#wharf rats descendants

[shift-shaping]

in our defense

enaste and her companions arrive in the wycome alienage.

rating: t

pairing: solavellan

warnings: canon-typical racism/classism

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first fic in this series

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Enaste entered the city with just three hunters, plus Blackwall, Loranil, Jester, and Cole. Aridhel had very much wanted to come, and Deshanna allowed her after she reminded the Keeper of her stealth skills. The other two were much more experienced, and the decision to take them was easier: there was Elion, a short, stocky, and quiet man with stringy black hair and a somewhat alarming knowledge of poisons, and Midha, a lanky woman whose night vision was exceptional, even among elves. More than that had volunteered, but Enaste refused to put any more of her clanmates in danger than she had to. They'd changed into dark clothing, browns and blacks and deep pine greens, and wore hoods to blend in better with the night. 

Deshanna sent word ahead to the Hahren of the alienage, who met them at the very end of the aptly-named Long Wharf despite the darkness of the night and the steady, misty rain. He was an old man with patchy grey hair and worn, wrinkled features, standing with a cane in one hand that didn't seem to be bearing any weight. His clothing was nondescript, devoid of any signifier of his station save for an inconspicuous brooch on his chest in the shape of a sprawling oak tree. It looked old, and a bit rusted, and Enaste couldn't help but think how easy it would be to shine with a bit of magic. But they didn't have Keepers here, and their mages were sent to the Circle. 

Were, she reminded herself. There were no Circles now in Southern Thedas. 

At the old elf's side was a huge brown dog, its fur rat-like and its snout greying. It stood utterly still, resolute, completely calm despite the strangers and the uneven wooden planks beneath its paws. 

"Andaran atish'an, hahren," Enaste greeted, raising her voice slightly over the rolling crash of the waves around them. "Thank you for coming to meet us so urgently."

"I could hardly refuse a request from your Keeper," he replied, not looking at her but past her, to some interminable spot in the dark distance. "It is so rare to meet our wilder siblings, I couldn't miss such an opportunity." Enaste smiled. She could tell by his gentle tone that he meant no offense by calling them wild. "And if you can assist us in our defense, all the better." He had a kind voice, low and rumbling and warm. They shook hands, and his grip was so much weaker than hers that she felt a bit self-conscious of her strength. "A solid handshake. As expected of an Inquisitor, I suppose."

"Aha," she laughed awkwardly. "Then you already know who I am."

"No, I do not." She frowned, confused, and a little smirk pulled at his lips. "I know your title, but you are a stranger to me, Inquisitor Lavellan." He nodded, giving her the slightest hint of a bow. "I am Branan, but you may call me Bran."

"Ma nuvenin, hahren." Enaste smiled again, and returned his bow. "You may call me Enaste."

"And what a blessing you are," he said, and her smile widened a bit. She gestured to her companions, and introduced them each by name –including Cole when she noticed he was choosing not to be invisible. Bran politely listened to her introductions, but his gaze did not stray from that distant spot on the horizon. He thanked them for coming, then turned towards the alienage. "Come, we have much to discuss and little time to discuss it."

Enaste had never been to an alienage, but she'd heard the stories. An alienage was a prison, a punishment enacted upon innocent people for daring to descend from the losing side in a lopsided war. They couldn't leave without permission from human officials, and there was never enough food to go around. Plagues ran rampant, and slavers stole vulnerable people in the dark of night. Her people weren't perfect, no one was, yet even in the leanest times at least they were free. 

That anyone could choose to live like this was deeply unsettling. Did they not want to escape? Was the 'hard life' of the Dalish truly so difficult that a life trapped between walls was preferable? Why are you still here? Why don't you run? 

As they traversed the wharf, following Bran and his strange dog, what emerged from the darkness only crystalized her horror. Despite how thin and fragile and slick it was, people had built homes off the sides of the wharf --tiny wooden shacks hanging precariously over the water, held together with bent, rusting nails and rotting wood. They reeked of unwashed bodies, and most of the walls had gaps large enough for her to see the occupants inside. Candlelight flickered against the glass-less window frames and timid voices whispered within.

