#she's quarter indian though

[hussyknee]

K. J. CHARLES, I LOVE YOU.

...

— Wanted: A Gentleman, K. J. Charles (2017)

That's the emotional thread that runs through the whole novella, coupled with his conflicted love for the Conroys' daughter he helped raise. It runs in parallel with Swann's own shackles of ursury and exploitation, which, while not comparable with Martin's bondage, still inspires his empathy and compassion.

Cesar Picton

Black Georgians: The Shock of the Familiar

FUCK YOUR BRIDGERTON-ASS WHITE LIBERAL DIVERSITY-COOKIES REPRESENTATION. THIS IS HOW YOU WRITE BLACK AND BROWN PEOPLE. We've always been here, bitch. Pay attention and be curious about our interiority for once.

[redheadspark]

i had a small idea yesterday for the prompt session! druig with #’s 3, 15, and 18. maybe with reader after the emergence. they’re both EXHAUSTED and even though druig’s hurt, he still wants to make sure his s/o is okay after fighting. you can change things around to your liking ofc!

A/N - YAS! I do like this a lot for Druig! Thanks for requesting this, dear friend!

Scars and All

Summary - Druig seeks you out after the Emergence

Warnings - angst and fluff mixed together

“How is she?”

“I’m more concerned about you since you took a beating from Ikaris on that beach,”

Druig huffed as Phastos was looking him over with some of his equipment, being ever patient but not willing to sit through a thorough exam.  He was sitting on what was left of Phastos’s work table, his armor stripped, and was only sporting his black pants and nasty bruises along his ivory skin.  Phastos and Thena were with him and taking the proper measures to check on him, Sersi was talking to a now-human Sprite in the Meeting Room, leaving Makkari to tend to you in your shared room with Druig.  Although Druig knew that Thena would hold him down in order for him to get checked over and be cleared, he would rather be with you.

You both took a beating on that beach in order to save the world.

Druig took on Ikaris’s beams head-on, thinking for a split moment that he wasn’t going to make it out alive.  It left him both physically and mentally bruised, not to mention the mental fatigue that he endured ignorer to take over the mind of a full Celestial.  Throughout the centuries that he has been on Earth, this was truly the first time he felt beyond tired.  

Not tired, exhausted.

“Your internal organs are still good,” Phastos hummed as he scanned Druig’s backside slowly and with determination, Druig’s leg bouncing on the workstation table as he was sitting Indian Style.  Even his fingers were fidgeting while he was staring dead ahead at the wall.  He was half listening, mostly thinking about you and how you were holding up.  Seeing you on the beach covered in scratch wounds and pale to the touch made his heart sink.  Saving the world didn’t matter to him anymore, nor did stopping Ikaris and stopping Tiamat.  All that mattered was you.

He needed to see you and make sure you were alright.

“The bruises are gonna last a bit,” Phastos explained as Druig was still sitting rather impatiently, Thena was watching like a hawk and not moving an inch while Phastos placed his instruments down and gave Druig a brotherly kind of stare, “I can have Makkiar get some herbs to make a paste and make the bruises shrink down a bit.”

“Not a fan of modern medicine I take it?” Druig asked with a hint of sarcasm, though Phastos cracked a grin.

“Modern medicine is too tame compared to what we endured in the glory days,” Phastos hummed, then pausing for a brief moment before he spoke again, “Plus, we need to be careful since we don’t have Ajak to help us,”

It made the mood more somber in the room, even when it was rue.  Ajak was always there to heal them, from the smallest scratches to the more massive wounds that they would get from Deviants.  The healing was more than the physical, her soothing tones and words of encouragement for every Eternal.  Even Druig, though they both clash plenty of times when it comes to the philosophy of Eternals, admired Ajak all the more and missed her terribly.  

“Thanks, Phastos,” Druig replied with a soft smile, hopping down from the workstation table.

“Get some rest,” Thena instructed him with a small tilt of her head to him.  Druig nodded back.

“Will do,” He replied walking past both Phastos and Thena to the hallways that lead to the living quarters.  He was glad that he was cleared from needing anymore assistance, and he was not thinking about himself at the current moment.  

“Couldn’t gone worse for him if it wasn’t for her,” Phastos said to Thena as Druig was walking away, his eyes going right down the hallway and nothing slowing him down.

“She saved his life, as she should since they were meant for each other,” Thena replied in an optimistic hum, which made Druig wish he could smile from hearing that from the warrior herself.  He might have been too tired to smile, or simply more concerned about you to smile from the comment.  But it still warmed his heart nonetheless, adoring Thena all the more.

Once he made it to your shared room, He carefully and softly opened the door to see nothing but darkness.  Your king-sized bed was against the wall, you were nestled amongst the satin sheets and already sleeping with Makkari sitting by your side and keeping a close eye on you.  

Makkari, still clad in her armor, saw Druig and immediately sped over to him, She’s okay.

“Thanks, ‘Kari,” He whispered to her as he gestured his head over to your sleeping form, “How bad is it?”

Her cuts are deep, but they’ll heal in a few days, She explained to him, I know how to make a paste for her wounds to make the healing go a bit faster.  I’ll make some for you too, I think you two need some rest,

“You might be right,” he agreed, seeing her crack a smile slightly before she leaned over to hug him gently.  He hugged her back, feeling her warmth in the embrace.  Once Makkari pulled away and slipped out of the room, Druig looked over at your sleeping form with both concerns and warmth.  

Warmth that you were alive and still with him in this life, and concern that you took a beating to protect him. 

He loved watching you sleep in the past, seeing how soft and content you were as you dreamed away with nothing haunting you.  There were even moments when he would watch you and be amazed at how peaceful you seemed to be in a chaotic and ever-grieving world around you.  He loved that about you and he wished he had that in himself sometimes.  

You had enough love and compassion to fill the both of you up instantly and overflow.  

Moving without him making a single sound, Druig lifted the sheet to finally see you.  The distinct slash marks along your skin, the deep bruises etched near your neck and hips. It was all too much for him to see.  You were never one to harm a fly or start trouble, it wasn’t in your nature.  Yet now, you looked so broken to Druig that it made his heart shatter. 

Immediately he moved, wrapped you close in his arms, and avoided some of the fresher wounds.  You stirred, your head against his neck now as he hummed to alert you.

“…Druig?” You said in a hoarse tone.

“I’m right here, darlin’.  Go back to sleep,” He mumbled to you since the last thing he wanted was for you to wake up and lose sleep.  You moved your arms, grimacing from the drained energy and the tender bruises along your arms.  

“You okay?” You asked him.  Of course, you would be worried for him and his health, not even worried about your own wounds and exhaustion.  Druig loved you for your selfless heart and need to care for others before yourself, both a blessing and a curse for him to witness as the love of your life.  He kissed your forehead, feeling his own energy draining within moments from being in a safe space with you and being in one piece.

“I’m alright now,” he reassured you soothingly, “We’re both alright now.  Let’s sleep, alright?  I got ya,”

As you both slept and healed together, all you both could dream of was your future together.  No matter that there was no village to go back to, losing some of your own to both the Deviants and Ikaris at the same time, none of that mattered compared to what you two wanted in your future together.  Somewhere quiet and away from chaos, maybe near the sea or deep in the forest.  Just you and Druig against the world, scars and all.

The End. 

September Prompt Session

[syoddeye]

the meeting

ceo!price x reader / ~3k words

Folks seemed to like the first installment of this maybe-series, so I cooked up a second part in between drafts of the next chapter of For the Record (shameless plug). Not sure if this will be a whole thing or a series of vignettes. Enjoy!

CW: red flags everywhere, power imbalance, alcohol (mentioned)

You lay low after the company Christmas party and losing the drama wager to Jordan. Heads down, nose to the grindstone, and so forth. You never found the courage to respond to Mr. Price's direct message over the holidays. The shock from receiving a response at all kept you up at night. The message was supposed to get lost in his notifications, buried beneath the hundreds of messages he supposedly got a day. And he had not only replied, he insinuated he wanted to grab drinks. You checked it a hundred times.

johnprice - invisible Hi, Mr. Price. I was wondering what you want for Christmas? > World peace. > I'd settle for a drink, though.

You could be reading into it. Flattering yourself. Profile photos were required on the chat app to help put faces to names, so he could have recognized you as the punch girl from the open bar. Most likely, he was making a joke and humoring an underling.

Whatever the reason, his simple reply plagues you well into the new year.

The first quarter is always hectic for The 141 Group. New regulations go into effect, and projects and initiatives kick off, setting the year's foundation. Since your boss Kyle is VP of Finance, it's even busier for him with budget meeting check-ins, payroll reports, and financial policy updates. And if his life is busy, your life is busy because his success is your success.

"Need you to bump everything I have today after three to tomorrow," He murmurs when you collect a stack of documents to copy.

"This is the second time you'll have pushed the meeting with technology directors," You remind him, but make a note anyway. "They'll complain to Mr. MacTavish."

Kyle glances up. "Let them. He's clearing his schedule this afternoon, too."

"Oh?"

"Big man's bringing the C-Suite and a few of us lucky VPs in for a meeting."

A practiced EA, you keep the instant surge of dread from reaching your face. It isn't strange for Kyle, though technically a subordinate to the CFO, to attend such meetings. Mr. Price frequently pulls him into special projects. You simply hoped to avoid the 'big man' for as long as possible. On the bright side, when Kyle never reprimanded you for flippantly messaging the CEO upon return from holiday, you assumed Mr. Price never said anything. Hopefully, he forgot about your message altogether. 

"Need me for notes?" You ask, hovering in the doorway to his office.

"Please. Something tells me it'll be tense." Interesting.

With a nod, you tuck the folder under an arm and pat the doorframe. "Got it. Lunch'll be here soon. I ordered Indian and Thai. Whatever you don't want, I'll eat."

"You're a lifesaver."

"I know."

~~

Conference Room Bravo isn't the biggest meeting space in the building, but everybody knows it's Mr. Price's preference. With an unobstructed view of the water and natural light, you like it, too. Especially since the small group of assistants who attend the more critical meetings sits on a long bench built into an alcove in the wall with a good view of the windows.

You and five other EAs ensure every seat at the main table is set with the appropriate accoutrements. Tea and coffee are on standby. With a three-hour window allocated, everyone will need a spot of caffeine at some point. Fifteen minutes before the scheduled start, you chat and make personal preparations.

