dead man walking

                    ❝ Funny you should say that! ❞ she replied a little too happily as a finger gave a swoosh to flip to the next adventurous page. ❝  — because you’re the one seeking me out while I’m just keeping to myself, innocently reading my book in peace. ❞ a little too smug for her own good but she can’t help it when it’s sooo much fun to get on his nerves.

                    Bookmark finally placed and her book slams shut, no way she was gonna get any further now with Owen yapping in her ear and if her eyes could roll any further into the back of her skull they’d lift off into another dimension. ❝ Really? Why, you offering? Ohhhh, we can hold hands and share cotton candy and I can like, totally write about it in my diary later. ❞ the sarcasm is strong with this one. ❝ Bold of you to assume that I don’t date, I might have a boyfriend, you don’t know. ❞

“Yeah, well. You, me. The night together.” He quirked his eyebrows.

Of course he knew she didn’t dream of it. Him coming on to her... the thought of doing something here, now, that could never be reading. But it was fun, the teasing, and if Owen could flirt and jab his way to midnight, even suggest that being stuck alone in the Hub with him was every one of her dreams come true, then why not.

It wasn't as though, at home and light years away, someone was waiting for her.

No one was waiting for any of them.

Owen stayed, blocking the light like an eclipse, and settled a heaping 20 oz. water bottle onto the table. “Yeah. Okay,” he relented, unceremoniously taking his seat beside her. “Can’t get enough of me, can you.”

Because that’s the reason why she’s here so late. Cheeky. Two can play at that game. 

touch starved prompts (accepting)

What else were they supposed to do? Jack was off being Jack, Gwen, Gwen Cooper, was undoubtedly kissing Rhys into oblivion against the arm of a creaky couch, and Tosh must be up and away, neatly tucked within the crumbling walls of an opera house celebrating her Not-Valentine’s-Valentine’s Day, Ianto all but MIA.

A year ago, Owen would have been hitting the streets. Cheap birthday drinks. Easy love.

Today, he was holding down the fort with Gwen and solving unsolved mysteries, beers open, video game flashing, his cheeks squished. He batted her away.

Rose was relieved when the man didn’t move, but she wasn’t letting her guard just yet. She didn’t trust him. She didn’t trust anybody anymore. Not after what she’d been through. The voice in her head, it wouldn’t stop shouting.

You’re an idiot. You’re an idiot for thinking that this man’s going to help you. Not after what you did.

“No – no, I don’t need a Doctor!” Rose shouted, bending over and clasping her hands over her ears. She couldn’t block out that voice. “No Doctor, no drugs. I don’t need help, just leave me be. Just leave me.”

She folded in on herself. Rain careened out of the gutters and struck the pavement like bodies smacking water. She screamed.

What do you do. It was shock. Sopping wet, dress torn, and stained, she clutched her ears like she had to block something out. His voice, maybe, or her memories. What do you do with a cornered animal. What do you do with a patient, wrecked and ruined, scared out of her mind. 

“Easy now. Easy...” Owen stayed kneeling. He turned his hands over, once then twice. “No drugs,” he assured her, just above a whisper. “It's gonna be alright. I promise you.” 

He glanced quickly. No sign of any Rift activity here. No aliens. No bodies. Just him, her, and the knife cold on the ground, going clean. Owen shimmied an inch closer. He never dropped his hands. “Why don’t we start with a name."

repost, don’t reblog

basics !

FULL NAME. Owen James Harper PRONUNCIATION. I don’t think it needs to be spelled out lmao NICKNAME. He doesn’t really have any. He goes by his name, though he dubbed himself King of the Weevils.  GENDER. Male HEIGHT. 5′9″ AGE. 27 is his default age, but it varies depending on the verse ZODIAC. Aquarius (he was born on Valentine’s Day!) SPOKEN LANGUAGES. English

physical characteristics !

HAIR COLOR. Brown EYE COLOR. Brown SKIN TONE. Fair BODY TYPE. Wiry, slim ACCENT. English, London VOICE. Not sure what to say here, so here’s a voice clip. DOMINANT HAND. Right. POSTURE. Relaxed and impersonal. He doesn’t slouch, but he does favor putting his weight onto one leg and folding his arms/shoving his hands into his pockets, so nothing prim and proper.  SCARS. Gunshot scar (left shoulder), gunshot scar (waist; left side), gunshot wound (chest; not healing; post-“Reset”), slice on left palm (from scalpel; wrapped up; not healing; post-“Reset”), broken left pinky (wrapped up; not healing; post-“Reset”). TATTOOS. None BIRTHMARKS. I imagine a few small birthmarks, like freckles, but nothing noteworthy. MOST NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S). I’d say his facial structure. People say it’s shaped like a Dorito lmao. Or his mouth being slightly wider and his lips being almost of the same height, like one solid line instead of a noticeable bow.

childhood !