They neared the end of the wharf. The tall, densely-packed buildings that made up the core of the alienage loomed before them on either side. Enaste craned her neck to see the rooftops, but low, dark clouds swallowed the upper floors. Wind howled off the sea. The smell of unwashed bodies intensified, mingling with smoke, rot, and waste. Between the roughshod towers, through an alley so narrow they could only walk in rows of two, a small clearing came into view. It was empty, though Enaste could feel glowing eyes peering at her from the narrow alleyways and candlelit windows. 

Enaste was a scholar of elven history and culture. She knew that at the center of an alienage there would be a great twisting oak tree, covered in decorations made from whatever the people could find. The vhenadahl, it was called --the heart tree. Its roots sunk deep into the earth, and its branches stretched out far, and its leaves seemed to kiss the sky. It was a symbol of their shared heritage, of the eternities they'd lost long ago when Arlathan fell to Tevinter. 

And it was gone. 

In its place was a ragged stump, decorated only with a few wet leaves and loose splinters. Whoever had cut it down had done it quickly, poorly, leaving jagged vertical chunks sticking up from the base. A rotting ax lay against one of the tree's dull, lifeless roots. 

It was as though someone reached into her body and twisted her stomach upside down. Bran kept walking, but Enaste's feet were frozen to the damp cobblestones. Rain dripped down her neck. Frizzy strands of hair stuck to her forehead. 

"Inquisitor?" Blackwall's voice came from somewhere very far away. Enaste turned towards it, and his bearded face came into focus. It was hard to see his eyes in the dark. Raindrops clung to his thick black beard. "Are you alright?"

"I'm... fine," she said, then closed her eyes and shook her head. "I'm fine."

Blackwall's dark brows furrowed and he stared at her for a long moment. He didn't believe her, but he took her word regardless. He glanced upward. "We should hurry.”

"Oh." She cringed. "Sorry." She looked towards Bran. He had stopped walking and turned back to face her. 

"We can talk inside, where it is much drier," he said, gesturing to one of the tall, mismatched buildings behind him. A wretched sickness settled in the pit of her stomach, some heavy triangulation of shame and horror and rage. She nodded and followed him towards an oddly ornate yet heavily scuffed wooden door. Indistinct voices and firelight spilled out from the threshold, and a sign so worn she couldn't make out the letters hung overhead. 

Bran tapped his cane against the base of the door, then turned the doorknob and stepped inside. 

"Hahren," came a feminine voice. Enaste entered after Bran, stepping carefully over the uneven doorway. A small, dark tavern hushed at her presence.

It was much longer than it was wide, and every inch of wall space was covered with crafts or old weapons or street signs probably stolen long ago. Everywhere she looked was some oddity or another: an arrow split down the middle by a second shot sticking out of the wall, a crude drawing of a bat painted on what looked like the scabbard of an exceptionally large sword, a taxidermied gull of surprising high quality, a taxidermied falcon of upsetting quality, a napkin drawing of an angry qunari man, and on and on, a cluttered mess of memories from what had to be years of mischief. Further decorating the space were colorful, haphazardly installed bookshelves mostly full of dusty bottles.

On either side of them were long, tall tables that looked sturdy, if worn. The bar itself was further into the room, and had just a few mismatched stools. A frail middle-aged elven woman with a loose blonde braid stood on the other side, eyes wide, back against the wall. 

"Hahren, who are these people?" She was rightfully alarmed from seeing eight strangers enter her establishment. Enaste stepped forward and took down her hood. The bartender stared at her, pale blue eyes taking her in, registering her pointed ears and vallaslin. What fear there was faded, but only slightly. 

Bran cleared his throat. "Natessa, this is Enaste, First of Clan Lavellan." Enaste smiled, trying to look friendly. 

The bartender looked from Bran to Enaste. "Um... Hello?"

"Andaran atish'an," Enaste said pleasantly. "You have a lovely tavern."

"Oh... Okay. Thank you?" 

"Enaste, this is Natessa Myrin, one of the owners of the best tavern in the alienage." He wasn't looking directly at either of them. His dog stood diligently at his side, slightly less stiff now, evidently comfortable.

