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His Name Was JamesDisclaimer: All rights belong to the respective owners/creators. I own nothing and no profit is being made.
Author Note: A short, little story I wrote while watching the movie and wondering if Doug would ever have kids given how crazy his own childhood was. And if he did, what would he name them? Would he honour the man who had killed for him?
His name was James.
His father called him Jem.
He never understood until he was sixteen and the old man took him to a graveyard in Charlestown.
He stood there, next to his father, and stared down at the gravestone.
Son, Brother, Friend
1978 - 2010
He could clearly remember the way his father had looked at him as they stood there. And he could easily recall what the old man had said to him.
"I call you Jem in tribute to him. He saved my life when we were a little older than you." His father looked back at the gravestone. "Did nine years in Walpole for it and I I always tried to help hi
Changing of the Seasons - Chapter 8
Disclaimer: All rights belong to Marvel. I own nothing and no profit is being made.
Darcy was beyond surprised when Magnus wrapped the blanket around her. Even more surprised when he just simply sat down. He didn't look over at her, just sat there and stared towards the fire pit. She took the opportunity to study him.
He looked tired.
Like deep, bone weary tired.
She wasn't sure why she did it, would probably never be one-hundred-percent certain why she did it, but she reached over and took hold of his hand. He started, that acidic green gaze swung to her, but he didn't pull away. Instead he laced his fingers with hers. She smiled and looked out at the desert without a word. Just sat there, holding his hand and feeling rather content despite the little voice in the back of her head screaming at her that this was a bad idea.
She pushed that voice away and focused fully on just feeling content.
When he laced his fingers with Darcy's he was m
LatreuophobiaI wash off sick-sweet orange lipstick in front of a mirror as dusty as gothic romances. It tastes like oblivion, that is to say, like nothing my tongue can detect.
The door opens with a creak no private restroom could emulate. Some chick with blue bobbed hair and smeared eyeliner. I looked like that once. Ten years ago.
Getting the beer out of my hair is harder. Some men just can't take it when I'd rather they not kiss my feet or call me an angel or-
“Dayum girl, you look like a goddess.”
I gulp, taste of acid.
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