"Did MacTavish seem stressed about this?" You ask Jordan as she takes the seat next to you.

She shakes her head. "No. You know him, though. It takes a bit to work him up."

"What about Laswell?" You lean forward and look down the bench at Oliver, the Chief Information Officer's right hand.

The younger man looks up from his laptop. "Same as Mr. MacTavish, kind of. Hard to tell, but she didn't take a smoke break, so…"

"Right."

The conversation drifts to weekend plans until Lucy, the newest EA to Mr. Shepherd, pipes up.

"Isn't it strange Mr. Price doesn't have a permanent assistant?"

It's a fair question for a new person. Since you started at The 141 Group, the desk outside Mr. Price's office has functioned as a revolving door. Guiltily, you stopped trying to learn their names about ten temps in, and since then, it's a coin flip if anyone's there at all. The general rule is if you have something to deliver to Mr. Price, you leave it on the empty desk. 

"Nah, nobody's good enough," Jordan answers. "MacTavish once told me Price is a workaholic with impossibly high standards. Not a good combination for an assistant."

Oliver agrees. "Laswell said as much, too. Apparently, at his place, he has a whole recreation of his office and gets right back to work when he gets home. And, his only staff are the bodyguards."

You would feel sad about that if Mr. Price wasn't a gazillionaire. An older man, hunching over a computer, completely alone in his home…when he could certainly afford staff and delegate.

Still, if he kept himself so busy, it made the fact he responded to your DM quite interesting.

The conversation dies when the attendees trickle in.

Kyle arrives with Mr. MacTavish, the latter of whom flashes a grin at Jordan and you. Close behind is the hulking mountain of a CSO, Mr. Riley, who, as usual, wears a black surgical mask. (The rumors around that accessory are practically 141 Group lore.) Other members of the C-Suite file in and Mr. Price arrives last, followed by his guards who post up at the door. He shuts the door behind him, the click silencing the room.

Your eyes glue themselves to the computer in your lap. Jordan elbows you a little, obviously enjoying the lingering effects of her wager.

As Mr. Price sits down, you finally steal a glance. He's wearing the hell out of a charcoal suit with a blue tie that makes his eyes pop, even across the room. His expression is stern, borderline grim, and thankfully, like everybody else at the main table, doesn't even glance in your direction. He's straight to the point. "Thank you all for making time in your schedules on short notice. Let's get started, shall we?"

~~

An hour and a half in, Price calls for a break. As the most senior EA on the bench, you lovingly pass on refreshment duty to Lucy and Desmond, the most junior. You follow Kyle to the hall.

"Need anything?" You ask when you're a reasonable distance down from the conference room.

"Do you think you can clean up the notes and send them to me by nine tonight?"

Your brows raise. Rarely does the man ask you to work late. He usually doesn't need to, as you pride yourself on efficiency. "Of course. I'll make a physical copy, too. What's your read on it, by the way?"

Kyle gives a tired smile. "You aren't paying attention, are you."

"I take down everything I hear to ensure you have impeccable notes. Listening gets in the way of that," You offer a grin, then glance down at his tie. Crooked. You fix it without thinking and chat more about his schedule tomorrow. A few people pass by in the hallway to use the restroom or stretch their legs, but you don't pay them mind.

"Mr. Garrick?" You both turn to see Jordan's head sticking out of the door. "They're resuming."

Kyle sighs quietly and starts back toward the conference room. You follow.

Settling back into your seat on the bench, you feel eyes on you, but when you look around, there's nothing. Weird.

~~

The meeting concludes on the dot at six. The attendees leave first, as do the rest of the assistants when you volunteer to clean up. Jordan waves goodbye when Mr. MacTavish departs alongside Mr. Riley. You sigh in relief when Price walks out with Shepherd and Laswell, leaving you and Kyle. Your boss swipes through his phone as you collect the trash and dishes, leaving everything for janitorial.

"Do you need a ride?" Kyle asks when you collect your laptop. "I'm heading your way."

"No, I think I'll finish the notes here, wait for rush hour to die down."

Kyle walks out with you and frowns. "If you stay past eight, please text. I'll have a car come back for you."

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes. Kyle is merely protective. "I'll take the train or call a rideshare myself."

He pushes the matter when you return to your corner of the executive floor, but you don't give in. You plan to stop for food on the way home and aren't keen to make his driver wait. When he finally leaves, you find yourself alone on the floor. Most folks leave at five, so everyone else cleared out when the meeting ended at six.

You clean, format, and summarize the meeting notes in an hour and a half. Due to Kyle's earlier comment, you make an effort to read into business. As far as you can tell, it's another big new project with lots of money on the table. The name of a new contractor company for extra hands mildly raises your interest. The usual choice, Chimera Company, must be busy. Other than that, everything's a slog to read. You trust that if something's important and need-to-know, Kyle will explain.

You email Kyle the notes a few minutes shy of eight and send them to the printer. Languidly stretching as you go, you walk to the copy room. At this hour, most overhead lights are on a timer and won't turn back on until morning to conserve energy. So, it's natural your eyes flick to Mr. Price's office at the end of the long hallway. There's a sliver of light beneath the door, beckoning like a golden gate. Turning into the darkened copy room, picturing Mr. Price at his desk distracts enough you don't realize you're not alone until a low, growling curse cuts through the silence.

Hunching over the copier is none other than Mr. Price himself. The low light glints off a silver watch band, encouraging the eye to a pair of thick forearms exposed by rolled shirt sleeves. You get a whole second of the uninterrupted sight before he notices.

A silent alarm goes off, and you're hopeful the lack of light saves you: Please don't recognize me. Please don't recognize me. Please–

Mr. Price does not move, and his focus returns to the copier. "Didn't realize anyone else worked this late."

You're unsure if you're supposed to respond, but you need those notes. "I usually don't. I was finishing up…Is there–Is there something I can help with?"

He answers when you tiptoe closer. "Everything's coming out with streaks," He grumbles, fiddling with random panel doors that open into the machine's guts.

This is not your first battle with the cursed thing. "I can fix that."

"Can you, now." Price mutters, barely audible.

You swallow. You might be several pay levels lower, but you aren't a pushover. "Mr. Price, please let me try." 

Again, he delays, but after an exasperated sigh, he concedes and slams a panel door shut.

After he steps back, you examine the failed jobs resting on the tray, then address the angry, blinking digital display. A few screens and taps later, you trigger the self-cleaning process and the machine whirs to life.

"All fixed?" Price asks, reminding you he's but a few steps behind you.

"We'll see," You move a short distance away, afraid if you stand any closer, it'll be enough for him to remember who you are and your dumb message. "It's self-cleaning. It will take two, three minutes, then produce a test print."

Price hums in acknowledgment, and then the glow of his phone screen illuminates his profile. You glance out of your periphery, almost relieved to see the steely expression on his face. Seems he really is a workaholic, taking advantage of any spare moment.

You lean against the supply cabinets and cross your feet at the ankles. You left your phone at your desk, so you settle for watching the copier hopefully fix itself.

Then, to your utter horror, Price says your name.

You look up without thinking.

"Thought I recognized you." He holds up his phone, and there you are, your profile picture in the workplace chat app.

You are going to murder Jordan. But first, you need to apologize.

"Mr. Price, I am so–"

Price cuts you off. "You're Kyle Garrick's assistant, yeah?"

Relief washes over you. Your message is forgotten. Definitely. All you are is an assistant. "Yes, sir."

With a hum, he pockets his phone, then steps forward to better see you. A hand plants itself on the counter, mere centimeters away. "You were at the meeting earlier." 

"Yes, sir."

"Would explain the swift fix," He muses, and his gaze drags down you in a more than perfunctory look before meeting yours once more. "Normally, I'd use the copier in my office, but it's due for maintenance. Seems this one is, too." 

He has his own copier? It would explain why I've never seen him in here, making his own copies since he apparently hates help.

"Guess so," You lick your lower lip, stomach flipping with nerves with how close Price stands. Between the proximity and the near darkness, it's all you can do to keep your imagination in check.

A cheerful beeping from the copier saves you. Price lingers a moment more, then returns to the printing tray as the machine spits out a test page. 

Price chuckles, which you take to mean the issue is fixed. He restarts the delayed jobs. "Well done, love."

"It's nothing," You say quietly, rooted to where you lean. 

A minute passes, and Price collects the first completed stack of papers. His brow furrows. "Think these are yours."

You finally push off the cabinets and venture closer, reaching for the notes. Only, he does not hand them over.

"Forgot Gaz prefers hard copies," Price murmurs. 

Gaz? 

"This is the kind of work I wish I had received from my past assistants."

If it was not the CEO speaking, you would be the defender of the voiceless, the fired employees of 141 past. If the man's gone through as many assistants as you think he has, he's the problem.

"You like working for Garrick?"

It feels like a trick question. From the outside, it appears he and Kyle like each other. For all of Price's talks on 'openness' and 'camaraderie,' he has his favorites, and your boss is one of them. Though that could be an act, and Price is actually looking for some kind of blemish on Kyle's record. Either way, you can be honest because you genuinely like Kyle.

"Mr. Garrick is a joy to work with." Anxiety flushes half of the English language and all creativity out of your brain.

Price huffs in amusement. "A joy to work with," He repeats. "That's all? You appeared quite friendly during the break."

The comment gives you pause, and you shove back through the day's events. The meeting, the break – was it because you simply straightened Kyle's tie? It's a harmless gesture, you think. No one's ever batted an eye before. You can't help but feel a little affronted. "That's because we are friends, sir. Kind of happens when you work for someone for nearly five years."

Price lifts the notes in a placating manner, then out to you. "No harm meant. It's nice to see, is all. I understand we struggle with retention."

An understatement for him. Your imaginary hackles lower. "We work well together."

Price smiles. "Clearly. And five years, eh? Should get something for that, I think."

Inwardly, you cringe. The last thing you need is another branded mug, t-shirt, or keychain. "That isn't necessary, sir."

"Nonsense. We've got to reward loyalty."

You stiffly nod, figuring it's worthless to protest. It makes sense why he's in charge. He's a steamroller when it comes to what he wants.

"Do you have somewhere to be? Someone waiting for you?"

In this context, a darkened office, alone with a man with the power to make or break your career, it's a borderline sinister question. At least, it should be, yet instead, all you feel is a brief thrill.

