course it’s inches too short on her), a pair of boy short underwear, and a suggestive smirk. She pulls the door open, her smirk turning more lascivious as she practically purrs, “Sweetie, did you forget your keys ag—” She stops immediately, blinking in bemusement at the figure who greets her.

The teenager looks young, with a wild head of unruly hair and a disgruntled frown on her face. “You’re not Shaw,” she says, bluntly.

Root blinks at her. “I’m… what?” She suddenly recognizes her state of undress and immediately pulls her shirt lower, desperately hoping she can cover at least some of her exposed legs. As much as she enjoys putting on a show for consenting adults, she draws the line at standing half-naked in front of minors.

The girl is eyeing her warily. “Who are you?” she asks suspiciously.

“I’m…” Root tries again, spluttering a little and feeling off-balance. “Who are you?”

The girl looks like she isn’t about to answer. “Where’s Shaw?” she asks instead.

Root glances up and down the hall, like maybe if she looks long enough someone will jump out from around the corner and yell: Surprise, we got you! But there’s no one around. “She’s not…” she glances down at the girl again— “here, right now.”

The girl huffs. “Fine,” she says, elbowing past Root, a duffle bag slung over her shoulder, dragging a suitcase that’s at least as big as she is through the door behind her. “I can wait.”

Root’s never had much going for her in the way of physical strength and muscle, but she’s still a little rattled by the fact that this literal child is able to push past her without even a second thought. Although, that could also be attributed to how the girl surprised her, and caught her off-guard. Or the fact that she has two cracked ribs, a bum knee, and muscles in her legs that feel like they’re screaming at her, even as she stands still.

Root scrambles after the girl as best she can. “Wait, Kid, hold on,” she tries to say, but the girl doesn’t listen to her. Instead she dumps her bags unceremoniously outside the kitchen and stomps over to the couch. “Who are you?” Root tries again, following after her.

“What are you doing here? And how do you know Shaw?”

The girl shrugs and grabs an apple from the bowl of fruit in the middle of the dining room table (a touch of detail Root had added to the apartment — just to be antagonistic, really, because she knows how much Shaw hates things that don’t have a purpose — but she thinks Sameen might secretly like the decorative flair to that little bowl because someone keeps replenishing its fruit supply and it sure as hell isn’t Root). She flops down onto the couch and kicks her feet up onto the table, her legs crossed at the ankle. “It’s winter break,” she says, taking a large bite from the fruit in her hand. “I appreciate that Mr. Finch is paying for me to go to school, but I got tired of sitting around in that stupid prison while everyone else got to go home for Christmas. And since Mr. Finch is my legal guardian and none of the addresses he has listed on file are actually real, I came here.” She glares at Root and says, defensively, “Shaw said I could come by if I ever needed anything.”

“Um… Okay,” Root says slowly, shaking her head and trying to wrap her mind around all of the information that had just been presented to her. The Machine, for Her part, is being annoyingly silent on the matter. (It feels weird, to not know things.) “I still don’t know who you are. And usually I know everything about everyone. I have a… friend who likes to give me information. But She’s not telling me anything about you.”

The girl squints at her. “Are you a crazy person?” she asks bluntly. “Do you hear voices? Can I record them to see if I can hear them, too?”

“Yes, yes, and no. And I’m not answering any more questions until you tell me who you are.”

“Fine.” The girl crosses her arms over her chest. “I can wait.”

.

.

.

The second Shaw’s key slips into the lock of her front door, it’s pulled open and away from her. She brings her head up quickly in surprise, but immediately glowers at the sight that greets her.

She knew it was a mistake, allowing Root to spend her recovery time with her, in her apartment. What had she even been thinking when she offered? That Root didn’t have a full-time place of her own in which to spend a few weeks of recovery? That without Shaw forcing her to rest she would be off on the next plane to who-the-fuck-knows-where on another life-or-death suicide mission for the Machine? That Root needed a medical professional on-hand 24/7 to make sure she didn’t do something stupid, like tear her stitches or get herself shot again? (Yes. Yes, to all of the above.) If she had known that this was how it was going to be, though…

This whole business with Samaritan has really made her soft. The Shaw of a few years ago — Newly Self-Diagnosed Axis II Personality Disorder Shaw, ISA Government Operative Shaw, U.S. Marine Shaw — would never have pulled this kind of sentimental shit. And she probably would have been a lot more well-rested. As fun as Root can be, she has this exhausting habit of being right up in Shaw’s personal space every minute of every goddamn day.

She’ll never have any peace and quiet for as long as she lives, at this rate.

“Sameen,” Root says, pulling the door open to greet her, “so glad you’re home.” She has a sweet smile on her face — which Shaw knows can only mean trouble. “We have a visitor.”

“What are you talking about, Root?” Shaw asks gruffly, side-stepping the other woman and making her way into her own apartment. All she wants is a nice long shower after the work-out she just had, but Root seems hell-bent on ruining that for her. (She knew it was a mistake to invite her to stay.) “Who—?” Shaw pauses as she catches sight of the girl perched awkwardly on her couch. “Gen?” she asks quickly, her hostile demeanor immediately (unconsciously) melting. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh good, you do know her,” Root says from somewhere near the kitchen. “I was worried.”

Shaw rolls her eyes. “She’s a kid, Root. What did you have to worry about? That you couldn’t take her in a fight?”

“It’s not about could, Sweetie; it’s about would.”

Gen huffs from her spot on the couch and crosses her arms tightly over her chest. “Your girlfriend is weird, Shaw.”

Shaw shakes her head. “Not my girlfriend.”

“I’m her wife,” Root supplies, unhelpfully.

Shaw growls. “She is not my wife.”

“Domestic partner.”

“No.”

“Common-law married.”

“No, Root. Stop it.”

“Well,” Gen cuts in from the other side of the room, “if she isn’t your girlfriend, then why does she live here?”

“She’s…” Shaw shoots Root an unhappy glare, “more like a roommate. Or an outdoor cat you let inside when it rains.”

“She was naked when I got here.”

Shaw whips her head around, her glare only intensifying. Root holds up her hands in self-defense. “Not naked. Just not wearing pants. It’s different.”

“Root,” Shaw hisses.

“In my defense, I didn’t know you were babysitting this week.”

“I’m not a baby,” Gen supplies unhappily. “I’m just too young to rent a hotel room. This was my next-best option.”

“Wait, I’m sorry,” Shaw holds up a hand, shaking her head. Her eyes narrow at the guilty look that’s slowly taking over Gen’s face. “Your next-best option for what, exactly?”

Gen swallows a little thickly, and Shaw feels a little glimmer of triumph at her undeniable ability to intimidate without even breaking a sweat. That triumph, however, lasts only up until Gen’s next slow, timid sentence: “For… winter break?”

.

.

.

Shaw stands regarding the young girl, a contemplative frown on her face. She taps a finger against her lips with an even rhythm as she thinks.

It’s been quiet in the apartment for a good four minutes, now. Root, loitering in the kitchen with a freshly brewed cup of coffee in her hands, watches the silent stand-off taking place in front of her with barely-contained amusement.

“Okay,” Shaw finally says, and Gen perks up on the couch, straightening in her seat. “Okay, you can stay here.” At the bright smile that immediately bursts onto the girl’s face, Shaw holds up a finger, stilling her instantly. “But it’s only for your winter break, you got that? No longer. And you can’t use me as an excuse to ditch school, anymore. Not without telling me first. Deal?”

Gen nods enthusiastically. “Deal!”

Shaw nods curtly. “Good.” Gen moves to get up from the couch, her hand reaching to grab the bags deposited at her feet, but Shaw holds out a hand to stop her. “Not so fast, Kid. We need ground rules.”

Gen pulls a face. “I’m not a kid, Shaw.”

“If you can’t rent your own hotel room, you’re a kid, Kid.”

Gen pouts and sinks back onto the couch she had only just vacated. “I’m still not a kid,” she mutters despondently.

Shaw glances around the apartment for a few seconds, her eyes flicking over to where Root lounges lazily against the kitchen counter. Her jaw clenches, like she’s fighting the urge to roll her eyes, and Root’s smile only widens. She waggles her fingers just a little bit, and the huff of air that Shaw lets out through her nose is more than a little pointed.

“Okay,” Shaw says without preamble, turning her attention back to the girl in front of her. “Rule number one: no guns. No guns, no knives, no grenades, no throwing stars… no weapons of any kind. If you see any around here, you do not touch them. Understood?”

Gen sighs dramatically, but acquiesces, “Fine.”

“Rule number two: no recording equipment inside the apartment.” From her spot in the kitchen, Root clears her throat loudly. Shaw’s jaw clenches again, and she growls slightly. When she speaks, her voice is low and murderous, and she doesn’t even dare turn her attention to Root, lest she end up doing something violent that she’s sure to regret. “I told you to get rid of that stuff, Root.”

“She needs eyes and ears at all times, Sameen. I don’t make the rules.”

Shaw mutters heatedly under her breath for a few more moments before she stops and inhales deeply. “Okay. Fine. Rule number two: no new recording equipment inside the apartment. And I mean that, Kid. No cameras, no tape recorders, nothing.”

“Shaw,” Gen moans slightly, but Shaw shakes her head.