PLACE OF BIRTH. Plaistow, London, England HOMETOWN. Plaistow, London, England  BIRTH WEIGHT. On the low end of average BIRTH HEIGHT. Average FIRST WORDS. ?? Who knows. a mystery SIBLINGS. None PARENTS. Unnamed PARENTAL INVOLVEMENT. Lacking. His parents were always at each other’s throats and too busy shredding each other to pieces when they, particularly his mother, were not taking anything out on him. His mother kicked him out at the age of 16 and I could only imagine his father, before his death, was either out of the picture, for the most part, or neglectful, seeing as nothing was done about Owen’s being banished. His relationship with his parents has always been wrought with turmoil and interspersed with very rare moments of a stepping-on-eggshells kind of peace. Owen does make an effort, to an extent, to repair whatever is there, but it never works and often dissuades him from trying again.

adult life !

OCCUPATION. Doctor and chief medical officer of Torchwood Three CURRENT RESIDENCE. Cardiff, Wales CLOSE FRIENDS. Jack Harkness, Ianto Jones, Gwen Cooper, Toshiko Sato, Suzie Costello (past), Amira Hussein (past) RELATIONSHIP STATUS. Single. He was engaged to Katie Russell before her death and before the events of Torchwood. FINANCIAL STATUS. Average DRIVER’S LICENSE. He has one. CRIMINAL RECORD. None VICES. Drinking, sex, sleeping, ill-tempered

sex and romance !

SEXUAL ORIENTATION. Bisexual ROMANTIC ORIENTATION. Biromantic PREFERRED EMOTIONAL ROLE. Submissive  |  dominant  |  switch   PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE. Submissive  |  dominant  |  switch LIBIDO. High TURN ONS. People who know what they want. A sharp mind, witty, and with a biting, playful personality. Someone who’s strong-willed. Of course, sexiness. Seductive and charming. That said, really, he values kindness, tenderness, brains, and loyalty. He’s always honed in on casual sex before, but he later starts caring about and actively seeking the qualities that make for a good life partner rather than a one-night stand. TURN OFFS. Cutesy, callousness, indecisiveness, someone who is wholly submissive and bends to someone else’s will too easily.  LOVE LANGUAGE. Touch and physical affection. Gifts. Remembering details about them. RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES. Owen, in a relationship, is quite supportive, protective, loyal, devoted, and reliable. He is a full supporter of continually wooing, flirting, and surprising --- it doesn't stop just because you’re in a relationship. He does, however, also have the tendency of keeping things close to his chest. Lack of communication is a terrible weakness of his, and this can often manifest into spats and arguments.

miscellaneous !

CHARACTER’S THEME SONG. There’s always “Owen’s Theme.” Honestly, though. everything on this blog is comprised of The National lyrics, and I’d think their entire discography fits him. I also named my url after the band Placebo in tandem with, well, a placebo being medical-related. A lot of their songs also fit him. HOBBIES TO PASS TIME. Drinking, sex, sleeping... He also games! MENTAL ILLNESSES. I cannot say for sure, but Owen is not well-adjusted.  PHYSICAL ILLNESSES. None. He’s very healthy, minus being dead post-”Reset.” LEFT OR RIGHT BRAINED. Left-brained, although Owen’s emotions usually control him. FEARS. Abandonment, loneliness.   SELF CONFIDENCE LEVEL. Confident, but on the surface. He hates people doubting him --- he’s aware of it --- and used to chase casual sex due to the fear of being hurt in a relationship. You can’t be wounded if you’re not invested. But what he really wants is a relationship, not meaningless sex, even if he persuades himself that that is what he really wants. When put in a position of power, he can make poor choices, feels the weight of those choices and choices still yet to make, and crumbles.  VULNERABILITIES. He’s very emotional. Although Owen puts on a tough front, a lot of who he is manifested out of the need to protect himself from emotional pain. He can additionally make decisions that protect the people he loves rather than the good of all, which can be exploited, though he cares a lot about people. More than he lets on. He’s noted to brood and be too fixated on death --- there’s always someone to save; he thinks his own life is worthwhile if he can save someone else’s --- and he gets riled up easily. His ability to put himself in other people’s shoes is lacking. I’d say he doesn’t critically reflect on himself as much or as long as he should, either. He “moves on,” but with little of the healing.