"No, sir."

"Then, how about that drink?"

Oh, god. "'That drink'?" You ask dumbly. You know exactly what he means.

He chuckles and sets his gaze on you again. It's heavy, somehow both a blanket around the shoulders and a cinder block to the chest.

"While you are a capable woman, I doubt achievin' world peace is within your power. But a drink? Think you can fit me into your schedule this evening?"

You will kill Jordan for the bet. Then Kyle will kill you for losing it. But do you really have a choice?

"Yes, sir."

"Please, after hours, call me John."

~~

Mr. Price's–John's bodyguards do not seem fazed when you meet them at the elevators. You watch John whisper something into the taller one's ear on the ride down, and the man hails a cab. Meanwhile, John ushers you out to a waiting town car, and the shorter guard takes the passenger seat. 

When he takes the seat beside you, shuts the door, and drapes a big arm over the back of the seats, you think to fake an illness. A forgotten appointment. Something. Then he gives you another grin, a note of triumph in it, and the thoughts of escape vanish.

~~

Your salary affords you nice things like hardcover books, daily coffees, and frequent takeaway. And until ten seconds ago, you could count stylish yet comfortable office attire among said things. Yet, walking through the awning-covered entrance to an unmarked bar, you lose that delusion quickly. The bar's host lights up at the sight of Mr. Price, then openly examines you and the pencil skirt you thought was expensive.

"Welcome back, Mr. Price. Your usual table, I presume? Is this lovely creature your date?" 

"Yes, and yes."

A firm, warm hand at the small of your back flexes. It's a silent suggestion: do not correct him. You don't.

A cocktail later, that same hand lands on your knee beneath the table. 

[worseforwords]

Food for Thought (Ona Batlle x Reader)

“Indian?” Ona asked, not looking up from her phone. “Yeah, sure.” You couldn’t remember the last time you had a proper conversation with your girlfriend that didn’t involve food, training schedules or errands. You missed your usual late night conversations, talking about anything and everything for hours, being able to confide in her, and you knew she probably felt the same. Yet neither of you spoke up about it, too afraid of the outcome and instead getting stuck in a cycle of pretending everything was fine, both suffering in silence.

It all started at the euros. When Spain lost against England in the quarter finals, Ona was heartbroken. You had never seen her as devastated as she looked back then, and all you wanted to do was be there for her. There was nothing you could do however, because unlike for the Spaniard, the tournament was not over for you. After the loss she took some time off, but she did attend the final at Wembley, for which you thanked her for profusely as she told you how proud she was of you. 

After your big win, she briefly joined the Lionesses celebrations, before leaving early, stating you should enjoy your achievement with your teammates. Two days later, she canceled on the holiday you had planned with some of the Lionesses she was supposed to join, essentially giving you the same reasoning. Both times, you hid your disappointment, assuming she still just needed some space after her big loss, preferring not to celebrate with the winning team, which you could understand. When you returned from your trip, glowing and with a suitcase full of stories, you suddenly felt nervous to talk to your girlfriend, with whom you usually shared everything. You felt an immediate tension between the both of you, and decided to keep your stories to yourself for the time being. She never asked any questions, and instead you hung out with other teammates and friends to catch up and talk about your time away, determined to give her al the time and space she needed.

Your first weeks back your schedule was crazy packed, with both Manchester United being proud of their Euros winners, and the Lionesses now being national heroes, you kept being demanded for interviews and other events. Whilst fun at first, all the fuzz quickly became exhausting, and not being able to talk to your girlfriend about it made even worse. However, you knew she would give anything to be in your position right now, and she had a lot going on herself with all the Spanish team drama happening, so you kept to yourself, struggling in silence, patiently waiting for Ona to be okay enough. 

Some time went by and her distant behaviour started to get on your nerves. You had never liked being the center of attention, and your newfound spotlight quickly started to drain you. You needed your girlfriend and she still wasn’t there, so your pity turned into bitterness. You weren’t one to suddenly blow up however, so you kept your anger mostly to yourself, thereby distancing yourself even further from Ona.

The ringing of the doorbell brought your mind back to where you were sitting in the apartment you shared with your girlfriend. Ona had already gotten up to accept the food from the delivery guy. You put out plates and glasses and the two of you filled up on the Indian take-away in silence. You were almost finished, when a rather obnoxious feeling started to creep it’s way up to your stomach. “Ona,”, you started as she, to your surprise, actually looked up at you, “something feels off.” “What do you mean,” she said, looking back at her plate, anxiously combing her fork through the rice on her plate, “we’re fine, right?” “No, not that.” You said, ignoring how she was dodging what she though was your question. “I don’t feel good. I think something in the food wasn’t right.” You managed to get out, before sprinting towards the toilet, almost tripping over Ona’s hoodie she had carelessly tossed on the floor earlier on your way there. 

You reached the toilet just in time as what felt like the entire content of the meal you just had came right back out through you mouth with a loud retching noise. To your surprise, you felt two hands quickly grabbing a hold of your hair, making sure you didn’t puke on it. As you felt your stomach gurgling and doing summersaults, all you could really thing about was Ona’s blatant deflection earlier, stating that the two of you were fine. Maybe it was your temperature starting to rise, but something in you finally snapped. “We’re not fine though, are we?” You got out right before throwing up once more. “Y/N, now is not the time to talk about this.” She answered, a pitiful expression on her face as you hung above the toilet, gasping for air. “Oh no, we’re talking about this Ona. I’m done pretending.” You said when you finally caught your breath. “Por favor, Y/N” She sounded desperate. “No, Ona, we’re doing this n-” “No, I mean, m-move over please!” She interrupted, basically pushing you aside as she leapt towards the toilet. 

Apparently the food poisoning hit her as well now. You grabbed her hair just in time, holding it back and quickly pulling it into a messy bun. She made a grunting sound as she too emptied here stomach trough the wrong end. You remained silent as she caught her breath, before eventually giving in. “Never mind, I’m sorry, we can talk later. I’ll leave you be.” “No! Don’t leave. Como siempre.” She mumbled that last part. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” You said, irritation clear in your voice. “Nothing, forget it.” You knew what she said, you just couldn’t believe it and you wanted her to say it again, to see if she meant it. “No, say it again.” You said, standing your ground as she contemplated her response. “I just- I-” She stuttered, as your impatience grew. “You what, Ona?” You sharply spoke, before another wave of sickness hit her stomach, preventing her from answering. She held a finger up in the air as she hurled once more, signalling that it was her turn to speak once she was done. 

“Como siempre, like always. You never have time for me anymore, and whenever you are with me, you barely acknowledge my existence!” She finally spoke, igniting a fire inside you as you felt it was the opposite. “This is about the euros isn’t it? You’re jealous!” It was as if her pupils caught fire as she sharply turned her head towards you. “Jealous!? Really, Y/N? Wow, very mature. I guess fame really did go to your head.” “What is that supposed to mean!? I’m not even famous.” At this point both of you were yelling and the bathroom tiles echoing your enraged voices combined with your beating headache didn’t help, only fuelling the growing fury inside you. “Sure, miss mediaday is everyday.” Ona said, a heated tear fleeing her eye. “So you are jealous?” You exclaimed, feeling like she had just proven your point. “No! Joder, Y/N,” she started, loud and and outraged, “I just-“ she suddenly became more quiet as more tears filled her eyes, “I just miss you.” 

Her words had you taken aback, as you were overwhelmed by a sudden feeling of guilt. “You miss me?” You asked softly, tears now also flooding your eyes. “Yeah, of course I miss you. If anything I’m jealous of the camera, because it gets to see you all day.” You were quiet for a bit as your tried to gather your thoughts. You felt immensely guilty, but you also couldn’t help but still be a bit bitter about her behaviour, as she played just as much of a part in all of it as you did. 

“Y/N?” She said, as she noticed your mind drifting away. “Can you say something please?” “I don’t know what to say, I just- why didn’t you say something?” “Because you were getting what you have always deserved, and I really am proud of you. I was afraid of seeming petty and I just didn’t want to take away from your glory.” She answered honestly. “Glory?” You gave a phony laugh. “It’s hardly that. I hate it. I haven’t felt like myself for weeks now and the worst part is, I feel like I’m loosing my girlfriend in the process.” It was now Ona’s turn to give you a regretful look. You both remained quiet as you sat on the cold bathroom floor until both your stomachs had settled down a bit and you finally dared to distance yourselves from the toilet. 

“You’re burning up.” Ona said as she put her hand on your forehead. “So are you” You said, doing the same. Without speaking, you quietly agreed to continue the argument later, as the exhaustion from the fever took over both your bodies. You placed buckets, water bottles, and paracetamol on both sides of the bed and as you lay down, you felt Ona’s body crawl against you. 

You woke up about 11 hours later, a sweaty mess on a soaked mattress. Your body felt heavy as you sat yourself up on the bed. You certainly felt a lot better than yesterday, but your pumping headache hadn’t left and you felt weak as you dragged your shivering, cold body into the bathroom. You turned on the shower and let out a deep breath as the hot water rolled over your skin. The sudden change from cold to warm made your brain go foggy and your legs feel even weaker. The realisation came too late as you couldn’t grab onto anything before everything faded to black.

You slowly came back to life as you felt your head was resting on something that felt human. You opened up your eyes to be met with Ona’s concerned expression looking down on you as you lay on her lap whilst she sat on the bathroom floor. “Hi.” She said softly. “Hi,” you replied, “sorry for waking you.” She giggled. “You idiot. How are you feeling?” “Dizzy, you?” “Like somebody shook my body up and down all night long and now I’m all mixed up.” You chuckled at the metaphor. “Want to watch a movie and stay on the couch all day?” “Sounds good.”

You watched Encanto in a comfortable silence, both taking small naps whenever you felt your eyes starting to close. At some point during the afternoon you had texted your mom, and just about when the movie was done, she arrived at your place. Your mom had always been a very caring mother, so it didn’t surprise you that she showed up with a pot of homemade soup and some more paracetamol. She put the pot on the stove and without being asked she started cleaning up your apartment. She threw the bedsheets in the laundry, putting up fresh ones immediately after, she did your dishes and she even threw out the litter with the food that had caused all this still in it. 