“Non-negotiable. Can’t risk it. No recording.”

“Fine.”

“Good. Okay, rule number three: no going into our—” She pauses, and if Root believed it was at all possible, she might have thought Shaw was blushing. “No going into my bedroom,” she corrects quickly. “That one’s for your own good; believe me.”

“Okay,” Gen nods. “No weapons, no recording, no bedroom. That all?”

“Um…” Shaw blinks, looking suddenly at a loss for words. “I… guess?”

“No drugs, no alcohol,” Root calls from the kitchen.

Shaw nods along with her. “Yes. Right. No drugs, no alcohol.”

“That one’s easy. I’m fourteen. And not an idiot.”

“Idiot or not, you still have to agree to all the rules. Do you agree?” Gen nods once. “Nope, need a verbal confirmation. Do you agree to all the rules?”

“Yes, I agree.”

“Alright, then.” She nods curtly. “There’s a spare bedroom that way,” she says, pointing down the hall. “Let me know if you need—” she pauses and frowns, like her own hesitance is a particular annoyance— “food, or… something.”

Gen pulls a face at her even as she stands from the couch, shouldering her bag. “I’ve been cooking for myself since I was nine, Shaw. I think I’ll be fine.”

As she disappears into the spare bedroom at the end of the hall, Root sidles up behind Shaw and says, “I think that went well.” Shaw mumbles something noncommittally and turns to stalk back into their — her, her mind corrects — bedroom. “Should I tell her we only have grenades in our fridge, or should you?” Root calls out to her.

Shaw slams the door behind her.

.

.

.

She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She absolutely, 100%, does not know what the hell she’s doing.

What was she thinking, agreeing to let Gen stay with her for two weeks? How psychotic was that? Root’s one thing. She’s almost a teenager herself, in some ways: computer-obsessed, moody, and prone to sleeping all through the morning, with a tendency to eat Shaw damn near out of house and home. But for all of her childish tendencies, at least Root can fucking drive. At least she can make grocery runs, can communicate with an all-powerful super computer that likely (probably) wants to keep her alive. Gen is… another matter entirely. Root, at least, is a grown ass woman. She can come and go as she pleases; she knows how to shoot and fight; she can buy her own booze; Shaw doesn’t have to worry about her burning down the apartment if she wants to make some eggs.

But Gen…

She doesn’t act like a teenager. Not the way she should. Not the way Shaw thinks teenagers are supposed to act, anyway. For one thing, she’s smart. Probably too smart to be anything but trouble. And she doesn’t talk the way teenagers talk. She’s pretty consistently glued to her cellphone, but the one time Shaw manages to catch a peek at what she’s looking at, she sees that it’s not a social media app (she’s pretty clueless in the ways of the internet but she’s not that clueless) but rather some weird Russian-language news site. Probably on the Dark Web, if Shaw knows anything about precocious, too-smart-for-their-own-good teenagers (which, having at one point been one herself, and currently almost-cohabitating with another, she thinks she has some authority on the matter). Shaw can’t forget that the first time they met, it was because she had to save Gen from mobsters who were trying to kill her for spying on them. (She also can’t forget that Gen, at 10 years-old, was able to spot her on her tail — and the list of people who hold that accolade is, generously speaking, infinitesimal.)

Shaw doesn’t exactly trust her. (Then again, she doesn’t exactly trust anybody.) She’s a teenager; that’s more than enough to make Shaw suspicious. But after a few hours of carefully (and suspiciously) watching her, Shaw comes to the conclusion that, maybe, Gen isn’t going to be the handful she anticipated. She’s quiet, and spends most of the afternoon curled on the couch with her head buried in a book. Shaw keeps a close eye on her just to make sure she isn’t snooping into anything she shouldn’t be snooping into, but Gen truly looks like she couldn’t care less that there’s an arsenal of weaponry hidden in her general vicinity.

Gen goes to sleep about about 11 that night (is that too late for a teenager? Shaw has no idea, but doesn’t really care enough to question it), and Shaw goes to sleep thinking that… well, maybe the next few weeks aren’t going to be as bad as she thought.

She probably has to get a Christmas tree now, though.

Maybe she’ll just make Root do it.

.

.

.

On the very first morning, Shaw wakes up to an empty apartment. This is usually the kind of thing that would fill her with… not joy, exactly — she doesn’t really do joy — but it would usually make her relaxed. Not angry, at least (her usual default state-of-being). Which is about as close to ‘joy’ as she ever gets (except for: drinking a good Scotch; eating a great steak; having better-than-average sex; seeing Bear after a long time away from him; and, though she would never admit it out loud, whenever Root comes back from a mission alive and mostly-well).

And the thing is, waking up to an empty apartment is nice. It’s very nice. She’s able to get in her morning strength training, make a ton of bacon and eggs and share none of them with anyone else, and drink her coffee in peace.

At least, until Finch knocks on her door.

“Miss Shaw?” he calls out from her hallway, and Shaw growls under her breath. He should know better than to announce her name like that where so many people could hear it. Her neighbors might think it’s okay to talk to her, if they know her name.

She rips the door open with a glower prominent on her face. “Finch.” She holds the door open for him, gesturing sharply with her head.

He walks inside slowly, his limp pronounced. “I’m sorry to call on you so early, Miss Shaw,” he says, leaning heavily on his cane, “but I received a call from Miss Zhirova’s school this morning. Apparently, she left for her Christmas break, yesterday, and they wanted to make sure she arrived safely.” He adjusts his glasses quickly. “I’m afraid that something may be amiss, and knowing your relationship with Miss Zhirova—”

“It’s alright, Finch,” she cuts him off. “Gen’s here.”

He blinks at her, his eyes owlish behind his glasses. “She what?”

“She’s here. She’s staying with me for her winter break. She was tired of school and didn’t have your address, so… she came here.” She shrugs. “No big deal. I have a spare room.”

“But… but…” Harold splutters for a moment. “She’s here?”

Shaw nods. “Yes. Well, not right now; she wasn’t here when I woke up. But she’s staying—”

“Are you saying you don’t know where she is?” His voice sounds a little too high, his lips pulled tight.

Shaw frowns. “I guess not. Why?”

“You took on the role of her guardian, Miss Shaw! You cannot just let a child wander around the-the streets of New York City unaccompanied! What if she encounters one of her former attackers? What if she’s in trouble?”

“She’s fourteen, Finch. I really don’t think she can get into that much trouble.”

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she knows they’re bullshit. This is a kid who almost got herself killed by the Russian mob when she was barely 10 years-old. Of course she’ll find some way to get herself into trouble.

Finch is shaking his head at her like he’s disappointed in her, and somehow that makes it all worse.

“Just…” she makes a sound like she wants to argue, but finally just huffs in annoyance. “Fine,” she grumbles. “I’ll get my coat.”

Finch nods. “You do that. I’ll call Mr. Reese and Detective Fusco and see if they’ve had any unusual reports.” Shaw sighs, already bemoaning the loss of her quiet morning alone. But she grabs her jacket from its place on the wall and pulls one of her spare guns out from under the table. “We should start at her old apartment,” Finch says from his spot by the door, leaning heavily on his cane, “she might have gone there. I’ll send Mr. Reese—” But just then the door is pushed open, and Gen and Root come tumbling inside. A little wind-ruffled and red from the cold air, but otherwise completely unharmed.

They’re actually laughing together, which is almost as disturbing as one of them coming back injured. Root looks up when she notices Finch by the door, and she immediately brightens. “Harry!” she exclaims. “This is a surprise. Did you come by for breakfast?”

Finch doesn’t say anything. Root turns her attention to Shaw, her brow quirked in question, but she’s only met with a glare.

“Gen, go to your room.”

“What?!” Gen splutters. “But Shaw, I didn’t do anything wrong! I didn’t go out on my own, I didn’t get into trouble. I was with Root the whole time!”

“You also left school without telling Finch. So room. Now.” When Gen doesn’t move for a few more seconds, Shaw points down the hallway. Her face is set in stone, to prove that she means business.

Gen huffs but finally turns on her heel and stomps away.

“I’m glad you’re safe, Miss Zhirova,” Finch calls down the hall after her. Gen doesn’t turn around or answer back, which is pretty much to be expected. Her door slams shut, and Finch winces at the resulting sound and the way it seems to shake the very walls.

Shaw has turned her focus on Root. She stands with her arms crossed over her chest, glaring. To the untrained eye, it would appear that her disapproval has no effect on Root, who continues to shed her many layers of winter wear by the door without flinching. But Shaw knows how to read Root better than just about anyone. She can see the way Root is moving stiffly, the way her ears are pulled back like she’s listening intently. Shaw knows she’s rattled. Good, Shaw thinks. Serves her right.

Finch, too, has seemed to clue-in to the tension simmering between them. He clears his throat, though neither woman turns to acknowledge him. “Well, I… suppose I’d better be off. My deepest apologies for interrupting your morning, Miss Shaw. I see now that everything is alright. Do let me know if you would like to send Miss Zhirova over to me, for the holiday. I’d be more than willing to place her in one of our safe houses, for—”

Shaw cuts him off abruptly. “She’s fine here.”

Finch nods. “Very well. Enjoy your time off. If I receive any new numbers, I will let you know.” He disappears out the door without another word. Neither woman turns to watch him leave.