Natessa raised one pale eyebrow. "I'll keep that comment from Oliver, I suppose."

"Natessa, I have important business to discuss with Enaste and her people."

Natessa looked between Enaste and Bran, then past them both to the small crowd clustered just past the door. "The upstairs room isn't really meant to hold that many people..." she said, yet she took a key from under the bar and passed it to Bran regardless. The way she handed it to him was oddly intimate, taking his hand and wrapping his fingers around the key. But he did seem very old and frail, and maybe he needed help gripping something so small. 

"We'll make do, my girl," he said, smiling gently. 

Natessa sighed. "You know where it is, hahren. Did you want me to bring you anything?"

Bran gestured to Enaste and her companions. No, they didn't need anything. 

"Water," she heard, and looked past her hunters all the way to the door, where Cole was standing with his arms hanging by his sides. "They need water."

"Uh. Water it is, then." Natessa nodded to a dark hallway at the back of the tavern. "Squeeze yourselves in up there and I'll bring up some glasses."

Bran thanked her, then tapped his cane on the barstool before turning towards the back of the bar. He didn't actually put any weight on the cane, and his dog stuck extremely close to his side, putting its body between him and the furniture. 

Enaste started to follow him, but then a small voice spoke up from the tables at the front of the room. "Sorry, did you say your name was Enaste Lavellan?" It came from a short, well-dressed young woman with orange hair in frizzy braids. 

The party stopped, and the woman flinched under everyone's gaze. "I did. Who are you?"

"I'm Emilie. I work in Castle Magnolia --where the Duke lives." She shimmied around the chairs cluttered at the table where she had been sitting to join them by the bar. "I just left there. I have a message for you, from--" she paused suddenly, eyes wide. She shook her head in panic. "Oh no, I don't remember his name..."

Enaste's brows furrowed. "The... Duke?"

"No! The man who helped me, he told me to look for you. He was bald, and a mage--"

"Solas," Enaste said immediately, her heart leaping into her throat.

"Yes! Oh, Maker, I'm sorry, that was embarrassing..."

"You saw him?" Enaste asked quickly. "He was alright?" Emilie was so short that even Enaste, who was about average height for an elf, had a full head over her. 

"I think so, yes. There's a party going on tonight. He's accompanying your ambassador as a servant, but he doesn't really look like a servant." Enaste raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing. "He was afraid of being poisoned, and wasn't eating or drinking anything."

Bran spoke up then, startling both Enaste and Emilie. "You were at the party?" He asked. Emilie nodded, and he frowned in response. "But you are one of the regular servants there, yes? You live on the castle grounds?"

"Yes. I haven't been here in years but I, I still knew the way to the Vhenadahl... Or what's left of it." She swallowed, looking away. 

Bran was unaffected by her discomfort, and still only vaguely looking at her. "How long have you lived there?"

"Oh, well... Five or six years?"

He narrowed his eyes. "You would swear it?"

Enaste looked between them, suddenly on-edge. She shook her head in confusion. "Hahren, forgive me, but if she saw Solas and Lady Volant at the party, that seems evidence enough that she was there."

"I do not doubt her presence," Bran said slowly. Emilie shrunk back, visibly alarmed by his distrust. "I doubt that she has always been there."

"Why?" Enaste asked.

Emilie spoke up again, her big brown eyes extra wide. "I was gone for a short time, just the last week, but I have worked in the castle for years." She fidgeted, at a loss for words. "I don't know how to prove it to you. I can tell you about the wine and food, about the servants' passages, even about the statuary and paintings in the main hall--"

"Hush, da'len," Bran held up a hand, and Emilie quieted. "How long were you absent from the castle?"

"One week. The last week. I only returned late last night after visiting some friends in Bastion."

"You have time to visit friends in other cities?" Natessa interrupted, frowning. "I find that hard to believe."

"Yes!" Emilie cried, exasperated. A splotchy blush burned beneath the freckles on her cheeks. "The Duke is not unkind to us, which you all would know if you would actually work instead of--"

"Enough," Bran said. He hardly had to raise his voice to silence the room. "If you were truly absent from the castle for the past week, my concerns are assuaged. And if you tell the truth, then you will know your way in. Come," he gestured towards the back of the tavern with his cane. "Tell us what you know."