Before she left she handed the both of you a bowl of warm soup, stating you needed something in those empty stomachs if you wanted to get better. You carefully ate some of it to find out your mom was once again right, as the salty substance immediately made you feel better. You figured Ona felt the same way, as she let out a satisfied hum. 

“I’m sorry.” Ona said as she sat her bowl down on the coffee table. “I should have been there for you these past weeks.” “Ona, it’s okay, you didn’t know.” You replied softly. “No it’s not. I should have known. I know you, Y/N, but I ignored you and I ignored the signs. I was an asshole and I’m really sorry.” She said sincerely, looking at you with a genuine expression, to which you returned a pitiful one. “Yeah well, me too,” you started, “I’m sorry for acting so distant and not making any time for you. Also I’m sorry for assuming you were jealous.” 

You put your bowl down as well and moved over to her side of the couch to cuddle up into her arms. You lay there in silence for a while, before Ona spoke again. “I don’t want to lose you.” She said softly. “Why would you lose me?” You said worriedly. “The way we acted, it’s not healthy. We really need better communication” She responded. “You’re right,” you said, getting up to grab a pen and a piece of paper, “let’s make some rules then.” Ona giggled at your sudden initiative. She looked at you affectionately as you sat down. “I love you.” She said. “I love you too.” You replied, before adding: “That’s rule one, we love each other, and we won’t let each other forget it!” Ona giggled again as you wrote it down. 

After composing an extensive list of communication guidelines, you cuddled up against your girlfriend once again as she placed tiny, loving kisses on top of your head. “Let’s go on vacation together soon, just the two of us.” She said in between pecks. “Yes, I’d love that.” You answered, as you closed your eyes, feeling yourself drift off again, in the arms of your dream girl.

[witchthewriter]

Probably a weird question, but which HP characters do you imagine as LGBTQIA or/and POC? (Because let’s make Joke Rollling/She Who Must Not Be Named… ANGRY!! 😏)

I would LOVE TO! J.K.Rowling is Rita Skeeter to me. Also you should look up 'The Worst Witch,' because it's basically Harry Potter.

𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑴𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑬

Most definitely black, or what if she came from an Indian family who wanted her to marry and the Wizarding World was her escape? She studies hard because this new world is a second chance for freedom!

I also wish Hermione was bisexual/pansexual. She and Ginny, or even she and Cho would make such a gorgeous couple!

𝑳𝑼𝑵𝑨

I think it would have been cool if she was an albino (I am so sorry if that's not the right way to say it. I don't want to offend anyone). Her long white hair, pale skin, translucent lashes and brows. With beautiful purple eyes (this is actually how I imagined the Targaryens to look, not just having white hair).

She is definitely demisexual; only feeling attraction after developing a friendship first. I can also see Luna as trans!

𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑹𝒀

I've seen some fancasts and fanart of Harry with his ethnicity being Indian, or Pakistani. Which I'm completely okay with. Maybe even James is half black, and that makes Harry a quarter, so it's still noticeable - and another thing that the Dursley's are horrible to him about.

I think Harry is Bi/Pan - I have this headcanon that he had a crush on Oliver Wood, and Katie Bell when he was in first year.

𝑹𝑶𝑵

I honestly just see Ron as a normal hetero male. Honestly, there's nothing queer about him at all. But he is very supportive of his friends and family as well as the LGBTQIA+ community. He would always be at Pride with whoever asked him, and have anyone's back who needed it.

And the Weasley's are known for their red hair, so I think I would keep their heritage/ethnicity the same!

𝑫𝑼𝑴𝑩𝑬𝑳𝑫𝑶𝑹𝑬

YES, THIS MAN IS A GAY MAN. But I feel as though he's very monogamous; he will love one person, even if they do not love him back, for the rest of his life. Like with Grindelwald, Dumbledore couldn't stop the feelings he had - even though the man was turning into a pretty evil one.

𝑺𝑵𝑨𝑷𝑬

His sexuality always confused him. Because he was in love with Lily, truly in love with her. But sometimes he found James attractive, and he hated himself for it.

Shows himself as straight, but I think he's bisexual or at least bi-curious.

I think for his ethnicity, it can be the same. Pasty white skin, black hair, hooked nose. Maybe his family distantly came from a Mediterranean island?

𝑫𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑶

Oh, I think keeping Draco white ... and maybe all the Death Eaters white would be saying a lot. They're basically Nazi's. So that wouldn't change.

Draco is most definitely bisexual. He was so in love with Harry, feigning it as hate. Knowing everything about him, staring at him from across the room. When he was younger, it was easier to see it as hate. But then when he turned 16, he felt a pang of desire for the Potter boy and the self-loathing began.

𝑮𝑬𝑶𝑹𝑮𝑬

Falls in love very easily, but usually with a woman. Not to say he's completely hetero, I think he would be bi-curious, but I think he wants a wife with a big family.

𝑭𝑹𝑬𝑫

I actually think Fred would be polyamorous. The kind where the girlfriend is allowed another boyfriend, not like Sisterwives. No, no. Fred would be totally cool with having a wife who has a boyfriend, and they all live together. Fred's a little fruity as well. I think he's one of those people that 'don't like to put a label on things.'

𝑺𝑰𝑹𝑰𝑼𝑺

Pansexual. Pansexual. Pansexual. Doesn't care if you're trans, he loves a person for who they are, what they believe in, rather than what their bits are. One of the reasons why he ran away from home. He hates tradition.

I think the Black family could be from Sicily, I know that's not necessarily POC, I think with their darker features, they would easily reign from there. And Sicilians are known for always distinguishing themselves from any other Mediterranean culture.

𝑹𝑬𝑴𝑼𝑺

He always thought of himself as straight. But that was until he met Sirius and he developed such a big crush on him. I think Remus would be Biromantic towards women but Bisexual towards men.

𝑪𝑯𝑶

WHY THE HELL DID ROWLING CALL AN ASIAN PERSON, "CHO CHANG," PUT THEM IN THE "SMARTEST HOUSE". It's racism. That's how I see it. She does this with many characters, and it's ridiculous.

Anyway, I have no problem with Asian representation. But what if Cho was Native American? (I know Rowling made that whole other school but it was really problematic so to me, it doesn't exist).

Or have Cho as Chinese (maybe give her a proper Chinese name), and we can have another main character...like Hermione, or Katie Bell as Native American. I just think it would be interesting to see an exchange student from another country as well.

𝑮𝑰𝑵𝑵𝒀

Lesbian. Poly lesbian. All those boys she went out with in Hogwarts were actually just beards. And she was having a secret relationship with another girl in her year. However, the polyamory doesn't come out until she's in her 20s.

𝑩𝑰𝑳𝑳

Polysexual; sexual or romantic attraction to people with varying genders. Polysexual orientations include bisexuality, pansexuality, omnisexuality, and queer, among many others. Basically, he can be attracted to anyone. But Fleur was the one who captured his heart fully and wholely.

𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑳𝑰𝑬

Asexual; I know he isn't in the movies (WHY?!) but he spends all his time with Dragons, and I think that will always be his main love and passion.

[jomiddlemarch]

The shapes a bright container can contain!

IV. “This is a carriage house?” Hermione asked after first standing silent for a good two minutes, a length of time that seemed far longer when a witch was known to hurl herself into a squid-infested loch in early winter.

“You speak as if you have an extensive experience of real estate,” Draco retorted. 

“It’s quite a bit more house than I’d imagined,” she said. To exceed Hermione Granger’s imagination was a feat and Draco decided he’d follow the Muggle adage and begin as he meant to go on.

“Did you expect it to still contain carriages? Or horses? Tack?” Draco said. “Did you want a pony? That could be arranged, though I think an Arabian or an Abraxan hybrid—"

“No. Of course not,” she said. “But this is quite lovely. So thoughtfully appointed.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Your wife had exquisite taste,” Hermione said.

“Yes, she did,” Draco replied. “You can see it in the main house. This was my project.”

“Oh, I see. I didn’t mean to imply,” she broke off. Somehow, this was what flustered her, this bit of gauche maladroitness, though she was staying in the home of a former Death Eater, a man who still bore the brand of a genocidal maniac on his forearm. She didn’t blush however; her eyes only widened and she seemed to lose what color she had. Draco decided he’d look after her well enough blushing became an option again.

“It’s all right. Why don’t I give you a tour of the place, get you settled,” he said. He wanted to offer her his arm, to feel her hand on him and keep her steady, but he suspected she would actually be as offended as she’d imagined he might just have been. He walked closer to her than would ordinarily be considered polite and kept the pace slow.

“This is the sitting room,” he said, gesturing around them. Two large chesterfields upholstered in dark green velvet sat on either side of a coffee-table strewn with periodicals and some art books, a bowl hewn from the base of a cypress at the center, filled with green apples. Squashy silk pillows in an array of jewel tones were tucked at either end of the sofas, a cashmere throw draped in a corner. A pair of club chairs bracketed the large fireplace, and an ancient Persian rug was underfoot. Long windows were surrounded by bookshelves, the bookshelves full of neatly arranged books that appeared much-handled. 

“It’s lovely. Looks very comfortable,” Hermione said. He beckoned her to follow him as he walked across the space and miraculously, she followed, her wand-hand empty.

“This is the kitchen. The table seats six, though it’s easy enough to enlarge it if you wanted to have more people over. You should have as many people over as you like,” Draco said. The table was a generously sized oval made of beautifully patinaed mahogany and he thought she would have preferred something sturdy and practical, a scrubbed oak. She’d want to set it with mismatched plates, a potluck with dishes randomly assembled or better yet, Indian takeaway with plenty of samosas.

“Is there a Transfiguration spell that preserves the wood better?” Hermione asked. 

“There’s a leaf. Though any standard Transfiguration you’d cast would be fine. It’s not a priceless antique,” Draco said.

“It looks like a Sheraton,” Hermione remarked. “I suppose that’s not priceless to you. It’s just Muggle.”

“It’s a fake. A fake Sheraton,” Draco said, shrugging, trying not to feel flustered and failing. “I like the look of Georgian furniture, but I didn’t want anything that would feel like a museum piece. I had enough of that, growing up. Except that that furniture was also cursed half the time.”

“Half, huh?”

“Closer to three-quarters in the North Wing. Dreadful place and you can’t even burn it to the ground,” he said. 