The world was burning. In Times Square, weevils ran mad, shredding the streets to pieces. In London, soldiers emptied guns and muskets into shrieking men and women, the storm drains running red. In India, eternal night; UFOs blocking the sun. His heart soared then stuttered, stalled then fell. It was Armageddon. The end of the world.

The Rift is splintering because of you, Jack’s voice trembled in his head, back and forth, over and over. Jack was useless. Jack fired him.

Her red hair caught light like fire and Owen’s mouth twisted.

”You know, I always reckoned it might go something like this,” he said at last, troubled and bitter. “Watch the world burn, front row seats and all.”

And here she thought she was a scientist, not a babysitter. Her gaze narrowed at the man as she stood above him, arms crossed. From her college degree of analytic study, she can tell the twat’s having a bit of a shit day. Big whoop. The least he can do is not throw himself such a public pity party. 

Avian was bad at hiding her annoyance – her nose scrunched up because of his words, and it took her all of her strength to not completely scream at him. 

So instead, she pulled a chair up, sat herself down and gave him the dirtiest scowl she could muster. 

    “ So I could, with my newfound authority, kick you out for the day if you’re going to be moodier than I typically am– “ –and that thought was really tempting– ” – but sadly, I’m a benevolent ruler. And I have sympathies for sad twats like you. Surprise, surprise, I have a heart. “ 

    She leaned in close with a raised brow. “ So, I’m going to repeat myself: what’s your fucking deal? “ 

His head lolled. “Good on you, Mother Teresa.” 

She scowled. Rain rolled down the inner tunnels of his ears and the leftmost tine of his plastic fork bent against his chicken. Where was the hot sauce. The music was dated, too, warbling, bubblegum pop, Jesus Christ, and she took her seat, leaning in close.

“Yeah. Why are you in charge, exactly?” he pointed out, merciless. "No offense, Avi, but I’ve got -- what -- two years on you. And, right. A title.”

Rose hadn’t even noticed the rain. She’d somehow shuffled to the nearest alleyway, not wanting to draw attention to herself. She collapsed to her knees, emotionally and physically drained. She wanted to curl up on the ground, fall asleep and never wake up again. If she made it out of this alive, she wouldn’t be able to live with herself for what she’d done.

Before she knew it, Rose was joined by a complete stranger, who’d stumbled across her in the alleyway. Automatically, she scrambled away from him out of fear, her back hitting the wall.

“Stay away from me!” She demanded, cursing herself as she’d left the knife beside him. “I mean it – stay away!”

I’d keep an eye on him. A nasty and sinister voice sneered in her mind. He might come across as caring, but watch your back.

He came close. She reeled away, instinctive, automatic, fight or flight, and jerked until her back slapped the wall and her hair lashed, spraying over him. 

"Stay away!" she demanded, loud, louder. Her dark eyes sucked in the light from the lamppost and shined. 

“No. ‘Cause we can’t have it easy, can we,” he cursed.

“Owen? Owen, what’s happened?” Tosh again, static-choked. “Can you hear me?” 

Now wasn’t the time. 

Slowly, her feed muted, Owen raised his hands, but did not dare an inch closer. There was no weapon in them. No knife. No gun. Thunder roared, lighting his face sugar-white, then gone. “It’s alright... It’s alright,” he tried, softer now. He never looked away. “No one’s gonna hurt you.”

Startled. She looked like an animal waiting for the trigger. In shock. He kept his hands raised and his words melted with the rain.

@placeebo​ 

Rose’s eyes snapped open.

Where was she? What the hell happened? How did she get here? Where was here? Disorientated, Rose stumbled to her feet, letting out a breathy gasp of shock. She was in Cardiff? She recognized the area from when she, the Doctor, Jack and Mickey stopped Margaret the Slitheen from destroying Earth once again.

That’d been so long ago. So much had happened since then.

Rose glanced down at her hands, letting out a shriek as she saw that they were covered in blood. But not her blood. The white dress she’d been wearing was also stained with blood, and torn in several places.

She’d killed him. She’d actually killed him.

Near her feet was a blood stained knife, which she’d been holding when she pressed the button of the Dimension Cannon. And now she was here. In the prime universe. Her home. Then the coldness of the night hit her, goosebumps appearing over her body, the rain adding to the temperature.

Rose collapsed to her knees, likely grazing them upon the fall.