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[tsslp]

“Why be a king when you can be a God.”

headcanons for HADIE FROM DESCENDANTS

•His full name is Hades Prometheus Faery (I really liked the idea someone had of the middle name Prometheus, creds to them)

•Hades would often go force Hadie to go find out how Mal is and report back to him, just to check up on his daughter.

•Hadie stayed with his father and grew up under the neglectful eye of Hades, who rarely left the space of his cave. Hadie taught himself everything he knew, including how to handle all of the souls screaming at him on the isle, but it was a lot of work. Anytime he and Hades did communicate though, it was often in sarcastic remarks and yelling at each other which ended up in Hadie walking out in his worn out boots and finding a place to stay for the next few days.

•He’s like Descendants!Klaus from Umbrella Academy because of his powers. He resorts to alcohol on the Isle because it was more common than actual drugs, resulting in him growing up an alcoholic.

•Hades didn’t care.

•Woo Hadie for having two shit parents.

•No one touched Hadie. Everybody on the Isle knew he was Hades’ kid and left him alone, resulting in quite a lonely childhood, but he didn’t mind. He embraced it more as a teenager, but as a child he found it almost unbearable, talking to the souls instead.

•As a young kid he used to be very hyper and excitable and used to talk nonstop, but as he grew older, he started realising no one actually cared what he was saying and got quieter.

•Grew into his dads old leather coat, it used to gather on the floor around him but now it hangs at his knees, the bottom of it in tatters and coated in blue spray paint.

•Hadie has been friends with Uma for ages after falling into the water near the docks and she jumped in after. Uma invited him aboard the ship and he visits every week.

•They grew distant as they grew up, Uma finding her own crew in Harry Hook, Gil Legume and the Wharf Rats and Hadie venturing off on his own.

•Uma had told him about a girl called Mal who had destroyed her reputation and after finding out Mal was his sister, Hadie was disgusted with her and grew closer with Uma again.

•Harry taught him how to do eyeliner. Most definitely.

•He and Harry had a thing that never lasted.

•He smells like leather and gunpowder and on the occasional day, alcohol.

[tiredflowercrown]

Harriet Hook

Here's the start of Descendants Characters as DnD

It's kinda a long post, so cut for efficiency

Ancestry: Half Wood Elf

While there is a Fairy in dnd, I went with Half Elf as a way to back track into being Half pixie (because I whole love Zarina being all three of the Hooks mom). And Wood because its the best connection to Neverland

Class: Samurai Fighter with a Dueling fighting style

I chose Fighter because unlike her siblings I feel Harriet isn't trying to hide or subterfuge her enemies. She has too much on her plate to dedicate that space of mind on nobodies.

The term Samurai for this class is a bit of a misnomer. The class breaks down to I gonna win or die trying, which is very suiting for Harriet.

Main Ability Score: Dexterity with some leanings on Strength

When creating Fighters, You have to make a choice between being Dexterity based or Strength based. While Harriet is strong, I feel that she values being fast and not getting hit than brute forcing her way through. (Not that she particularly cares if she gets hurt)

Skill Proficiencys: Survival, Perception, History, Insight, Intimidation, Athletics

The mix of background, ancestry, and class allows for quite a few proficiencys, these are the ones that suit her super well

Survival, Intimidation, and Athletics: These are shoo-ins for most VKs, especially the older and gang leaders of the Isle

Perception, History, and Insight: I feel that these come from having Captain Hook as a father. On his good days, he would teach history and the classics because he graduated from Eton, he refuses to have his kids be idiots. On his bad days, they would have to tell if he would fly off the handle or not. If he can even realize reality from memories.

Background: Pirate

Duh, She's a pirate.

There is a lot of background that delve into the sea and sailing, which we'll see in some of the other dock dwellers and wharf rats

Feats: Fey Touched and Resilient

Fey Touched: This is a feat that gives the character 2 spells, one of which has to be Misty Step which allows the person to teleport a short distance away, and a first level spell from ether divination or enchanting. The other spell I chose for her is Command, which forces the target to follow the command if they fail to fight it off, which suits Harriet's shear force of reputation.