“A pity. I guess. This is the kitchen proper?” she said, moving past him into the room with its soapstone worktops, slate floors, sage green painted cupboards fitted as neatly as a ship’s galley, though there was plenty of space. A marble slab for pastry, a great hulking Aga prepared to cook a roast and warm the whole house, and tucked behind—

“That’s a butler’s pantry,” Draco said, as she poked her head around to peer in the narrow space.

“You thought this place needed a butler’s pantry? Is there a butler?” she asked, then paused, a look of bemused horror on her face. “Good Lord, is there a butler?”

“There’s no butler and no House-elves either, before you get yourself worked into a tizzy,” Draco said. He’d have liked to have Tizzy herself serving, earning the ample wage they’d negotiated, but he’d known that no matter how comprehensive the benefits, Hermione would be distressed to be waited upon by a creature in a toweling jumpsuit, unable to convince herself she wasn’t taking advantage. “I thought butler’s pantry sounded better than glorified closet. I will now pause to allow you to make some comment along the lines of me being a posh git.”

“You’ve made that unnecessary now,” Hermione said, horror passed, smiling again.

“There’s a butler’s pantry because I needed a defined space I could configure for electricity to work. Neville said you have very strong opinions about the Panis tosti charm—”

“It’s shite,” she interrupted. “Utter bollocks. It’s a travesty to call what it does toast and everyone knows it and won’t admit it. Molly Weasley has five different toasting forks because the charm is such shite—”

“As I said, Very Strong Opinions, duly noted. Also, he said you have slightly less Strong Opinions on toasting forks, I believe they hearken too much to the Edwardian period for your taste, and so I had to make sure there was some part of the house where you could make a proper piece of toast in a toaster,” Draco explained. He opened the little hatch that concealed the toaster. “There’s also a charging station for any devices that need it.”

“Oh my goodness,” she said.

“You probably won’t short it all out if you cast a spell, but I’d try to keep it to a minimum and no wandless. When you channel magic through your hands directly, it warps the wards I put up,” he said.

“You did a lot of work,” she said. “Went to a lot of trouble.”

“What part of looking after properly was obscure to a witch of your erudition and exactitude?” Draco said. She’d think he was teasing and he was but he also meant it, especially the praise, which he’d been told to expect her to shrug off.

She shrugged.

“You didn’t have to,” she said.

“I only did what I thought I must. What I thought you would do, without a second thought, if you were the one taking care of someone,” Draco said. 

“I’ve never gotten Harry a toaster,” she said. 

“But he doesn’t ever seem to miss all the Mugglish equipment he grew up with. He was happy to leave it all behind,” Draco said. 

“He does love everything Wizarding,” Hermione said. “Even Celestina Warbeck.”

Draco could not help his grimace then, but Hermione gave him a look of the purest camaraderie and appreciation, suggesting his expression had not put her off in the slightest.

“I shan’t say a word. About his taste in music at least,” he said. “There’s a water closet just at the back, before the conservatory. We might explore there a bit or would you rather see the sleeping quarters upstairs?”

He spent a considerable amount of time mulling over how he’d mention where she would sleep to minimize any awkwardness, knowing he didn’t want to utter the word bed but that she’d immediately pick up on any verbal contortions to avoid it.

“Did you have Neville to see to the conservatory?” she asked, prescient. Longbottom had spent a week and the entire budget Draco had given him, but the results were lovely and marvelously fragrant.

“Yes,” Draco answered.

“Then I’ll have an idea of what it’s like already and I’ll enjoy finding out how I’m wrong later,” she said. “Take me upstairs.”

[bohemian-nights]

did you hear the rumor that nettles might not be played by a black woman? rumor is its rhianne barreto, shes white and a quarter indian

Unfortunately yes🤦🏽‍♀️ All I can say is that it’s mostly “fans” cheering this on and actively wanting her to be Nettles because for some reason tan equals brown, Black people are never brown-skinned or can be described as such, therefore Nettles definitely isn’t Black even though she looks like this in canon:

The casting speculation is based on social media follows which haven’t always been the most accurate. I mean people said that Jessica Brown Findlay was going to play Alys based on the fact that she started following some of the cast(and I believe some of the crew). We saw how that turned out🤷🏽‍♀️

There are actually two Black women that I know of who are following some of the cast. Corinna Brown(left) and Karla-Simone Spence(right).

Either would be awesome if they were/are Nettles, but for some odd reason hardly anyone has pointed this out and no one is making(sh!t stirring) Reddit threads or tweeting up a storm and saying that they are Nettles🙃

In the event that Rhianne, a tan woman, who in addition to not being black, up until like two years ago only ever identified as white🙃 is Nettles, well it’s bye-bye HOTD and this racist fandom for me✌🏽Yeah I definitely won’t be watching or supporting the show after all the anti-Black and especially anti-Black women stunts they have pulled.

I for one haven’t forgotten how they lit Laena on fire and tried to make it seem like it was the “feminist” thing to do(thanks Sara Hess and whoever else approved that mess😊) along with turning her into an unloved wife which wasn’t in the book(s) when she was a white woman🙃 Decisions which mind you a lot of the fandom went along with and feverishly approved of for reasons that we won’t get into☺️

Anyway, it’s all just speculation from (primarily) rabidly anti-Black fans. Until we actually get a confirmed casting nothing is certain🤷🏽‍♀️

[thenxghtwemxt]

@classiqals | Ariyan and Ishani, The Maid's Quarters of the Mughal Empire's Apartments

This would not be their first action against authority, nor does Ishani expect it to be their last. But there is a sloppiness and second-rate spin to it that does not sit well. If they are to act in their own interests, they better win. Alas, it feels like anything but, and Ishani rounds the corner of the maid's quarters. A point of entry that, while guarded, could easily be bought with the same bloodied, Indian rupees as before. Ishani awaits her predecessor (though they do not concede yet). A dissatisfied scowl on her face as Ariyan finally approaches under the guise of cloaks and daggers.

"Those senseless, stupid mercenaries." Ishani nearly spits, arms crossed and brow furrowed. Dark, beady eyes dancing around them, ensuring no one can hear. "They were miserable failures. It was meant to be clean, seamless. Instead-" Her arms fly in exasperation. "I could have done better." In fact, Ishani has, and it's that knowledge that fuels her disenchantment with Ariyan as of late. When did she, the tortoise, begin outpacing the hare? "What of Rishabh, then? Still breathing?"

[softguarnere]

Like A Girl (Like A Man)

Shifty Powers x OFC

Chapter 31: The Place Where They Cried

Summary: He claps Zenie on the back with – somewhat – good cheer. When no one else in the room responds, Luz finally elaborates. “Hitler is dead.” A/N: Chapter title is the literal English translation of the Trail of Tears in Cherokee Also, sorry this is like three days late. I think we all know by now that time management is not my forte. Warnings: discussions of genocide (the Trail of Tears and the Holocaust), language, alcohol, mentions of war Taglist: @latibvles @liebgotts-lovergirl @lady-cheeky @mrs-murder-daddy @ithinkabouttzu @lieutenant-speirs

Germany, 1945

Though Granny herself had only met them once when she was a girl, she had mentioned to Zenie several times that they had a lot of family out in Oklahoma. She maintained a steady correspondence with them over the years, bridging the gaps of the diaspora. When Zenie had asked how their relations got so far away, Granny had told her stories so horrifying that they seemed like something out of a novel – stories of invaders barging into houses and telling families that they had only minutes to pack and be gone; stories of people being crowded into stockades where sickness spread between them like wildfire; and stories where those who survived were forced to march through the worst conditions until they reached a place called Indian Territory. Granny promised that they would make the trip out there, someday, when Zenie was older.

Now, as they make their way back to town, the scenes that Zenie has seen throughout the day mix with all the stories Granny once told her that rise, very suddenly, to the surface of her mind. If the smells and the sights are making everyone else nauseous, speechless, then the effect is worse on Zenie.

Didn’t she barge into homes, commandeer them as the families were forced out with only what they could carry? And this place . . . Whatever it is they’ve found, from what Liebgott has translated, is too familiar to the things that Granny once told her about the history of her own people. All the realizations hit her at once, overpowering her. Bile burns her throat. Guilt weighs heavy in her stomach. The word genocide never held so much weight before.

Hardly anyone speaks on the trip back into town. No one speaks when they return to the homes they’re quartered in. What is there to say? The things they saw in the woods today are unspeakable.

Most of her friends fall into seats in the living room. Brows are furrowed, faces are set, and everyone is quiet, but the act of being together – even sitting in silence – can make people feel less alone.

A vague realization registers somewhere within her: she can stay right here with them and, for once, not shut herself up in a lonely room like she would back at home, in some other lifetime that feels ever more distant now.

She’s lowering herself onto the sea green cushion of the overstuffed armchair when she catches a glimpse of him out the window. Through the glass, Shifty’s eyes flick over her, unseeing, then focus back on the street ahead of him as he heads back to his billet.

No one asks where she’s going when she jumps up, runs to the door, and rushes out into the street. “Shifty!”

The Virginian stops, turns. Their eyes meet, and she knows that he understands.

The door has barely shut behind them when Zenie falls into his arms, hiding her face in his shoulder. The foyer of the house is quiet except for the pace of their racing hearts, the occasional shocked breath.

“Shifty,” she whispers.

“I know.” He rubs a hand on her back. “I know.”

“Granny always said – “ A shudder overtakes her, her spine transforming itself into a tube of ice water as all the stories that she was too young to understand come back to her. “It happened here, too. It can happen anywhere.” Buried in his shoulder, she’s not sure if her next words are audible. “When will it end?”

Shifty’s posture goes rigid. The full meaning of her words must be hitting him. Maybe the stories about Removal in his own family are coming back to him, suddenly vivid now that he’s seen so much human suffering.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he offers in a whisper.

“No.” The answer is more of an accident, something that just slips out. But no. She doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s like sitting in the foxhole by herself after Bill and Joe got hit in Bastogne – it feels unreal. Talking about today would make it too prevalent in her mind. Out of all the things that she’s seen in war, this is the worst. The camps are what she wishes she could unsee. She won’t allow herself to think about them. Not until she has to. Maybe not ever.

And tomorrow? Will they go back? Someone has to sort through the bodies, through the buildings, through the dirt. The images of what they discovered today will never leave her mind. And whatever they see tomorrow . . .

If the stoney expressions on her friends in the living room are anything to go by, it will only renew their determination to end the war.

It’s Luz who tells her.