Shaw takes a deep, steadying breath before she turns on Root. Her words, when she speaks, come out low, as an almost-growl. “What the hell were you thinking, Root?”

“Relax, Sweetie,” Root says easily as she makes her way into the kitchen. “I was just taking Gen out for the morning. Showing her around. Getting to know her a bit.”

Shaw squints at her. There’s something off about Root, the way she’s looking at Shaw with that air of pure innocence. Shaw’s eyes scan her body, looking for any signs of— there. She’s favoring her ribs, like she put unnecessary strain on them at some point this morning. And her left arm looks stiff, like she went shooting without a proper warm-up. Shaw glowers. “Did you take her to a shooting range?”

Something in Root’s eye twinkles mischievously. “A lady never tells.”

“Root,” Shaw growls in warning, “we talked about this. I said no guns.”

“Technically you said no guns in the house. We weren’t in the house. It was perfectly legal.”

If Root’s trying to get back in her good graces by proving she’s clever enough to find a loophole in Shaw’s very practical, very simple rules, she’s chosen entirely the wrong tactic. Shaw doesn’t like being out-smarted. But, not wanting to admit that she’s disgruntled by the disobedience (or maybe the fact that they didn’t invite her to the shooting range with them, despite the fact that Root knows how much she loves a shooting range), Shaw settles on the next best route: guilt. “I don’t want her getting exposed to this, Root,” she says quietly, hoping her voice won’t carry down the hall. “It’s… she’s gonna start thinking she can handle herself in situations she shouldn’t be in. She’s already too smart for her own good. We don’t need to teach her how to kill people, too.”

“I thought you liked killing people?”

Shaw clenches her teeth. “I don’t kill people anymore. You know that.”

Root rolls her eyes. “Fine. Shooting them, then.”

And yeah, okay, fair. Shaw does love to shoot people. But even she’s not so out of touch that she doesn’t understand the fact that exposing children to firearms is almost never a good idea. See: everyone on goddamn Team Machine.

But this is probably an aspect of their argument that they don’t need to continue. Shaw already knows she’s won the is-it-morally-okay-to-take-a-teenager-to-shoot-guns argument (though Root would never admit defeat) because Root lied to her about going. She kept it a secret. And she only does that when she thinks it’s a matter of national security, or when she feels guilty about something.

But it doesn’t make sense why Root would take Gen anywhere. In the very minimal interactions they had yesterday, they didn’t seem to particularly get along. Not sworn enemies or anything, but also not exactly the kind of bosom buddies who wanted to take day trips together. “Why did you even take her out, today?” Shaw asks, because she can’t come up with any even moderately-decent explanation in her own head. The only thing she can figure is that, whatever Root’s intentions with Gen, they almost certainly aren’t good. “What’s your angle here?”

Root scoffs and leans her back against the counter. “What, I can’t spend time with kids, now? I have to have an angle?”

Shaw looks unimpressed. “You hate kids.”

“I hate dumb kids. She’s not dumb.”

“Root,” Shaw says again, flatly. “Seriously. Why.”

Root pauses for a moment, and for that moment Shaw thinks she’s going to dodge the question again. Come up with some lame excuse, or try to change the subject, or flirt and hope that Shaw will change her mind about wanting to know the answer. Hell, she’s half-expecting Root to come onto her, just as a distraction, which is partly why she’s so surprised when she answers truthfully. “I didn’t know about her,” Root says with a shrug.

Shaw frowns. “What?” Of all the answers she had been anticipating (and there had been more than a few), this was definitely not one of them.

“I didn’t know about her. You care about maybe three people in the entire world. Four if you count Bear. Five if you count Lionel.”

“I don’t count Fusco.”

“Right, so… four people. In the entire world. At least that’s what I thought. But… you care about her. Enough where she knows your phone number and your address and feels like she can stop by without telling you first. And she cares about you, too. Enough to visit, at least. Enough to think about you when she needs help. And I didn’t know about her.”

Shaw feels almost… guilty is the wrong word. She doesn’t really do guilt. But she feels something. Something in her stomach that rolls a little uncomfortably, a little uncertainly. She doesn’t like it. It also, absurdly, makes her want to defend herself. “I met her before I knew you.”

Root nods. “I know. But you still never told me about her.”

Shaw huffs, the defensiveness still not wavering. “We don’t generally do a lot of talking, Root. I don’t… share things. You know that.”

Root smiles, but there’s something a little off about it; something maybe a little sad. “Right. I know.” But her voice makes it sound like she doesn’t know, not really; her voice makes it sound like Shaw’s said something wrong, like she’s done something wrong, like she’s pushed against some part of Root she didn’t know was fragile, and now she’s broken it.

Shaw’s frown deepens. “Root…” she starts to say, but Root waves her off and disappears into her — their, her mind weakly supplies — bedroom.

Shaw stares at the closed door and feels, suddenly, very lost. She doesn’t like it.

.

.

.

It’s awkward for about a day. That’s how long Gen continues to sulk in her room, only coming out when she needs food of when she wants to drag her feet around the apartment, trying to make Shaw feel bad for her behavior. It doesn’t work, and she realizes that pretty early on, but still she tries.

Shaw gets Thai takeout as a sort of peace-offering. It’s from Root’s favorite place, but she pretends like that isn’t a factor when she chooses it.

The smell of noodles and peanut sauce eventually draws Gen out of her room, and by the time they finish their meal everyone is in slightly-better spirits. Shaw gets sauce all down her chin and Root even laughs and uses her own napkin to wipe it off, and Shaw feels relieved at the action, though she tries not to dwell on why.

And when they go to sleep that night, Root turns on her side so her back is facing Shaw, but when Shaw kicks her feet out to brush the back of Root’s legs (she doesn’t do cuddling, alright? but a little physical contact with Root during the night does do a lot to settle the nerves she doesn’t admit to having), Root doesn’t pull away from her.

So. A win, she thinks.

.

.

.

Shaw puts Root firmly on bed-rest the next day. (“Bed-rest, Sameen?” she asks with a teasing smirk. “If you wanted to spend the day in bed with me, you just had to ask.” Shaw pointedly ignores her.) After her shooting excursion (so stupid, so foolish, and why doesn’t Root ever think about the fact that she’s injured and shouldn’t do these things?) she wound up with a few torn stitches that Shaw had to sew up last night. And her ribs are hurting her, too, and he knee is still fucked up, no matter what she tries to say.

So. Bed-rest.

The only thing is, that leaves Shaw and Gen alone in the apartment together for most of the day. And she’s a good kid, generally speaking. She’s quiet when Shaw wants to be quiet, for the most part.

But she’s observant, and too smart for her own good. So, sometimes, she asks questions Shaw doesn’t particularly want to answer.

Like now, for instance.

“Shaw?”

“Yeah, Kid?”

“Is Root your girlfriend?”

The no is on the tip of her tongue, ready to slip out, when something makes her pause. She stops for a moment, tilts her head to the side, and seriously considers her words. “She’s…” She pauses. “It’s complicated.”

“How come?” Gen asks, barely looking up from her reading. Shaw’s not sure if she actually isn’t interested in their conversation or if she’s just putting on a show to make Shaw more comfortable expressing herself. Knowing Gen, it’s probably the latter. The thought almost makes Shaw want to smile.

But she doesn’t smile. Instead, she says, “I don’t really do relationships. I’m not good with feelings.”

“But Root lives with you.” She says it like it’s simple, but it doesn’t feel simple.

“She’s not around a lot, Gen,” Shaw says, her voice remarkably quiet. Which is odd, because she doesn’t really do quiet. Not unless it’s of the quietly fierce, intimidating an enemy through unexpected and unwavering composure variety. “Not enough to be living with me. She… travels, a lot.”

“Doing super secret spy stuff?”

Shaw, in spite of herself, smiles a little. “Something like that.”

“But when she’s here, you live together? And you are together? And you don’t date other people?”

“In our line of work, it’s sort of tricky to meet people who aren’t either about to kill or about to be killed.”

“But even if you could meet other people,” Gen says, finally looking up from her book, as if she’s almost desperate for Shaw to stop beating around the damn bush and actually answer her, already, “if you could see other people… would you want to?”

“You sure do ask a lot of questions; you know that?”

Gen smiles. “My teachers call me precocious.” Shaw hums, but otherwise doesn’t answer. Gen sighs heavily and keeps prodding. The kid definitely doesn’t know when to quit. “So, do you love her?” she asks loudly (a little too loudly for Shaw’s liking), and Shaw winces.

“I told you, Kid,” she says as she shakes her head, “I don’t really do feelings.”

“But?”

Shaw sighs. Gen’s not going to give up on this, and Shaw knows it. Might as well give her something to shut her up. (And if what she says is more than a little truthful, then… well, it’s not like Shaw is really in the habit of lying to kids, anyway.) “But…” she finally says, slowly “I suppose… Root’s not too bad.”

Gen grins up at her. “Good,” she says.

Shaw can’t help but feel like she’s just missed something.

.

.

.

She figures out what she missed the next day.