My reasoning for this is its as close to flying or pixie dust that the Hook siblings can get. (If they use it is a different story)

Resilient: This feat just makes a character a little sturdier.

Weapons: Rapier and Shortsword

Swords are the classic pirate weapons. A rapier is a little more swishy while a short sword is a more sturdy option that however packs a little less punch.

Armor: Studded Leather

If anyone wants me to better explain any of these concepts or has any alternate ideas, feel free to ask.

It's a free moving armor that still protects her.

Also if any one has ideas or concepts for other characters, I'm all ears! I have a lot of the mains figured out, but I am having trouble with AKs and Anthony. So anything even if it's a personality trait is welcome

[atasteforsuicidal]

my cousin told me over thanksgiving that they were making a descendants 4 and I just looked it up and it's true and I'm

Not sure how to feel

am I super down for something Uma-focused? yes

am I in any way expecting them to do right about Cameron? Nope

Am I expecting them to do the Wharf rats justice at all? Also no

Idk man

[theamityelf]

You know what, I’m gonna say it: The aesthetic of the pirate ship? Unimaginative. Pretty barebones. I refuse to believe Uma or Harry wouldn’t have slapped some color on that thing, or just let the crew loose on it. Like, look at Uma’s throne in the Chip Shoppe: colorful, elegant, regal. There’s definitely a degree of utility to leaving the ship’s exterior simple, but at the very least they’re gonna make it look awesome once they’re free and have time and safety to liven it up.

[secondbcrnpiracy]

so here is my dumb question...

How the hell does Harry, Gil, and the Wharf Rats know how to drive a motor bike? Were there bikes that they actually were able to fix on the Isle?

Yes, I am asking this question because I want to know. Nope, not huge af plot holes or anything here, no my friends.

It’s: How the hell’d they know how to drive motorbikes on an island where fun went to die, the food should’ve killed them, and no magic/electronics seemed to work besides some lights?

[edream93]

WLTF Chapter 18 Sneak Peek

Haven’t really had any time to write because of school and stuff but I have one more big essay to finish and then I’ll be done with my first year of PhD (3 more to go). Anyway, here’s another sneak peek just because you all are awesome.

Harriet gasped suddenly, nearly cutting off a finger on the knife she had been sharpening. A few wary patrons glanced at her strangely before pretending like she wasn’t there lounging next to Uma’s throne in Ursula’s Chip Shoppe.

(Her brother’s little Wharf Rats had nearly drawn their knives and shivs and other assorted weapons that they had failed to leave in the weapon check when she had first attempted to sit in their precious Captain’s chair. Le Foux Deux, her current first mate with Sammy Smee gone, had almost had an aneurysm at the action but Harriet had merely rolled her eyes, dragging a plain but sturdy chair over to sit next to the throne before glaring at them all silently until they returned to whatever they were doing before.)

Harriet sucked thoughtfully on the cut she had made on her thumb. What she had just experienced felt like a sharp pull on her belly button before a restless thrum of energy filled her, buzzing beneath her her skin with a vague familiarity that caused dread to settle deep within her. She tapped her foot impatiently, her senses on high alert for a threat that she recognized but also didn’t. Like an itch she couldn’t reach, she almost felt consumed by it.

“You alright there, Harriet?” Jonas frowned, dirty pink frilly apron tied to his waist as he haphazardly slid dirty dishes from table into a bin to take back to the kitchen.

The Chip Shoppe was mostly empty at this point in the day, the majority of the shop’s customers preferring to sleep through the day. He could hear Gonzo gruffly grunting something undoubtedly snide under his breath to one of the younger crew members as they did something within the depths of the kitchen that would undoubtedly get them all a lashing from Ursula’s tentacles if they disturbed her from her damn soap opera. Bonnie and Desiree sat in a corner, counting the gold and jewels and other shiny bits and bobs they collected with the latest foods and supplies from Auradon. Jonas, somehow had gotten the short end of the stick and had been forced to deal with duties relating to the kitchen and apparently, as it seemed, keeping an eye on their substitute captain.