Where could she go? Legally she was dead.

Rain poured. A lamppost flickered. The Rift readings pointed to here, just here. Fifteen meters away. Now, fourteen. A flash of lightning torched the sky and as Owen slipped down the alleyway, the taste of wet garbage dripping fast down his throat, slimy loose, he thought he heard something in the distance. A scream. He darted.

“Coming up to your left. Ten meters!” Tosh’s voice cracked in his ears. His shoes smacked into a puddle, his gun tight in his hands, and he rounded the corner. “Owen- Be careful. We don’t know-”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Think I got it.”

At the end of the alleyway, he saw. A woman was on her knees in the dark. No one else was there. No thing.

Her dress was torn. Urgency ripped through him, and he raced down the road.

a list of don’t sentence starters (accepting)

What did he say when Avi had a breakthrough idea?

"Yeah, right.” Deadpan. Flat. “Once-in-a-lifetime experience." 

Now, here, jammed in a Wagamama on a Thursday afternoon, Owen curled further into his seat, leaning in over his curry, and if it was a scientific fact that not even all the rain in the history of Cardiff held a candle to the clouds swelling fat over Owen's head, so be it. His muddy shoes suctioned on the floor, slapping. He grumbled. 

Why was he so wound up? Because of this. Not because of Avi, not her as a person, but because Jack Harkness, who, like God, worked in mysterious ways, decided that, for now, Avi would be in charge. Of him. And Diane’s gone. And also his chicken’s overcooked and his shirt’s stuck to his skin and mother’s blasted his ear off again and, God--

a list of don’t sentence starters (accepting) 

Here it was. The outbreak, the years of frustration dribbling out into a rush, a flood, a tsunami, magnitude 4 catastrophic, and here they were stuck in the middle of it, the water surging up past the point of no return and, yes, yes, at last, they were going to drown thrashing in it. She was right. He did sleep around. Everything was no strings attached. Unthinking. A sticky mess ripe with torrid loneliness that screamed, “I can’t take another heartbreak and this is safe and spend the night with me, whatever your name is" and what? So what?

Look at Mayven, all of 25 with a bookshelf full of broken relationships with more holes riddled in each of them than the walls of a shooting range. Always stumbling away from one car-wreck of a boyfriend to the next, hooked up on misery. Rehab couldn’t fix that.

And he had a problem?

"’Course. You know, Mayv, sometimes I think you get off on it.” He lowered his chin, all feigned indifference. All intolerable. “’So bad it’s good.’ That sort of thing.”  

"Torchwood is ready" to protect the world, the intro says, as they open the Rift and let a monster the size of Godzilla into Cardiff. Professionals, they are, as they accidentally release the Black Plague on the world and sleep with all the aliens.

                    they finally convinced themselves to get out , a night on the town ! for the last couple nights it had just been staying in & watching movies , ordering pizza & only running down to the corner store when they needed more PROVISIONS . they were walking down the street — off to the next bar . she was feeling GOOD — well , drunk , but still good . she slid behind her friend & hopped on his back , straddling him as legs wrapped around his body , kiss on the cheek & a BELLY LAUGH she couldn’t keep down .   ‘ thanks for this , o . i love you . ’

The streets were still damp and the night was alive. Cars blared at hooligans crossing the streets. Teenagers smoked in alleyways by ‘no smoking’ signs. The clubs pulsed, shaking his chest, and Mayven and Owen had just swayed their way out of a bar, drunk and laughing, half-mumbling a poor rendition of “Feel Good Inc.” She hopped on his back, hysterical, and he almost smacked the pavement.

She kissed his cheek. He whined.

The easiest decisions were the ones that hurt the most– the careless ones that continue to close the gap between them. Where lingering could trace every inch of her body, tangled in her hair and thoughts. Rough kisses could rattle her soul, freeing loose emotions that can attach to any lingering connections. Even a flimsy line, with legs entangled, could leave her heads in the clouds. Back to imagining the best, when there’s nothing at all. Then in and out; she’d be alone again. 

Thus, the stigma against her emotions continued. A hope that she could feel nothing at all.

Keep reading

What she said shouldn’t have struck him. It did. “Right. Bet you’d like that, wouldn't you,” he grumbled, flippant and bitter. “Cinderella in her tower. Too perfect for the rest of us.”

Her eyes were sharp as she whirled around, jaw tight, her teeth barred like how dare you. Like screw you. And if there was a flicker of hurt sparking then burning out over her face, Owen, in all his infinite wisdom, was hopeless to see it.