“I found this under our bedroom door, today,” Root says as she emerges from the bathroom, toweling her hair dry. She’s holding something out in her hand. Shaw is so curious, so confused about what it is Root might be trying to show her, that she doesn’t correct her on the use of ‘our’ instead of ‘your’. Two months ago, that pronoun choice would have made her clench her jaw so tightly her teeth would have been in danger of shattering. As it is, now she barely even notices it.

“What is that?” Shaw asks, taking a step forward. She’s still dressed in her sweats, the ones she likes to sleep in, because it’s still pretty early in the morning; too early for Root to be finding mysterious things in their bedroom, certainly. Her bare feet pad along the hardwood floors as she finally gets close enough to see what Root’s holding. In Root’s outstretched palm sits a tape; a small one, the kind that fits inside a portable tape recorder. Shaw takes one look at it and rolls her eyes. “I told her no recording in the apartment. What did she do, catch us having sex?”

Root chuckles and shakes her head. “No. Nothing like that.”

“Then why should I care about it?”

“It’s a recording of one of your conversations. The one where you talk about me.”

Shaw freezes momentarily. She opens and closes her mouth a few times before clenching her hands into fists. “I knew she was up to no good.” She growls and stomps toward their bedroom door, already on a tear, ready to give Gen a piece of her mind and remind her about the fact that she’s only allowed to stay here because Shaw had an unlikely and ill-advised moment of mercy. “I swear to God, that kid is dead fucking mea—”

“Did you mean it?”

Shaw stops, her hand already outstretched on the doorknob. “Did I mean what?”

“What you said about me?”

“Wh—” The question is unexpected, and it pulls her up short. She pauses with her arm out for a few more moments before she lets it fall limply back to her side. She runs the conversation over in her head, tries to think if she said anything during it that might have been untrue (or that she might not want Root knowing), but she already knows the answer. She’s just buying herself some time. Finally, she takes a breath and answers. “I… yeah, Root. I guess I meant it.”

Root swallows thickly, and some emotion Shaw can’t quite recognize slips over her eyes. Shaw shifts where she stands, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. “That’s…” Root starts to say, but she trails off, her voice thick with something unnamed.

Shaw shifts again. “I just said you weren’t bad, Root. No need to cry about it.”

Root laughs and shakes her head. Her eyes are still wet, her throat still a little clogged. “Right. My mistake.”

Shaw frowns and shifts on her feet and feels… something. Nothing she recognizes, but nothing necessarily bad. “You done?” she asks gruffly, for something to do. “I need to eat something.”

Root gestures to their door, her hand moving in a big sweeping motion that makes Shaw want to roll her eyes. “After you, Sweetie.”

.

.

.

In the end, Shaw buys a stupid Christmas tree. Her abhorrence of plants in her apartment is firm and unwavering, and she absolutely will not budge on that. But after a few days of the combined pouts/puppy dog eyes courtesy of Root and Gen (who Root must be teaching, because Shaw’s never known the girl to be the kind to beg before now), Shaw figures she can bend the rules just this once. So, she buys the dumb tree. But she absolutely refuses to decorate it.

She comes home from a run one day and finds it strung up with lights and strings of popcorn. Root and Gen both adamantly deny that they were the ones to decorate it, but Shaw catches Root winking at Gen later that night, when Shaw kicks her feet up onto the coffee table and starts to read by the light of the tree (it’s kind of nice in a shitty, kitschy, atmospheric sort of way; so sue her), so she’s pretty sure they’re in cahoots.

.

.

.

Christmas morning rolls around and Shaw, of course, finds herself completely out-matched.

Root gets Gen a new computer, one of those fancy PCs that Root likes to use for gaming (and hacking), the kind that have insane memory cores and fucking out-of-control processing power.

Shaw gets her a hat.

After they’ve made breakfast and cleared away the dirty dishes, after Gen has already disappeared into her bedroom to play with her new computer (and probably do something highly illegal, like try to hack into the CIA, or something), Shaw goes digging in her closet for the other gift she purchased a few days before.

When she gets back into the kitchen she shoves it into Root’s hands unceremoniously. It’s not even giftwrapped, really. There’s just a bow on the top of the box. And she didn’t even do that, the store did, so… whatever. It’s not a big deal, or anything.

Root looks up at her in surprise. Shaw refuses to look at her, instead making herself busy with loading up the dishwasher.

She hears Root pull the box open behind her. (She’s moving slowly, a little too slowly, and it’s not like there’s any wrapping paper standing in her way, or anything, so what does she think she’s doing? Doesn’t she know that it’s making Shaw feel nervous and uncomfortable, setting her teeth on edge?) There’s the sound of crinkling tissue paper, and then a little quiet inhale of breath, and Shaw feels something between her heart and her stomach clench tightly. “Sameen…” Root says in that soft, quiet way of hers. That way she gets when she’s brimming with some emotion that Shaw can’t understand nor fathom. That way she gets when she’s about to say something that’s going to make Shaw supremely uncomfortable.

“Whatever,” Shaw grumbles, sparing the quickest of glances over her shoulder. “I know your hands get cold.”

Root looks at her, all wide, doe-eyes and quivering lip, and Shaw almost wants to yank the box back from her, almost wants to pull it away and say, No, sorry, you missed your chance; you fucked it up, so now you get nothing.

But Root doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t start crying, or confessing some deep-seated emotions. She just leans over and kisses Shaw on the mouth, quick and sure and nowhere near the intense, bruising force that she usually likes to kiss Shaw with.

“Thank you,” she says when she pulls away. “I needed new gloves.”

And if there’s something like pride in Shaw’s chest, something like satisfaction… well. It is Christmas, after all. She’s bound to be in a better mood on Christmas.

.

.

.

When the two weeks draw to a close, on the second day of the New Year, Shaw is almost sorry to see Gen go. (Almost; key word there is almost.)

In the end, it wasn’t all that terrible to have her there. It was maybe even kind of nice, sometimes. Their dinners were a lot livelier. And when she finally did manage to hack Amazon’s website and screw up all of the deliveries for a day, that had been pretty entertaining.

But now, it’s time for Gen to go back to school. And Shaw hadn’t particularly liked having a kid around, hadn’t particularly liked having to watch how often she cursed, or where she stashed her weapons. She hadn’t exactly liked that she and Root had to keep their fucking contained to their bedroom, at night. She hadn’t loved the fact that she had to keep reminding Root to keep quiet, to keep her voice down while Shaw was three fingers deep inside her, lest she wake the kid (but watching Root struggle to keep her noises under control had been a little satisfying, gratifying in its own way). Having another mouth to feed and a minor she was technically responsible for hadn’t exactly been how she planned to spend her Christmas.

But it really hadn’t been so bad.

Shaw thinks she might even almost miss her.

Now, they’re standing by the front door, Gen’s suitcase packed and her backpack slung over her shoulder. Shaw’s called a car for her, some private, discreet service — that cost absolutely way too much — to drive her back to school. The driver should be pulling up any minute, now. Which is why she and Gen are loitering in the entranceway, awkwardly stumbling through a goodbye.

“Well,” Shaw says as she rubs her hands against her legs, “uh… don’t get into too much trouble, alright?” she ventures, which is about as close to admitting she cares as she ever gets.

Gen seems to understand that. She’s always just sort of innately understood Shaw in a way so few people do. “Don’t kill Root if she annoys you too much,” she shoots back with a grin.

Shaw has to chuckle. “No promises.”

“Well, me either, then.”

“Alright. How about I agree not to kill Root, and you agree to stay out of trouble with any and all government entities, domestic or foreign.” At the look Gen shoots her, Shaw rolls her eyes. “At least until you’re eighteen,” she acquiesces. Shaw holds out her hand. “Deal?”

Gen cocks her head, like she’s seriously considering the bargain. “Alright,” she finally says, gripping Shaw’s hand tightly with her own. The kid has a good handshake. Shaw is pleased by that. “It’s a deal.”

Shaw’s phone buzzes with a text, indicating that the driver is outside their building, and Shaw looks at Gen one more time. “Well… bye, then,” she says lamely.

“Bye, Shaw. Bye, Root!” she calls into the kitchen.

Root comes striding out. “Bye, Gen. Stay safe. Get good grades. And email me if you ever have any questions about…” she glances at Shaw before whispering, conspiratorially, with a mischievous wink, “you-know-what.”

Gen laughs and steps forward, pulling Root into a brief but tight hug that seems to surprise her as much as it surprises Shaw. “Thanks for Christmas,” she says when she pulls back. “I’ll call you when I’m back at school.” And with one last wave, she’s out the door.

“How come you got a hug?” Shaw grumbles when the door closes behind her.

“Aw, Sweetie,” Root coos as she walks past. She presses a wet, sloppy kiss to Shaw’s cheek, something Shaw should object to, something she should want to dodge away from, or glower in response to. But, if anything, she leans into the kiss. Which is not something she should do. Like, at all. God, maybe she is getting too soft. Maybe this has all been— “You can hug me anytime you like,” Root purrs into her ear, and Shaw’s mind goes blank.

Maybe she should stop thinking so much. After all, it’s just Root. And, most of the time, Shaw doesn’t even think that Root is half-bad.

She can handle a few cheek kisses, she thinks.

She’s undergone worse tortures.