Harriet was close to snapping at him, restless energy building beneath her skin like a balloon about to pop. Perhaps Uma allowed her crew the freedom to question her decisions but Harriet refused to lead with anything other than one-hundred percent complete obedience, whether out of fear or loyalty was their only choice. However, Jonas was an idiot and had repeatedly dared to question her every command, even to the point of somehow persuading the remaining members of Harriet’s own crew sign up for shifts at the Chip Shop.

(Of course her brother’s crew would be just as much of a headache as he was.)

Ignoring Harriet’s glare, Jonas took a step closer to the fearsome pirate captain, head tilted to the side as he observed her.

“It ain’t your…uh...it isn’t your newest passenger, is it?” he said lowly, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one else was listening. When he turned back to Harriet, he only got to see her eyes quickly widen before she grabbed him by the back of his neck in a tight grip that caused him to drop the bin he was holding.

Already chipped dishes broke and scattered across the dusty floor, loud in the sudden silence of the room.

“Listen ye yellow bellied sack of shit,” Harriet hissed into his ears, her usually well hidden brogue making an appearance, the only clue that she was losing her cool. “I don’t know what the fucking seven seas ye think ye know but let’s make it one-hundred percent fucking clear, okay pet? Yer captain and first mate, the strongest and baddest of the bads that had been on this rotten rock in months, are gone. Ye understand what that means?”

Desiree and Bonnie had already gotten up from their seats, a butter knife in Desiree’s hand and a broken bottle probably from the brawl the night before in Bonnie’s. Gonzo was now leaning against the door frame of the kitchen, drying one of kitchen butcher knives against his pants legs. Jonas waved them off though. Like hell he was going to start a turf war the one time Uma put him in charge, especially not with Harriet fucking Hook. Harry may be crazy and unpredictable but Harriet was just plain ruthless. And scarily hot.

(Jonas hoped desperately no one could see how the pain of Harriet digging her nails into the back of his neck was so turning him on right now...The others would never let him live it down.)

Jonas nodded, form hunched over as he raised his hands up placatingly. “That the fearsome and cunning Captain Harriet Hook is the only thing keeping a turf war from happening,” he grunted out.

Harriet shoved him away, tugging up the collar of her Hook signature jacket, before placing her captain’s hat on her head. “And don’t ye forget that,” she hissed before stomping out of the shop.

The four senior members of Uma’s crew looked at each other.

“You think Harry knew?” Jonas asked, hissing when he touched one of the small crescent shaped marks on the back of his neck before Bonnie and Gonzo tugged him back onto his feet.

Desiree snorted, running her hand through her long hair. “Ya see a certain pompous bastard hanging from the ceiling, hooked by his toes with his goods cut off in here?”

Jonas glanced up.

Gonzo rolled his eyes before returning back to the kitchen and Bonnie pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re an idiot, Jonas.”

“Hey!”

[akdescendantsverse]

truly, slow-mo is the way what's my name is meant to be watched

[bewarethewolfarmy]

(Rejoice if you love Descendants, my Descendants fic has been updated XD And Evie has been avenged (if you’ve seen the first movie you might understand when you read the scene in this chapter)

Anyhoooo bye-bi!~ *runs off before anyone can realize I actually updated something today*)

[darkroomdweller]

photos taken by https://www.facebook.com/melissamdphoto/

[hannahhook7744]

Members of Uma's crew;

Uma Athanasiou, daughter of Ursula

Harry Hook, son of Captain Hook.

Gil LeGume, son of Gaston.

Jonas Athanasiou, son of Morgana.

Shan Desiree, daughter of Shan Yu.

Bonny Jukes, daughter of Bill Jukes and Beatrice Le Beak.

Gonzo Gibbs, son of Joshamee Gibbs.

Claire Bimbette, daughter of Claudette (and she's an amputee).

Aaron Tremaine, daughter of Anastasia Tremaine.

Donnie Salt, son of Damien Salt.

Mark and Misha Mullins, sons of Robert Mullins.

Steward Starkey, son of Mr. Starkey.

Shan Simon, son of Shan Yu.

Axel Huntsman, son of the Huntsman.