“Happy fuckin’ birthday to Tommy!” Arms spread wide, he enters the room with a grin – not a smile as wide as the ones he once had before Bastogne, but it’s a smile, nonetheless.

He’s wrong, but at least he remembered – kind of. “You’re a day early, Luz.”

He claps Zenie on the back with – somewhat – good cheer. When no one else in the room responds, Luz finally elaborates. “Hitler is dead.”

“Thank God,” someone sighs.

The news perks everyone up. Hitler, dead? Does this mean . . . ?

No. The war does not miraculously sputter to a close, anti-climactic, or at its most dramatic moment, depending on how you look at it. But Luz has more good news.

“Nixon says that we’re moving out in an hour.”

A collective noise that’s not quite a cheer and not exactly a groan ripples through the small group. Easy Company is on the move, again. At least they’re not stagnant, waiting around in foxholes. But God knows where they’re going now – and what they will see when they get there.  

Picturesque mountains.

On the way there, at least. Fields framed by snowcapped peaks in the background. All beautiful sights that seem incongruous with their final destination: the home of the Nazi party. Who seem determined to stop them from barging into their territory.

“This war has more sitting around than I thought it would,” Zenie realizes aloud. Piles of rubble and rock are blocking their path up the mountain to Berchtesgaden. Amid the stopped vehicles, people have jumped down and are congregating like it’s the time of fellowship during church. Except instead of shaking hands, hugging, and telling everyone it’s good to see them, they’re all speculating about if they will ever actually see the top of this trail.

“At least we’re not in foxholes this time, though,” Popeye chirps.

Shifty squints up at the sky. It’s clear, the perfect blue. “Warm, too. For early May.” Then he smiles. “Good birthday weather, Tommy.”

The same giddiness that came over her back in Bastogne returns at the realization that Shifty remembered her birthday. They’re not back in the States for the beginnings of spring, but they’ve got a nice view. And if they could ever get up this mountain, the sprawling landscape promises to be even more beautiful.

“Better than what Earl had.” Lightly, Zenie elbows her friend in the ribs. Four days earlier, it had been overcast and there was a chill in the air. Today though, the bright weather promises to lead to something exceptional.

McClung shrugs. “Yeah, well, you’re welcome, Tommy. I used my birthday wish to get you this nice weather. You can thank me later.”

“Gosh, Earl. That sure was sweet of you. How could I ever repay you?”

Earl shakes his head, brushing it off. “Shoot, kid, it was nothing. Don’t mention it. From the kindness of my heart, and all that.”

When the road is finally cleared, the four of them opt to race up the steep trail with some of the others instead of riding the trucks. After all those runs up Currahee, it’s nothing. No one would ever admit it for fear of Sobel finding out, but stretching their legs like this again feels nice, and completing the run fills them with a sense of accomplishment. Back in Toccoa, it would have been impossible to imagine reaching the top of the mountain – or any mountain, for that matter – and laughing in good cheer about it, shoving each other and joking around, but now, after all they’ve been through, something about it just feels natural.

“Did you let me win?” Earl laughs when they finish.

Zenie shrugs. “Oh, kindness of my heart, and everything.” She laughs when Earl delivers a friendly shove to her shoulder.

“Smart ass.”

An organized sort of chaos quickly descends over Berchtesgaden. Its former residents left behind their finest clothes, jewels, and heirlooms – much of which can be seen in the arms of Captain Speirs as he hauls them away to wherever he hides them, building up a collection of shiny goods, like a magpie. Alcohol begins to flow so freely and in seemingly unlimited supplies that one could almost think about a glass of wine and have it manifest in their hand. Fancy rooms in lavish, towering buildings are opened up for their use, and are quickly claimed by people who feel it’s their right to sleep so comfortably after all those months of holes in the ground. The only thing there seems to be a lack of is rules. Or, more accurately, rules that are actively enforced.

“Sobel would hate this,” Zenie notes as a car comes flying down the street they’re on. Their small band jumps out of the way as Talbert flies past, laughing and honking the horn as he goes. If their infamous former captain were here, they would probably all be more tempted to cut loose than they currently are. The collection of souvenirs would cease or would become a sort of black market.

Luckily for Zenie, many of the fancy goods that draw her eye go largely unnoticed by the men. Most of them are too busy with guns and art to notice the silky dresses in the closets, or the bangles in the drawers.

On their first day, her friends begin sifting through a suite in one of the hotels, rummaging around for art and trinkets. Zenie lingers in the doorway, watching the scene. Invaders, she had heard Bull call them. Not for the first time in a few days, they’re barging into homes. Now, though, they’re taking souvenirs, intentionally leaving things out of place. We’re here to stay, the actions announce.

Babe throws open the curtains, allowing the large room to fill with sunlight that pours in from the spring day on the other side of the window. Illuminated, something on the vanity in the corner glints, catching Zenie’s eye.

A golden tube of lipstick rests on top of the smooth wood. Upon further inspection, it’s only half closed, like its owner left it behind in haste. The tube feels cool to the touch and smooth between Zenie’s fingers. It slides fully open easily to reveal a deep, royal red. Rich. The color of money. Zenie should know; this is similar to the color that she’s seen Beckie wear on her rare trips home.

Actually, Zenie herself once wore this color. Years ago – a lifetime ago, now – to a Christmas party. The Christmas party. What was she? Fifteen? Sixteen? It doesn’t matter now. She had borrowed Marilyn’s lipstick, coating her lips in it in the hopes that she would be leaving a stain in this color on Elijah Woodard’s cheek by the end of the night.

Silly, stupid to think about now. Those were once her biggest concerns: Beckie, Elijah, lipstick, what people thought of her, if she was as pretty as her older sister. Her new world has bigger problems than teenage drama.

The tube snaps firmly shut when Zenie replaces the cap. She places it back as it was, but it holds her gaze, engaging her in an intense staring contest.

A gentle hand on her elbow draws her back into the room. Shifty stands beside her, looking between her and the lipstick.

“Just say you’re sendin’ it back home to your sister,” he suggests in a whisper, as if he can feel the desire to pocket the makeup.

Invading homes, taking things – it all seemed so wrong when it first started. But somehow, here she is, standing in the homes of the very people who dragged innocent people from their homes, shaved their heads, forced them into camps. These people didn’t have the decency to feel bad about the things they’ve inflicted on innocents.

It plays back in her mind, this new image of Shifty that she hasn’t yet allowed herself to fully consider. The Shifty she saw back in the camp, who a man approached and knelt in front of, holding a sickly man in his arms, begging for help. Shifty, who said in his gentlest voice, “I’m sorry,” over and over again, because he knew there was nothing to be done for the man, but he couldn’t just leave him there alone. Yet another memory from Germany that will never leave her.

Any guilt she may have had regarding the owner of the lipstick melts away in an instant. They took far more from people than Zenie taking this tube could ever compare to. She places it in her pocket and joins the others in their search, pocketing a pair of earrings for Mama as well.

Between the collecting, the partying, the hunting, the hiking, the overall fun that they’re having, almost a month flies by with ease. With the lax rules and newfound opportunities for privacy, Zenie joins Shifty in the woods when he goes hunting, reveling in the shelter that allows them to speak freely, the opportunity to be herself for a bit.

With all the new space available to them, no one complains any longer about Tommy’s private habits, like his tendency to disappear whenever changing clothes is required. At night, Zenie can remove the bandages from her chest and enjoy deep, full breaths while she sleeps. Gene says that her ribs look the better for it, but all Zenie knows is that she hadn’t realized how badly she missed being able to sleep comfortably and without the fear of being discovered. And she’s starting to think that she could carry on like this forever.

Until a new word becomes an everyday part of their vocabulary.

Points.

[bindi-the-skunk]

New fic idea

Sleep evaded Nemo

Now this was far from a rare occurrence, as both the captain's past and just insomnia in general often caused rest to be a bit difficult to find some nights.

Throwing the covers aside, Nemo got to his feet, grunting a bit as the feeling of unrest seemed to intensify in him, something was not as it should be.

With all the quietness of a stalking cat, Nemo checked in on all those he knew would be sleeping, the members of his crew who worked the day shift all slept peacefully, the captain hoping they all were having enjoyable dreams that would follow them when awake.

Sawyer did not even budge from his sleep, not even when his door betrayed Nemo with a groan, how had that gone unfixed? Irritating, but all their youngest did was offer a contented hum and snuggle deeper into the sheets, completely unbothered and affording Nemo a long-lost pleasantry, even if the agent was far older than his children had been, and more experienced in the world than many would give him credit.

Skinner, as predicted, was a bit more of an…interesting sleeper, talking random nonsense in his sleep, mouth unable to stop working even in dreams, but also unbothered by being looked in on, only giving Nemo the amusing mental image of a talking banana with glasses, the eye cover he wore as he slept being the only indicator of where he was in the lump of sheets and blankets.

Jekyll also proved an interesting sleeper, his blankets and pillows had been shoved to one half of the bed, his left arm and leg lost under the pile, well his other limbs had thrown themselves over it in a rather odd bear-hug and mild snores signaled that he also was undisturbed.

Nemo did not bother with any attempt at silence when he approached Ms. Harker's room, knocking on the door, a soft voice gave him permission to come in, which he did, Mina's unique condition meant she did not require the sleep that a regular person did, so snoring or other signs of deep sleep would have been what raised an alarm.

"Sleep evading you, captain? Should I bring out the chess set? I was just finishing up with my project" Mina offered kindly, setting down some papers on her desk.

"No, thank you, I am going to keep on with my current project, I was just making sure nothing was amiss"

"Well, I am fine, I do hope you can get some rest tonight, I hear we will be stopping at a nearby island for supplies tomorrow, I'm sure someone will see fit to drag you along shopping" Mina chuckled a bit though Nemo seemed to have missed the joke.

Both Sawyer and Jekyll seemed to take great stock in dragging Nemo along with them for shore trips, and well the doctor usually took a bit more of a careful step in finding something that their captain might also enjoy, such as a play or rare book, young Thomas seemed more interested in just making sure the stubborn Indian tortoise was pulled out of his shell as much as he could stand before biting.

Suppose he could not blame them, Jekyll used to be an active member of high society, and would be used to attending parties and ostentatious operas en-masse, Sawyer also was a social man, openly flirting with young ladies and talking to recent aquantences like he had known them for years, opposed to Nemo's more isolated nature that held very few close, and those that he did were prized more than any rare pearl or overflowing shipwreck he might come across on his travels.