[moistwithgender]

Curry watched anime: Summer 2018 edition

I guess I’m doing this now! I only really stuck to my Crunchyroll account, as I don’t have a HIDIVE or Amazon Prime sub, and Netflix doesn’t simulcast (I’ve been learning a lot of new terms over the last few months). I didn’t watch everything that was available to me either because I’m tired and etc you know me by now.

What’s that? You say I was supposed to be reading through old Marvel comics? You’re right, I fucked up. I’m juggling a lot of interests and I’m not the best at it.

I think the only show I watched that was on a non-first season was HeroAca and I’m not even done with it yet (and they immediately announced a 4th season, damn). Still, I’m 12 episodes in and it’s pretty good. Haven’t hit the absurd emotional highs of the first two seasons yet, but there’s time.

I watched the 12 available episodes of Angels of Death, and it looks like they’re gonna do an OVA for the last four episodes. I got in on this late due to low energy but I was intrigued because it’s an adaptation of those RPGMaker horror indie titles that Youtubers get famous off of. That’s almost deliberately aiming for my attention. This show is kinda dumb. Not because it’s edgy, I actually kind of enjoy that somewhat immature aspect, but because every time it decides to delve into western religion (which is a big theme, and all the characters are implied to be either American or English) it gets a bit confusing. I’m not sure if it’s subs being written with limited information (which it shouldn’t be, the game is out in multiple languages), or if the author just has a misinformed idea of how people talk about their faith. Rachel, a fourteen-year-old, talks constantly about her relationship with God, but specifically only in the context of what form of suicide is Breaking The Rules. It’s...interesting, but oddly so, and the episodes that revolve around a villainous priest and a witch trial are so vague and nebulously defined that I had no clue what any of the characters were talking about at any time. It’s also very clear they are staying true to the structure of the game, because there are many segments that feel like they lose their tension (or maybe their logic) when taken out of an interactive context. Anyway, I want to watch those last four episodes so I can form a full perspective, but I suspect that any upcoming twist won’t save what’s been established.

Cells at Work is really fun and I enjoyed the full 13 episodes, though I still find its overwhelming popularity surprising. There are shades of narrative, and plenty of implied worldbuilding (which is often my favorite kind), but this is mostly a series of notebook scribbles of someone’s OCs based entirely on making a comedic metaphor. It makes sure to stay this way, and all drama ultimately can’t last in the face of the the theme of “biology is funny.” On Reddit somewhere, a medical student was going through the show and pointing out all the surprisingly subtle details, like the Red Blood Cell with no sense of direction having a cowlick that represents sickle cells which have more trouble getting through the blood stream. Very clever stuff.

Asobi Asobase and Chio’s School Road are both hilarious and great comedic timing, but I still haven’t finished the latter. The former is about shitty schoolgirls who want an excuse to goof off, and the latter is about...mostly the same concept, but the main girl is a hardcore PC gamer who tries to solve IRL problems with her l33t skills. You have to take both with a grain of salt at times, especially if you’re LGBT. Asobase has some sketchy commentary on trans people, School Road’s lesbian is a pervert, and the shows overall swing with reckless abandon into lewd territory (imo said lewdness is often hilarious but ymmv). I think the main difference for me is that while I find both really entertaining, I’m actually growing fond of the characters in School Road? Meanwhile Asobase is an “Always Sunny” style comedy in that the characters are terrible and you should not imitate them (and also like Sunny you are occasionally made to wonder how self-aware the writers are).

Hanebado is about the most traumatic sport in the world: badminton. Or so you’d think, considering that this show turned the drama faucet on full-blast and then cracked the dial off at the start of the season. It’s extremely good sports drama, and really nicely animated, but there’s a subplot of Extremely Bad Parenting that did not reach an appropriate resolution, or at least wasn’t communicated properly to the viewer, and I saw a lot of people reasonably pissed off about it. 

Planet With was probably the show of the season for me, and was even the reason I got a Crunchy premium account. A (kigurumi) mecha show with shades of Gurren Lagann that hits every shonen trope you can expect (well, except for a tournament arc) and subverts it with nuanced maturity, which is what I came to expect from Satoshi Mizukami’s writing. After reading Spirit Circle, I’m convinced everything he writes is gold. Not enough people watched this show, and it’s a shame, because the nuanced take on the difference between justice and compassion is pretty relevant today. I’m currently rewatching this with my sister and hoping I’ll pick up more than I did the first time through. I expect to watch it a third time in the future.

Show of the Season: Planet With Runner up: Probably Hanebado

Shows I also watched that weren’t from this season: - Ushio & Tora (wasn’t really worth the dedication, unfortunately) - KADO: The Right Answer (Fantastic until the last couple episodes collapsed in on themselves) - Digimon Tri movies 1 & 2 (this is gonna be rough)

Shows I dropped: - Angolmois (it’s not a bad show but I didn’t have the energy)

Shows I missed but still wanna watch: - Overlord S3 (haven’t started this show) - Banana Fish (wanna read this first (also no Prime ;_;)) - FLCL S3? (haven’t watched any of the new stuff yet) - High Score Girl (COME ON NETFLIX) - Revue Starlight (it’s on HIDIVE) - Kakuriyo: Bed & Breakfast for Spirits

Shows I missed and don’t know what to think about: - Grand Blue - Happy Sugar Life - Island - Harukana Receive

[nearlyfandoms-blog]

Artemis and Orion - Chapter One

Summary: Sixth-year Ravenclaw, Valerie Halliwell, had spent the past five years a bright, successful student at Hogwarts. However, when she arrives home from her OWLs to find her younger sister missing, she can’t help but blame herself. Over the course of the summer, she slowly loses herself, becoming a shell of the person she once believed to be her true self. Upon arriving at her sixth year at Hogwarts and cutting herself off from her past self almost entirely she finds solace in a new group of companions, the Marauders. Valerie’s life finally seems to be on the upswing once more. However, Voldemort and his group of Death Eaters grow stronger and stronger, becoming more prevalent in the public eye, lashing out more frequently in more violently. The group once viewed as a powerless fringe company of dark wizards grow more and more powerful everyday and those, like Valerie, who believed themselves to be safe from the threat find themselves in constant danger. As the threat against Valerie and her family escalates in ways no one could foresee she may be forced to abandon the new life she has cultivated for herself for the good of her family and the ones she loves; the ones who love her the most.

A/N: Thank you all so much for reading the first chapter of this series! I hope you all enjoy it and I would love to hear what you all think. To be fair, I’m not the best at writing summaries so I hope that the one above does enough justice to the story. Let me know if anyone has any suggestions for it as the story goes one! Also, just a fair warning, this chapter is very expositional but I tried to make it as interesting as possible. Again, thank you so much for reading! I hope you’re all having a lovely day/night!

- nearlyfandoms

0.1

Silence. That’s what my life has boiled down to, a constant state of silent anxiety. An inescapable dread that my life had become unhinged and was spiralling wildly out of control coupled with the feeling that I was helpless, yet it was my own doing. My fate had little to nothing to do with me. At least, that’s what it had taken a summer to convince myself. My entire vacation away from Hogwarts was spent in a continuous cycle of sleeping, hardly eating, crying, and sitting in introspective silence. Each day continued the same. I had lost contact with all of my friends. Every week their letters arrived and every week a new piece of parchment was accumulating on my bedside table inside of my almost equally as silent and dreary household. I guess that’s how I ended up like this, sitting inside an empty cabin on the Hogwarts express on my way to my dreaded sixth year, the shell of who I used to be.

While boarding the Hogwarts Express for the past five years I had been filled with nothing but excitement. The joy of beginning another new and magical year at the world’s most prestigious school of witchcraft and wizardry was beyond thrilling. I would finally get to see my best friends and Ravenclaw peers after a long summer in my hometown of London. They were the ones who understood me. My mother tried to help me with the feelings of being lost outside of school. However, she lacked the experience to properly understand the sensation of being stranded in a world of people who were unlike me. I had my father, a fellow Ravenclaw, but he worked almost constantly, especially this summer. Who could blame him though? My house was the last place that I wanted to be too.

When I boarded the train home for the summer I had been the picture of Ravenclaw excellence; a bright, happy-go-lucky girl who never got less than excellent marks in any of her classes and spent her free time studying in the company of friends. Only three months later I boarded the same car a shell of the person I once was. I’d seen my closest friends Levi, Delilah and Carson sitting in a compartment with an empty seat I knew was reserved for me. My heart clenched when I saw that seat. It represented the five years of friendship that they were willing to preserve despite the numerous unanswered letters I’d received this summer. I was a terrible person. It was selfish of me but I couldn’t handle speaking to them again after the way I’d treated them over the summer. Instead of joining them in their compartment I walked hurriedly past and found an empty one for myself at the back of the train.

It was cold and I was completely and utterly alone. My mind wandered to thoughts of my beloved younger sister, Cheryl. Our situations were probably comparable. This is where the trouble that lead to my entire family’s downward spiral had begun. I arrived home from my fifth year at Hogwarts, excited as ever to see my family again. My sister was unaware of my father and I’s shared magical capabilities due to the fact that she did not inherit these traits as I had. She believe that I had been attending an all girls preparatory school for advanced studies in marine biology. It was a flimsy excuse, but she never questioned it. Cheryl wrote me frequently. Before she would send them my father would have to catch them as they were being delivered to the mail carrier and deliver them by owl. However, a few weeks before the end of school, in the middle of my O.W.L.s her letters had abruptly stopped. I didn’t pay much mind to it.