Mason and Glenn Gothel, sons of Mother Gothel.

Dominic Salt, son of Damien Salt.

Sean Nottingham, son of the Sheriff of Nottingham.

Morty, the son of Mor'du.

Hart/Hardy , the son of the Queen of Hearts.

[pigtailsandwrestlingboots]

So, I’d really, really love to follow more Descendants blogs/talk to more fans, so if you reblog a lot of stuff and/or love talking about it (I’m a huge fan of lgbtqia+/neurodivergent/angst/fluff headcanons, but I love most headcanons!!), hit me up! I’d love to meet new people, my messages are always open. (I love pretty much all of the characters, but Jay and the Wharf Rats, and I mean ALL of them, not just the Sea Three, even tho I love them to pieces, have special places in my heart❤️)

Also, @atasteforsuicidal and I run our own blog about our own verse for Descendants, if you’d like to check it out. @akdescendantsverse It’s a lot of reblogs, but writing and meta and casting stuff too!

[finalnocturne]

Gonzo aka G | Son of Shere Khan | Wharf Rat

- G never knew his birth parents. They were murdered by Shere Khan when he was barely a year old. - Shere Khan couldn't have his own cubs on the Isle but still needed an heir or else fall into obscurity. He also needed the man cub to liaison with the other humans of the Isle. - Only has one scar from his dad, bite marks around the base of his neck when the tiger figured out that human infants didn't have the same scruff as cubs to carry them by. - Never attended school until he was much older, educated in the laws of the jungle instead. - Shares his father's fear of fire. - He doesn't have the right vocal parts to sound exact but can roar almost like his dad. - Can speak with the animals of the Isle, English being his second language. - Does occasionally speak in a more "upper class" dialect and vocabulary because of Shere Khan. - Has a deep dislike of the hunters on the Isle: the Gastons, Claytons, and especially the McLeaches (stupid poachers). - Can disassociate individuals from the hunters if he has the opportunity to get to know them (i.e. Gil) - Never really found a place with any of the other gangs until Uma started pulling her rag tag group together. - Extremely protective of the crew. Even if he knows most of them can take care of themselves. - Uma will occasionally let him go full wild on someone. - Did learn how to sword fight but prefers these gloves with metal claws to fight with. - After a particular incident Uma insisted that he had "earned his stripes" and took him to be tattooed. Tiger stripes on the back of his legs, arms, and back.

[twinklelittl3bat]

(Advantage of Japanese blood: i don't age so my head still fits in hats that are probably for kids XD)

[atasteforsuicidal]

wip wednesday #8

shall i switch things up and throw in some descendants stuff even though i have no idea if or when i’ll ever post it? sure, why not?

Harry just looks confused as he stares up at him, but he doesn’t protest, obeying when Jonas tells him to lay down a moment later. He lifts his hips to help when Jonas starts pulling his pants off, too, and smirks at him once they’re both down to just their underwear. He’s not really expecting Jonas to climb into the bed next to him rather than settling on top of him, but he rolls with it, turning to face him and drawing him into a deep kiss. Jonas takes Harry’s hands again, pulling them away from his face and then breaks away from the kiss. “Harry, no,” he chastises, and Harry just blinks at him before moving to kiss along his collarbone instead, “Fuck, Harry. C’mon, stop that.” It takes him a few minutes, a lot of manhandling, and some serious will power, but he manages to get Harry turned away from him eventually, one arm wrapped securely around Harry’s waist. He can tell even without seeing his face that the younger boy is pouting, and he sighs, drops a kiss to the back of Harry’s shoulder. “You wanna tell me what’s going on with you now?” He asks, and Harry’s entire body tenses, making Jonas frown. He runs his hand down Harry’s side before letting it settle over his stomach again, but he starts tracing circles against his skin with his fingertips. Harry remains stubbornly quiet, and Jonas sighs. “Harry,” he scolds, then lets his voice soften, “Either you lied to Uma about being alone, or you really were alone, which means you were avoiding us.” Harry deflates, going lax under his arm, and Jonas knows he’s got it right. “Avoiding us, then,” he says, holding Harry a little tighter, “Care to explain why?”