Mina was of course quiet and always open to a chess game, she also enjoyed shopping, as most people did, and was never short on a possible escort, with several men proving a desire to have her approval or have an afternoon on the town with a woman of her great beauty on their arm.

Nemo himself was of course, not blind to her lovliness, but he held no more of an inclination towards it than he might a nice painting upon the wall, beautiful to lay eyes on, but not something you touched.

"Yes, of course, I should not be long before I return to my quarters, have a good night" Nemo said before turning and leaving to continue on his quest, wondering all the while what his instincts seemed to be pulling him towards.

[fits-like-a-fist-in-the-eye]

CHARACTER INTRODUCTIONS!!!!

All this info is from the very beginning of the story! I’ll make more character profiles as the story goes on!

Hamato Raphael:

Age: 13 and three quarters (well… that’s what he thinks he is)

Pronouns: he/him

Height: 6’1

Species: mutant— absolute DNA cocktail, mostly alligator snapping turtle and human

Fun facts: raph is a trans boy, autistic (i mean, as close as a turtle can be to a human diagnosis), and has OSDD (again, as close as he can come to the human diagnosis), though he doesn’t know it yet. can breathe underwater! team medic <3

Hamato Michelangelo:

Age: 11 (as far as he’s aware)

Pronouns: he/him

Height: 5’1

Species: mutant— absolute DNA cocktail, mostly ornate box turtle and human

Fun facts: he’s intersex, but he only finds out at 15 years old lmfao. turtle mutant equivalent of ADHD and probably autism but who knows? pyromaniac. aroace icon!!!

Hamato Donatello:

Age: 12 (twins with leo)

Pronouns: he/him (…or are they?)

Height: 5’9

Species: mutant— absolute DNA cocktail, mostly indian peacock softshell turtle and human, with a very prominent splash of lionfish

Fun facts: autism (again with the human terminology) galore, loves botany, chemistry, mechanics, and coding. can breathe underwater! shy, deadly, and extremely weird. cannot read a map even at gunpoint.

Hamato Leonardo:

Age: 12 (twins with donnie)

Pronouns: he/him and they/them

Height: 5’6

Species: mutant— absolute DNA cocktail, mostly red eared slider and human

Fun facts: PTSD. so much of it. apprentice medic, the best at hiding out of every single character except one. HOH from birth. ADHD (again, human terms). trans boy!

Splinter/ Hamato Yoshi:

Age: 42

Pronouns: he/him

Height: 6’1

Species: mutant— human and grasshopper mouse

Fun facts: represses himself so hard he represses others. absolute piece of shit. he chose this and he deserves what he gets. i hate him so much.

April O’Neil

Age: 14

Pronouns: she/her

Height: 5’

Species: human

Fun facts: autistic, trans girl, she was born without a left hand but completely forgets to do the “can you give me a hand” jokes or the “need a hand?” jokes when she’s wearing her prosthetic. probably hasn’t seen her parents in 2 months because they suck. will be officially adopted as the turtles’ sister

Alistair Phalanx Draxum:

Age: ????

Pronouns: all, but generally prefers he/him

Height: 6’8

Species: dorset sheep yōkai

Fun facts: autistic (again, human terms), genderqueer transmasc, has done genetic experiments but was very ethical about it all, Traumatized, currently a paediatric doctor with a specialty in surgery!

???? (referred to as It):

Age: he’d be around 47 at this point

Pronouns: he/him

Height: 6’1

Species: human

Fun facts: none of his facts are fun.

????:

Age: 12

Pronouns: he/him

Height: 4’11

Species: river/sea kushtaka hybrid

Fun facts: i love him. he’s going to die.

????:

Age: VERY OLD

Pronouns: she/her, it/its

Height: 5’

Species: lynx yōkai

Fun facts: extremely fluffy, wonderful person. saved alistair from himself. basically his mom now. paediatric doctor and therapist (thank god)

[crypticfandomtrash]

Theoretical Alphabet Apprentices Part 2

K's real name is Karekin Darchinyan. He is Armenian and was born in the capital city. He speaks Armenian, English, Georgian, Russian, and Arabic. He is also studying Ancient Greek and Latin. His birthday is October 18, 1986.

He is 5'11 and three quarters. He has pale skin, brown hair, and blue eyes. He is fairly slim, but he can fight well.

His parents died in a bombing when he was 14. He took shelter in a church for a few weeks before being found by Wammy, who was visiting Armenia at the time. He loves history and weaponry and researches old battles. He is decent at almost every subject.

He remains in the Successor Program, but he knows he isn't likely to be chosen as L's main apprentice. He wants to become a historian or a history teacher. As of pre-timeskip Death Note, he is 17-18.

O's real name is Odette Lacroix. She is French and was born in Marseilles. She speaks French, English, and Italian. She is also learning Japanese. Her birthday is April 11, 1990.

She is 5'6 in height. She has blonde hair and blue eyes. Her favorite clothes are cute dresses and she loves accessories.

Her parents died in a car crash when she was 2. She survived and was raised by an aunt until she was 12. She was placed in foster care because her aunt remarried and the husband didn't want her around. Wammy heard of her plight from a contact and had her flown to England. She is energetic and cheerful. She makes friends easily and often gives other kids advice. She quit the program to study various things geared around helping others.

She is very compassionate and empathetic. She is Catholic and prays for the wellbeing of others. Since she doesn't remember much about her parents, she isn't as negatively affected by their deaths as she could have been. As of pre-timeskip Death Note, she is 13-14.

P's real name is Ploumisti Chloros. She is Greek and was born in a seaside town. She speaks Greek and English. She is studying French. Her birthday is June 25, 1988.

She is 5'10 in height. She has brown hair with a goldish tint and amber eyes. She is athletic and doesn't let people mess with her.

Her parents gave up custody because they were extremely poor. No other relatives could take her. She was brought to Wammy's when she was 5. Her name means "ornament" and she is considered a great beauty. She is able to get almost whatever what she wants because she is very charming. She quit the program because she wants to be a model or a fashion designer.

She encourages others to feel beautiful and positive about themselves. While she can be manipulative, she does not like to hurt others or their feelings. As of pre-timeskip Death Note, she is 15-16.

Q's real name is Qiaoluan Feng. She is Chinese and was born in Shanghai. She speaks Chinese, Japanese, and English. Her birthday is January 7, 1988.

She is 5'5. She has sleek black hair and dark brown eyes. She is slender and pretty, though she doesn't brag.

Her parents were protesters who were executed by the government when she was 11. A contact of Wammy's saw her in state care and notified him. She was secretly taken to England. She is sly and quick witted. She is skilled at making disguises and hacking computers and is often found hanging out with Matt. She also enjoys tea ceremonies and other traditional things.

She hasn't quit the program and hopes that her skills will be useful to L and whoever becomes his main apprentice. She hopes to become either a white hat hacker or a software developer. As of pre-timeskip Death Note, she is 15-16.

R's real name is Reshmi Kaur. She is Indian and was born in the Punjab region. She speaks Hindi, Punjabi, and English. Her birthday is March 12, 1987.

She is 5'2 and a half in height. She has very long black hair and brown eyes. She does not cut her hair because she is a Sikh and they don't do that unless there is an emergency.

Her parents died from the same illness when she was 9 and her relatives refused to take her in. After two foster homes, she was flown to Wammy's when she was 13. She is friendly and has a good sense of humor. She quit the Successor Program to study medicine. She wants to be a doctor and is extremely diligent.

She often tends to her friends' scraps and bruises. Whenever she finds an injured animal, she will try to nurse it back to health. She enjoys dancing. As of pre-timeskip Death Note, she is 16-17.

[pratigyakrishnaki]

Of Queens and Lions

She smiled, grinning from ear to ear as her stomach dropped and she experienced the weightlessness that came from her fighter jet executing the steepest of dives towards the lake. She fell further and further, the smile on her face growing wider and wider.

“Squadron leader Rathod, pull out of the dive NOW.” She ignored the command from Ground Control. Just a little further.

The water hurtled closer; still she did not pull up.

“Queenie! You’ll crash!” That was Lucky, her fellow teammate.

She ignored him too. There would be hell to pay for the ignorance, but this rush; she relished in it.

She was feet from the water, mere inches, before she grabbed the joystick and pulled. Hard. The jet righted itself, sending sprays of water flying while her jet’s belly kissed the edge of the lake. She let loose a loud whoop before she heard in her ear, “Squadron Leader Rathod. Ground yourself immediately and report for questioning.” 

Dammit. Sher had found her. She sighed and turned away from the lake, returning to base. Some people, would never understand the rush of flight, speed and the skies, but she, Rani Rathod, was born to live in the sky. 

-

If only some people understood that, she thought grimly as she extricated herself from her helmet and flying gear. Captain Sher Singhania, didn’t seem like someone who did. But that couldn’t be true, otherwise how would someone so young become the captain of their team so quickly? Sher’s name was infamous in their academy. He came from a flying legacy. His father and his father’s father had been generals in the Indian Air Force, and Sher seemed on the trajectory to do the same. But he was only 28. A young, mere 28. 

As Rani walked to the captain’s quarters, she remembered the first time she had met Sher. Excited to be working with him, she had seemed so eager, so quick to shake his hand. But Sher seemed to hate her from the get go.  As she stood there, her hand outstretched, he just stared at her and then turned away, greeting all the other members of the Garud Squad. She had turned red, her ears burning as she stared for just a moment longer before turning away from the man.

A/N: It's been a long while. Two years since I've been here. A lot has happened. Loss, love, and a lot more. I'm getting married in a few months, and he's helping me regain my love for writing. Maybe we'll see more of Rani, maybe not. I sure hope so though. She's become a part of me quickly.

Anyways, hope you all are well. Come say hello!

[dwellordream]

Notable American Women: BARTON, Clara (Dec. 25, 1821 - Apr. 12, 1912)

“...Named Clarissa Harlowe, after the heroine of Richardson’s novel, she preferred to be known simply as Clara. She was deeply influenced by her family. Her father, to whom she was especially close, was a veteran of the Indian wars and a substantial farmer and sawmill owner who inspired his daughter with patriotism, a love of military lore, and a broad humanitarian interest.