It wasn’t until I arrived home near the end of May that I was told she had run away from home a few weeks prior. During a particularly stressful night Cheryl had written me a letter and addressed it to the address she’d been writing to for years. She managed to deliver the letter to the post and received a letter a few days later from the headmaster of the school informing her that there had never been a Valerie Halliwell at her school. After confronting my father he confessed the truth about my whereabouts and his heritage. My mother was furious as she was the one that wished to keep it a secret from Cheryl until she was older. Being a muggle, my mother thought she could understand her better than my father and I. I suspect that Cheryl thought herself responsible for the sudden uptake in nightly arguments between our parents in the weeks before I returned from school. She left late in the night close to the beginning of May, a short note having been left behind as her only explanation. I’d reread her note thousands of time and the crumpled remains were currently stuffed in my pocket. My hands instinctively went to the pocket of my jeans to make sure the yellowed paper was still there. I couldn’t help but pull it out and scan over the scrawled and frantic handwriting one more time.

Dear Mum, Dad, and Val,

I’m sorry I’m such a nuisance and I’m sorry that I’ve done this to our family. Maybe it’d be for the better if I was somewhere else. Please don’t look for me, just know that I’m okay. I love you all.

- Cheryl

Tears pricked at the backs of my eyes. I’d practically memorized the letter by now. If only my parents had told me earlier, I could’ve stopped her. I believe that she is safe, she was clever enough to protect herself in tricky situations. However, she was still only fourteen and nothing would reassure me more than knowing she was at home and safe. I spent every waking moment worried about her wellbeing. It got to the point where I had stopped paying any mind to my own physical and mental wellbeing. My cheeks had hollowed significantly and everything about me was clearly on the decline, inching further and further away from stability with every breath.

I remember arriving home from the train station by cab. My parents sat in the living room in silence, a pointed glare being the only interaction that the two had probably shared for the preceeding hour before I arrived. My mood sunk immediately and my mind flushed with worry. I recall asking them what was the matter in a tentative and shaking voice. When they explained that my  younger sister had been missing for three weeks my sketchbook clattered from my hands and landed with a thud onto the hardwood floors. My mother started to cry. My father disregarded her and instead rose to embrace me. This was the first sign that anything was different between them. Typically, my father would immediately go to comfort my mother, but this time he brushed her off like a piece of dust that clung to his jacket. My mind was too frozen in a state of shock to react in any way. Burly arms embraced my small frame and rubbed my back soothingly but I could only remain still. My life hadn’t been the same since then.

My room, stacked floor to ceiling with my favorite records from muggle bands such as The Beatles and The Rolling Stones now felt foreign and strange. My earth-toned tapestries were falling from their posts above my bed. My bedding sat practically undisturbed as most nights I would fall asleep on the floor, a stack of pictures of Cheryl and I as children in hand. Sleeping in my own bed felt too normal, like I’d be disregarding the current situation and be accepting a life without Cheryl as normal. The girl with curlier hair than mine and innocent green eyes was only two years younger than me but I still felt an almost maternal instinct to protect her. A 14 year old with little to no experience in the real world could not be alone out there. Some parts were dark and twisted and there was so much brewing below the surface that she could never comprehend. A sadistic, elitist dark wizard with abilities the likes of which were previously unseen in the wizarding community was on the rise and he threatened not only the witches and wizards but the entire world. The majority of the population had no idea of the grave threat that they faced.

My family, however, was burdened with the knowledge of this crushing reality and, in an effort to restore some of the normalcy we once possessed, planned a family dinner the night before my return to school. My mother cooked my favorite, chicken alfredo with basil pesto, and bought some of my favorite cookie dough ice cream. However, there was no light-hearted conversation or laughter between bites to brighten the setting. There was only silence and the soft smacking of our chewing. If anything the gathering did nothing but make me feel worse about my situation and myself. I’d never felt so much self-pity in so little time before. I was supposed to be stronger than this. The only conversation that was had during the dinner was my father asking if I was excited for potions class this year. He excitedly told me about how advanced potions had been his favorite class throughout all of his seven years at Hogwarts. His professor had been Professor Seville, a young man not much older than the majority of the sixth years. All the girls fawned over him relentlessly while all the boys wanted to be him. He had been a 7th year prefect when my father was a first year. The amount of detail with which my father was able to recount his first time meeting the older boy was astounding as it’d been close to 35 years. I made this point clear to my father and he jokingly reminded me that he was “38 years old”. A smile stretched across his face, accompanied by the faintest hint of a laugh. The only positive that could be gleaned from that drawn out and borderline torturous hour was that faint glimmer of joy. It was hope; hope that things could return to normal, hope that tomorrow Cheryl would walk through our front door and that our lives would return to the way they were before all of this happened. Deep down all three of us knew that there was no way that was going to happen.

I was pulled suddenly from my reverie by a knock on the compartment door. Through the small glass pane I could see the trolley witch with a smile on her face outside the door. I didn’t have the motivation to get up or the gold to buy anything right now so I simply resigned to giving her a small smile and shaking my head sadly. The older woman gave me a sympathetic smile before turning back to her cart and beginning to holler her offerings of sweets down the corridor to the next compartment. Memories of eating chocolate frogs and comparing which notable wizard we each received with Carson, Delilah and Levi flashed through my mind. A small smile tugged on my lips as I remembered the time Carson accidentally ate a handful of Ernie Bott’s beans and when Levi went to buy some candy but was so startled by the girl he fancied that he dropped all his coins on the floor at her feet. Oh how I wished those could be the times I knew were still to come. Everything was inherently different now and no matter how hard I tried there was nothing I could do to fix it.

An hour or so later the train lurched to a stop. Several voices filled with excitement started to fill the compartments and cars as my peers flooded the halls. There were so many familiar faces that passed by. I couldn’t help but wonder if I would look as different to them as I felt? I waited about five minutes from when the last person passed by to stand and collect my things. The familiar itch of the cotton robes covered my body once more and I found an odd comfort in it, like receiving a hug from a beloved yet distant relative. My footsteps echoed as I hurried out of the train to catch up with the crowd of people getting into carriages to go to the castle. The first carriage I found contained a sixth year Gryffindor that I’d seen passing in the halls a few times. I didn’t know her name but she was pretty with fair skin and reddish hair that fell past her shoulders and framed her slender features. She smiled sweetly at me and gestured for me to join her. It only took a few moments of hesitation before I climbed in next to her. We didn’t say much. We gave each other glances that let me know that she knew who I was but was unable to put a face to the name, just as I was with her. She was the first to get out of the carriage when we got to the castle, which I was grateful for. If I knew she was behind me, watching me get out, I probably would’ve fallen flat on my face. I planned on thanking her before we left but by the time I was securely on the ground she was already running to catch up with a smaller group before us, her hair swishing gracefully behind her.

A breath of stale air that I didn’t know I’d been holding released heavily from my lips as my eyes landed on the castle for the first time in months. I felt like I was going insane. I hadn’t even gone inside yet but already something was different. Was it possible that the castle I’d grown up in could have grown with me too? I told myself this was impossible seeing as I was so small and insignificant in the grander scheme of all the amazing things that were happening within the walls of this school. Some of the finest witches and wizards were growing up here and we didn’t even know it yet. I doubted that I would be among those who fell under the accolade of the finest witches and wizards; perhaps I could have been last year when I was at the top of my class and a favorite of most of my professors, but not this year. Things like that change all the time. Unfortunately, whether we want it to happen or not, so do we.

[veotis-the-jewel-of-the-ocean]

☾♔; 31.07.2018

☾♔; Tasha

☾♔; @veotis-the-jewel-of-the-ocean

☾♔; @serveorburn

☾♔; mod(s): @livesinabluebox​ @sighsethereally​

▬ Set Requirement: Doesn’t matter, just make sure it has your faceclaim. Other than that, make whatever kind of thing you want! Square, rectangle, moodboard, magazine cover, whatever you want my nerds!

♛ Daenir Échon ♛

pronounced: Day-nir

♛ B A S I C⠀S T A T S ♛

▬ Full Name: Daenir Échon

▬ Nickname(s): Dae

▬ Title(s) and/or alias(es): The High Sorcerer

▬ Age: Roughly 27 summers give or take a few years

▬ Gender: Male     

▬ Species: Witch -  Isahor

▬ Occupation: Sorcerer of Veotis {currently} // Assassin/Witch Hunter {formally}

▬ Kingdom of Birth: Calia

▬ Kingdom of Residence: Veotis

♛ P H Y S I C A L⠀A P P E A R A N C E ♛  

▬ Face Claim: Matthew Daddario

▬ Hair: Black

▬ Eyes: Blue-Grey

▬ Height: 6 ft 1

▬ Body: Scared perfection

▬ Any Scars/ Marks?: Several scars over his body, the most prominent of those are the shiny silvery marks around his wrists

▬ Any Tattoos/ Piercings?:

- A black and white dragon entwined over his heart

- Black wings across his back

- Protective runes across his ribs

- An unknown symbol on his upper left thigh

- A magical brand on his neck given to him by his mother

▬ Other: Nothing for now

♛ P E R S O N A L I T Y ♛  

▬ Overview: Headstrong, stubborn and full of snarky wit and dry sarcasm, Daenir prefers to push people away to keep them from getting underneath the shields he has perfected over the years. Whilst generally he looks out for himself and acts like he’s been put out when people gather for his attention, underneath all those layers, Daenir does enjoy helping people. Due to years of abuse at the hands of his father, and the years of his imprisonment thanks to his mother, Daenir is known by the court to suffer moments of mental instability. Despite this, the King and the Advisory Council hold the man in high esteem due to his years of service to the kingdom and former apprenticeship to Master Cedric. Deanir is a warrior and most of the time is known to have unshakable focus in all of his tasks with little to distract him. His singular drive is to do better for the world he lives in even if he can only do it one bit at a time.

▬ Strengths: His stubbornness - but it can also be a weakness; his inability to give up on someone or something; his desire to make things safer for witches

▬ Weaknesses: Hates, and I mean HATES dark places, has to sleep with the fire going due to his imprisonment; extreme awkwardness in social situations; overuse of his powers can result in severe dehydration, often occurs when he spends too long in combat; inability to share his feelings to avoid being called weak

▬ Habits and Quirks: Daenir has been known to spark when he is annoyed or frustrated, likewise he can lose control of his lightning based abilities when in a state of arousal

▬ Likes: Hot places, warm weather, soft music, reading, painting, drawing, being left alone when he needs to be, gardening, tea of all kinds, libraries, old stories, archery, horse riding, knives, outsmarting stupid nobles, Aldir and Ryo, his apprentice and likewise his former teacher, spicy food {the hotter the better}, traveling

▬ Dislikes: Animals that have no point, being called damaged, being coddled - he is NOT a child, foolish religious people, having other’s ideals forced onto him, discrimination, fighting for the sake of fighting, moronic little assholes, people who use position to gain what they want, bullies, being touched without permission, flirting {if you want someone, just fucking tell them stupid}, sweet food, cold weather, snow, parties

▬ Hobbies: Painting, drawing, collecting old tomes, pissing off his parents, building models, gardening, brooding spectacularly, outsmarting stupid nobles

▬ Character Tropes: Dark and Troubled Soul; When Dad Met Mum; Abusive Parent; Byronic Hero; The Quiet One; The Wild Card, Parental Issues; Parental Abandonment; Daddy Issues; Mum Is A Bitch {if that is not a trope is bloody well should be}, Big Brother Instinct; Bi The Way; Archer Archetype; Death Seeker; Jerk With A Heart of Gold; Friend To All Children; Tall, Dark and Handsome; Tall, Dark and Snarky; Badass Bookworm

▬ Additional Information: Will literally lose his shit at being called an animal. Daenir spent twenty years of his life being likened to an animal by his father and his mother, the first one to treat him as an actual human being was Cóven VI

♛ A B I L I T I E S ♛  

▬ Pyrokinesis: an ability often associated with war. Most witches born in Veotis are born with an affinity for either earth, air or water, Daenir’s ability with fire is frightening and at the same time another way to show that he is not a Veotis native.

▬ Electrokinesis: Daenir barely has a grasp on this ability as it is. It is mostly responsible for the tangled, chaotic mess the sorcerer calls hair. He can create, shape and manipulate electricity

▬ Hardening: This skill is inherited from Daenir’s father, whilst he hates the man, the skill itself allows him to turn his body into a living weapon. There is one weak spot but Daenir has only told one person and that is the King

▬ Armed and Unarmed Combat: the skill is self explanatory but Daenir excels more with knives and the bow than he does with a sword  

▬ Able to fumble his way through any conversation with a shy smile and incomprehensible mumbling

♛ F A M I L Y ♛  

Fucked up. There is no other way to describe it. Feredir and Malrin consummated their love to hate your guts relationship after a drunken encounter in the middle of a storm. The Witch Hunter stole away with the child when he was barely a week old and turned him into a weapon that hunted his own kind. Feredir wants his weapon back, Malrin wants her son dead, Daenir just wants to train his apprentice, keep witches safe and stay loyal to the king.

▬ Feredir Havel || 49 || Father || Karl Urban || Witch Hunter

If ego had a proper name it would be Feredir Havel. He is a prideful, manipulative, charismatic man who takes pleasure in twisting others to his cause. He dislikes witches and the freedom they have, often taking great joy in killing or imprisoning them.   

▬ Malrin Échon || 46 || Mother || Charlez Theron || Head of the Witches Guild

Meaning lady crowned with gold. Malrin is the Head of the Witches Guild and seen as the most powerful witch in Veotis second to none until Daenir comes into his full power. She dislikes the fact that he can outdo her in just about anything without trying, the fact he spent the better part of six years actively killing and hunting his own kind might have something to do with it. Malrin cursed her son to hear the dying cries of those he has killed for the rest of his days

▬ Caladwin Échon || Deceased ||  Sister || Kaya Scodelario || Witch

She’s dead, nothing else to say

♛ B I O G R A P H Y ♛

Born the only son of Feredir Havel and Malrin Échon, Daenir spent the first years of his life being nothing but a tool to his father’s endgame. Feredir and Malrin consummated their love to hate your guts relationship after a drunken encounter in the middle of a storm resulting in the birth of Daenir a month earlier than normal. When he was barely a week old, Fereldir had his hunters kidnap his son and bring the baby back to Calia where he would spend the next fourteen years being raised as an ‘unofficial’ weapon to hunt his own kind.

Daenir committed his first hunt when he was a few months shy of fifteen, whilst it was widely known that the hunt went spectacularly wrong in every way possible, the truth being much bloodier than that. False intelligence was given which resulted in the death of a young witch and her parents, an act that would only serve to fuel the boy’s hatred of his own kind {and come back to haunt him years later}.

Whilst Feredir kept up his charade as a respectable Witch Hunter who kept to the law, he continually sent Daenir out into the world in order to rid the world of ALL witches. This carried on until Daenir was eighteen and came to the attention of his mother, now head of the Witches Guild in Veotis. Daenir killed the wrong witch who happened to be his half-sister and ended up spending the next year running from the wrath of his own mother, a woman he didn’t even know.

The hunt ended back in Veotis in the heart of the Aedis Forest where Daenir was taken down by the combined effort of the entire Guild. A curse was laid upon Daenir to hear the cries of his victims until the day he died, and then he was locked away into the darkness of Aedis Prison with a single warden who would be rotated by Malrin every month. Whilst the woman didn’t want her son to die just yet, she didn’t want him to be free to go about his life like he hadn’t caused harm to his own kind. That was her revenge for the death of her dear daughter.

When Cóven and his royal guard found the prison hidden in the Aedis Forest, Daenir was near feral from being chained and locked away for so long. With the assistance of Cedric Ebe, Cóven was able free him from the magical bindings and take him back Aecor and the Summer Palace to try and help bring him back from insanity, helping him heal along the way.

With the assistance of Lady Helaena from Astronia and her apprentice Lady Everleigh, Daenir was able to come back to the world a bit at a time until his mind could function properly. After four years in darkness, he found it hard to trust anyone, first opening up to Cóven and then Cedric after he took up an apprenticeship with the Royal Sorcerer. The feeling of trusting someone was so unfamiliar but the knowledge that he actually belonged somewhere was something that Daenir accepted even if his mind told him no.

After meeting his mother in the middle of an Advisory Council meeting, Daenir was forced to come clean with his past, he half expected to be thrown back inside the darkness of the prison and his own mind. Instead of rejection, Daenir found acceptance from both his master’s and soon found himself inheriting the title of Royal Sorcerer when Cedric decided to retire. During the years he has been active in his current role, Daenir has taken to trying to right many of wrongs committed in his earlier years and bring peace to the world a little bit at a time.

♛ O T H E R ♛

▬ Has a pet Nyrk gifted to him by his father when he was a child. Aldir {named after the God of War} is incredibly aggressive to everyone but Daenir and the King. Ryo, a rare Panthera in Veotis, was a gift given to him by the former King, the beast is loyal and far more friendly than his counterpart Aldir

▬ Daenir is basically Fenris and I will fight you if you say otherwise

[slickmcrty]

It was less uncomfortable and more confused. Well okay maybe it hurt his feelings a little bit. But he was less offended and more so self conscious about how he looked to other people. In his eyes the one thing he had going for him was looking cool. Well cool in morty standards atleast. Anyone who interacted with them kinda got the idea that mortys wet basically awkward dorks. Not much confidence to speak of. Basically the opposite of ricks.

He nodded as confirmation. “Yeah some ricks did some damage definitely. Though the worst of it wasn’t even getting pushed around. It was the experimentation.” The words themselves might’ve come off as him pouring his guts out but the casual way he spoke about such events in his life made it sound like it was no big deal to slick. That the bear torturous experiments were just something unpleasant he had to deal with rather than the extreme traumatic events they were. The fact that he was treated like a glorified lab rat was just an unpleasant chapter in his life to him.