From her mother, a practical, hot-tempered, and warm-hearted woman, she acquired a lifelong interest in the household arts. Her four considerably older brothers and sisters also played important parts in her education, guiding her in mathematics, literature, and out-of-doors activities, including horsemanship. “I had no playmates but in effect six fathers and mothers,” she later wrote.

…Plain in feature, almost neurotically sensitive, and endowed with an abundance of nervous energy, she early evidenced a strong will, a determination to surmount obstacles, and a capacity to identify herself with needy sufferers. At eighteen, little more than five feet tall, she began to teach in neighboring schools, her early success giving her increasing self-confidence and poise. Her patience, integrity, sense of fun, and ability to inspire won the life-long devotion of many of her pupils.

…In the confused days that marked the beginning of the Civil War, Clara Barton found an opportunity to aid and befriend homesick Massachusetts soldiers in the capital. Later, witnessing the almost total lack of first-aid facilities at the battle of Bull Run, she advertised in the Worcester (Mass.) Spy for provisions for the wounded. 

Using her own limited quarters as a storeroom, she accumulated bandages, medicines, and food. Despite initial opposition in the War Department and among field surgeons, she and a few friends began in the summer of 1862 to distribute these supplies by mule team to ill-equipped hospitals and camps and on the battlefields themselves.

…Insistent on keeping her operations independent of the United States Sanitary Commission and of Dorothea Dix’s division of female nurses, Clara Barton short-circuited military routine and again and again appeared at military engagements with desperately needed supplies. Adaptable and cooperative, she was able to commandeer army mules and wagons for transport. It was her genius to blend sympathy with efficiency and never-failing resourcefulness. 

…Increasingly she won the respect and admiration of commanding officer and surgeons, one of whom wrote, after seeing her in action at a critical juncture, that “if heaven ever sent out a holy angel, she must be one, her assistance was so timely”. She always insisted that she was only one of hundreds of women who had rendered such service, yet by thousands of soldiers she was remembered as the Angel of the Battlefield. 

…Undismayed by governmental and public apathy, she initiated what was to prove a five-year campaign for the organization of an American Red Cross Society and the adherence of her country to the Geneva Treaty. …Spending increasing periods of time in Washington (her permanent home after 1884), she worked indefatigably, though often in a mood of profound discouragement, to persuade the State Department, the White House, and Congress to ratify the treaty. 

…Finally, on Mar. 1, 1882, with the approval of the Secretary of State James G. Blaine and the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations, President Arthur signed the Geneva Treaty. Two weeks later the Senate ratified it. Both at home and abroad, it was generally agreed that American adherence could not have been effected had it not been for Clara Barton’s persistent campaign.

…Aware of the tendency of some philanthropic organizations to remain in operation longer than the situation warranted, she made a point of leaving when the main work was done. Although she cooperated with local relief groups and with government agencies when these were involved, she insisted on keeping tight rein over whatever was done. Her program consisted of getting as speedily as possible to the scene of the emergency with relief--food, clothing, medicine, materials for shelter. Anticipating a later emphasis, she was concerned with rehabilitation as well as with relief.

…But there was serious criticism, both from within the organization and from outside, of Miss Barton’s management. Many felt that her place was at her desk in Washington rather in the field preparing soup for soldiers or establishing orphan asylums for Cuban waifs. So ill-defined were relations between the national Red Cross organization and its nominal auxiliaries that much of the useful red Cross war work, particularly in the training of nurses, was wholly independent of the national office.

…She could not delegate authority. Any criticism of her informal method of handling finances, which was without benefit of acceptable bookkeeping or audits, seemed to her to impugn her integrity. The truth was that she clung to power when it was clear to all but her most devoted supporters that new methods and new leadership were required. 

…Whatever her failings, the honors were unquestionably merited. In a public career spanning over forty years, she had not only performed outstanding humanitarian services at home and abroad, but, above all, she had made the emblem and meaning of the Red Cross familiar to her countrymen.”

- Notable American Women, Volume I: A-F, 1971

[jofletch]

[CIS WOMAN  and SHE/HER] Welcome to Aurora Bay, [JOSELLE ‘JO’ FLETCHER  ]! I couldn’t help but notice you look an awful lot like [SUKI WATERHOUSE]. You must be the [30] year old [OWNER OF DRIFTWOOD COFFEE SHOP]. Word is you’re [GOAL ORIENTED] but can also be a bit [STAND OFFISH] and your favorite song is [KILL BILL by SZA]. I also heard you’ll be staying in [SEABROOK QUARTER]. I’m sure you’ll love it!

@aurorabayaesthetic​

Hello there friends, I’m Mads this is my little baby Jo, she’s a new charrie to me so bare with me in figuring her out. I’m working on a bio currently but in the meantime here is a quick little head cannon then some random tid-bits! I’m looking forward to plotting with you all :)

Headcannon:

-Jo grew up here in Aurora Bay

-She is most known for the little scandal that she got caught up in in High School, she was seeing an older guy when we was a senior (18) he was 25 and if you know all too well by Taylor Swift then you know where this is going.. 

-Basically she got screwed over, she was so innocent and gave her all to him yet that wasn’t enough. Just so happens he had a wife on the next town over.

-So she skipped town and went to  NYC stayed there and did a little toxic stint where she experiemented with everything and anything then fell in love with this rockstart whom (you guessed it) did not have good intentions.

-After that Jo came back home and opened up the driftwood something she can put her time and effort into, and here we are.

-She’s pretty much sworn off men and women alike because she’s just not about the heartbreak however she can’t resist a good time.

GENERAL INFORMATION.

Full Name: Joselle Renee Fletcher

Nicknames: Jo, Jojo, Josie,

Age: Thirty

Date of Birth: November 4, 1994

Place of Birth: Cape May, NJ

Zodiac: Scorpio

Gender: Cis Woman

Nationality :American

Religion: Agnostic

Orientation: Bisexual

Relationship Status: Single

PHYSICAL ATTRIBUTES.

face claim: Suki Waterhouse

height 5'0

weight 125 LBS

hair color: Dirty Blonde

eye color: Green

tattoos: Angel wings (right index finger )  

dominant hand: Right

distinguishing marks : none

outfit/clothing : artsy,boho, street casual

hometown: Aurora Bay

current residence : Seabrook Quarter

spoken languages English.

financial status:  Middle Class

education level Graduated from High School, (did online grad classes never finished them though)

occupation: Owner of Driftwood Coffee Shop

hobbies: traveling, film, going to art exhibits, being creative,  getting tattoos, being a foodie, creating new experiences.

BACKGROUND INFORMATION

FAMILIAL INFORMATION.

mother: Renee Fletcher,

father : Luke Fletcher

siblings (OPEN FOR CONNECTIONS)

cousins (OPEN FOR CONNECTION)

children: none (that he knows of as of currently- Ivy Amor’s baby is his lol)

PERSONALITY.

positive traits:  determined, humble, daring, cultured, realist

negative traits: non-commital, dissmissive, self-sabotaging, contradictory

likes: the smell of a good perfume/cologne,  mint gum, astrology,  fireplaces, tennis, stargazing

dislikes:  busses, being too hot,

EXTRAS.

FAVORITES

TV Show: Parks and Rec

Movie: Step Brothers

Book: 1984

Color: Seafoam

Flower: Orchid

Scent: (vanilla musk)

Food: Indian Food/  A Good Burger

Alcoholic Drink: Chardonnay

Music Artist(s)/Band(s):  Greta Van Fleet, The Black Keys, The Neighborhood

Song: You're The one- Greta Van Fleet

WANTED CONNECTIONS

best friend

childhood friends

drinking buddies

neighbour

exes

new fling

protective friends

cousin

enemies

work friends

roommate

his new muse

tinder hookup?/ sneaky link/ fwb kinda thing?

literally anything <3

[dear-indies]

Hi, Cat. Hope you're having a good night. If you don't mind, could you please help me find a fc for a fairy tale based muse? She's a former servant for a wealthy noble family who later becomes a princess after she breaks the spell the prince is under. She's easily scared at first, but finds her determination and bravery. Race and ethnicity don't matter. I don't have an age decided yet, but anywhere from 21 to 29 should be fine. My first thought was Maris Racal, but I'm having a little trouble finding Bisaya first names, so I thought I'd look at other options. Thanks so much!

Hey, anon! If you're looking for names and culture guides I'd suggest looking over the following by the amazing @minjeongwinters:

quick cheat sheet for bisaya words

volume one: surnames from indigenous philippine languages

so you want to write a filipino muse: a basic guide, from an actual filipino.

But as for more suggestions, most of which have period-style resources, I think Maris would be a great suggestion though!

Stephanie Levi-John (1989) Afro-Carribean.

Sophia Nomvete (1990) Black South African / Iranian.

Adelaide Kane (1990) - is bisexual.

Aiysha Hart (1990) Saudi Arabian and English.

Kiran Sonia Sawar (1991) Pakistani.

Michaela Jaé Rodriguez (1991) African-American / African-American and Puerto Rican - is trans.

Naomi Scott (1993) Gujarati Indian / English.

Hande Erçel (1993) Turkish.

Kim Adis (1993) Bisaya Filipino.

Olivia Cooke (1993)

Zoë Robins (1993) Nigerian, possibly other.

Rose Williams (1994)

Moses Ingram (1994) African-American.

Simone Ashley (1995) Tamil Indian.

Geraldine Viswanathan (1995) Tamil Indian / Swiss-German.

Amy James-Kelly (1995)

Xu Jia Qi (1995) Chinese.

Meng Zi Yi (1995) Chinese.

Katherine McNamara (1995)

Anya Chalotra (1996) Kashmiri Indian / English.

Anya Taylor-Joy (1996)

Ruby Barker (1996) Montserratian and Irish.

Amita Suman (1997) Bhojpuri Nepalese.

Charithra Chandran (1997) Tamil Indian.

Annabelle Davis (1997) - has spondyloepiphyseal dysplasia congenita.

Lana Condor (1997) Vietnamese.

Morgan Holmstrom (1997) Metis of Cree descent, Ilocano Filipino, and Sambal Filipino.

Nicole Maines (1997) - is trans.

Gabbi Garcia (1998) Tagalog Filipino.

Daisy Edgar-Jones (1998)

Joey King (1999) English, other / one quarter Italian, three quarters Ashkenazi Jewish.