“Though with that rick I didn’t get my bones broken that often. Mainly I think it might’ve ducked with my nerves and brain. But also increased my pain tolerance so I guess that’s a win?” He almost asked with a shrug. “But I’ve definitely broken a bone falling off a bunk bed and those times I almost died on missions I broke some bones.” He agreed. So all that information he gave about that one particular mad scientist rick was kinda pointless. Well Atleast they were both getting to know each other better now so it wasn’t so one sided.

“Yeah that makes sense. No offense rick but if you guys didn’t have that genius to fall back on you’d have all sorts of fucked up injuries. Worse than mortys even.” He wouldn’t go as far as to say out loud that a lot of them would wind up dead faster if it wasn’t for their intellect. He definitely felt that way but he didn’t have a death wish. If he said that shit to the man’s face he’d probably either be pissed or if he was lucky just irritated.

Lucky for both of their comfort slick had no idea about AR’s past. Even naive to the fact that he had a Beth in the first place. The kid pretty much assuming with him coming off as a lone wolf and having a dangerous lifestyle that he never had kids or ever wanted to settle down in his life.

Rick’s turn got the desired result. The morty so flustered and embarrassed by it that his face flushed bright red. From his cheeks all the way up to his ears. If he had a hoodie he’d be disappearing in it to hide properly. “Rick!” He exclaimed his voice squeaking a bit which only managed to embarrass boy further. “Jeez c’mon! That one wasn’t even fair. You knew I wasn’t gonna be able to drink on that one. What fourteen year old has had sex?” He questioned. Had rick? He seemed like the kinda person to have experienced more and at a younger age.

“Okay my turn!” He insisted. More eager to do things he’d actually experienced. Hoping that he’d manage to get drunk on his birthday. “Never have I ever been kissed.” Then he took another chug of his drink. He had his first kiss. Just recently actually. Earlier tonight when he was just saying goodbye to his friends. When he least expected it his best friend kissed him and he hadn’t pulled away either. He expected not to be into but he thought he actually was. The only reason he didn’t continue it being that he was in shock.

He always expected one day when he finally had those feelings that it wound towards a girl. Mortys we’re known for being kind of girl crazy but he felt those butterflies in his stomach and it was towards his best friend. He hoped that it wouldn’t make things uncomfortable or complicated.

slickmcrty​:

Slick had been pretty self focused as a way of survival. He assumed that was the case for many mortys out there. It was a hard concept to swallow that someone who had more power and definitely a shit ton more intelligence than you could have it just as shitty on this rotting dumpster fire. Hell if anyone were allowed to leave the place for good without the threat of being hunted down they’d probably do so in a heartbeat. Maybe that even included AR.

Slick felt a tad guilty. Some of his ricks were decent. The most recent example being his current caretaker. Even if he could never voice a thing out loud. Not that he forbid it but it was clear Rick didn’t like being called a good guy of any sort. Maybe morty could’ve helped his ricks more and they wouldn’t have wound up dead if he could’ve helped them more back then.

He gave him a slightly puzzled and confused expression. Scratching at the back of his neck. “What do I look like I’ve broken bones?” That was a weird vibe to give off but anybody who knew slick knew it was the truth. He hadn’t broken every bone in his body but with his fuck ups on previous missions along with punishments he’d received from some of his grandpas he’d managed to break quite a few. Even spraining others.

It seemed he’d gotten some damage himself which with the man’s lifestyle didn’t seem too surprising. He imagined with the life he led he even came close to dying once or twice. Well he sure as shit wasn’t gonna let that happen. He wasn’t having another guardian die on him. Not only because it would be his fault if they did but he was growing fond of him. Sure he was an asshole. What Rick wasn’t? But he’d been more decent than a lot of the guys morty had been placed with. It was a breath of fresh air. Slick was even starting to feel comfortable.

It would be nice if they could stay together for atleast a year. Anymore than that would probably be pushing it though. Especially since the rick had made it known that he wasn’t thrilled with getting saddled with the kid. He seemed like the lone wolf type. Which was why slick made an effort to make himself as useful as possible.

“Okay um? Never have I ever killed someone.” That was something pretty much every Rick and morty did. No matter the dimension. Especially the case if they lived on the citadel. Morty figured they’d start with more easy ones like this. Likely it would get the two of them hammered. The boy quickly chugged from his bottle again. The liquor still making him hiss s bit from the taste and the feeling of it going down.

Rick snorted at the question, shooting Slick a look, before he realised that the teen was waiting for an actual reply. From where he stood, it was pretty evident why anyone who had gotten to talk to the kid at least once would have assumed that he had broken a few bones, but apparently Morty had decided to take his statement more personally than he should have. Apparently, it had even made him feel uncomfortable.

“F-First of all, you went on adventures. I-It’s pretty much a fuckin’ physical low that y-you break something during those, even j-just a couple of times,” he started, raising a brow slightly. “An-And you keep mentioning how you were assigned to some big Rick-holes, s-so I can bet some of them had something to do with it too.”

He wasn’t necessarily implying that some of Slick’s previous Ricks had beaten or physically abused him, but he knew how that kind of Ricks treated their Mortys. They had no regard for the teens’ health or safety, which meant that they got them injured more often during their shared trips.

“A-Also, you little shits are clumsy as fuck, s-so for all I know you could have fallen off your bunk bed or shit like that,” he finished, even if that last part was mostly a joke.

He paused for a moment, waiting for Morty to react to his words, before adding: “B-But I bet I’ve broken even more bones than you ever did. I-I think there isn’t a bone in my body I-I haven’t bruised or worse at least once.”

With that, he picked rose his bottles again to take his shot. Killing. That was something else he had done plenty of time. Perhaps more than he cared or wanted to remember. Yet, if he had to be fully honest, of all the blood he had on his hands, the only one he truly felt regret for was the one of his daughter. Compared to Beth’s death, all the other innocent lives he had taken, more or less accidentally, didn’t really matter to him.

He wasn’t surprised to see Slick drinking too. He was yet to meet a Morty who had been associated with a Rick and who hadn’t killed.

The black market dealer pursed his lips, considering what he should have picked for his turn. The teen had taken two shots in a row, so he definitely needed a break, at least for one go.

It took him a few moments, but then an idea popped in his head and he smirked widely, a sly glint lighting his eyes up. Oh, that was a good one, also because whenever he had brought that particular subject up with his previous Mortys he had always got some funny reactions, whether it was in the form of outraged blushes or grossed out comments.

“N-Never have I ever got fucked,” he said in an overly cheerful tone, gulping down a mouthful of liquor before he turned to stare at Slick, almost daring him to give him shit for his inappropriate choice.

[whatisthemajorproblemin960]

same day essay

About me

Responding To Short Answer And Essay Questions For College Applications

Responding To Short Answer And Essay Questions For College Applications Her CD4 rely would proceed to decline alongside together with her prognosis for a protracted life. On a sweltering July day, fourteen-year-old Francis walked 9 miles to a rural Zambian hospital. I listened as Dr. Thuma, an American doctor at Macha Mission Hospital delivered the information of her progressing HIV/AIDS illness. I spent the summer season of 2014 shadowing and dealing as a analysis intern beneath this passionate and resourceful doctor. For me, Francis put a name and face to the ugly epidemic of HIV/AIDS. So a lot of my patients have had their life remodeled by the clearing their facial circumstances, like severe pimples , or by electing corrective procedures. To have many of these sufferers personally come again to thank me, crying tears of pleasure to see themselves in a new and positive means; to witness them have extra self confidence and go on to live life and never hid from it. Several experiences have directed my choice to turn out to be a PA. Most just lately was coping with my father’s most cancers prognosis and therapy. I actually have three siblings and none of them believed that chemotherapy would be an inconvenience for an 82 yr old to deal with. Out of the 4 kids I was the only one compelled to step up and dedicate the time and assets to assist this highly effective and impartial man to understand a disease that might finish his life prematurely. I moved from North Carolina to Florida to assist him deal with the prognosis, the biopsy, the many chemotherapy treatments, etc. Taking night courses in order to pursue my dreams is what I even have chosen to do and what I have to do to get accepted right into a PA program. I currently work with three PA’s in a family follow setting have shadowed them individually. This is one other space that has directed my profession towards seeking a PA diploma. Aging is a truth of life but in todays world so many individuals worry it and embrace cosmetic medication to gracefully settle for the process. Prior to this sickness, Dad had by no means been in a hospital except for the birth of his kids! Looking into my dad’s eyes and reading his ache, and feeling insufficient to provide reduction propelled me to analysis his illness additional. I discovered a physician on the Moffet Cancer Research Hospital in Tampa, Florida who specialised in Dad’s sort of leukemia. Conversing with the doctor and his PA’s, difficult them with the analysis questions I had, resulted in better look after my dad. The entire paragraph concerning the cosmetic/plastic surgery can go aside from talking about how you’re glad to help people change their lives. Other than that, it doesn’t have anything to do with why you want to be a PA. Working three jobs as a single father or mother, having two daughters and balancing life is hard. They all exhibit caring and compassion in the direction of their sufferers along with robust intellect to analysis and therapy plan. I want to have the ability to provide this service to my future sufferers. My experience in working one on one with sufferers in dental hygiene, in plastic surgery, and in my very own skincare facility has developed skills that will serve me properly as a PA. I briefly mentioned the conceit issues iI witnessed while working in cosmetic surgery/beauty medicine.