I decided to post some of my OC character background here.
I don’t intend on putting this in the actual novel but it was fun to write. It has three more parts but here’s the first
1.
They name her after the god of the sun. She comes close to noon on the longest day of the year with hair the color of sunflower petals. She’s the first in her long, very Latinx family to be born with hair so yellow. A sign, they say, that the god Apollo has accepted the offering of this child. She is small, their little Apollonia. Her eyes are honey and oats, wide as they look around at the world she’s been brought into.
Her first nickname is from the nurses, little Polly. Her second, the one that sticks, is from her cousin years later. But in the arms of her parents, she is just Apollonia Ruiz. Their little blessing, the child that the god Apollo blessed them with. They are grateful, they pray their thanks. They give what little they have to the temple of Apollo, a thank you for their daughter.
Lonnie’s first night in the world is spent amongst swaddled newborns like herself. She’s a fussy sleeper, kicking at her tightly fitting pink blankets. In the deepest quiet of the morning, when the nurse is paying close attention to her telenovela instead of to the children, a god stands over Lonnie.
Apollo has to struggle to reign in his natural light so as not to draw attention to himself. He stands over her crib and tilts his head. Hair the color of sunflower petals fall over his eyes in restless curls. He reaches out a deeply tanned hand and touches her cheek. Lonnie squirms away from the touch and opens her eyes. The two regard each other: the god and his namesake. After a time, Lonnie scrunches up her face like she is about to cry.
A single finger presses to her lips. Apollo leans down into the crib. “Shhh,” he chimes, pressing his magic into the word. She stills, looking at him still. Apollo looks into her eyes and sees her then, sees her truly. He sees her magic, sees her gifts. He covets them even as he knows that any glory she brings will all be to his name.
But there’s something… a spark of something. He sees it only for a moment and it startles him. A defiance he’s never seen in an infant. It’s gone almost before he understands what he has seen. He pulls back, frowning ever so slightly. Still, she is his namesake. She was promised to him. He presses his thumbs to her temples and whispers a blessing. Light, soft and clear as the first light of dawn, spreads from him and into her. His blessing, he says, pushing down a fear that it might also be his curse.
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I’m working on a Gramander fic that I may never publish but I’m thrilled at a particular line that I wrote last night.
“I’ll be safe with Mr. Graves.”
It is sentences like that which have Graves so utterly interested in this man. Those six words shook off some of the rubble of his soul and left him with the odd weightlessness of a man slightly less burdened.
The first time Foggy comes to the office with lunch and the sacks are wet with grease Wesley actually throws up. To be fair to himself, he makes it all the way to the hall bathroom and doesn’t make as big a deal about it as he might. He’s only been there a few weeks and he’s trying his best (honestly he is) to not start shit with Foggy or Karen. It’s a challenge, with Karen in particular, but he’s trying damn it! He brought them coffee his first day! Not that any of them besides Matt appreciated that it was slow roasted cruelty free. No one ever appreciates things the Wesley does.
Foggy didn’t mean to insult every single one of Wesley taste buds by bringing in corner store burgers, Wesley is almost completely sure of that. That doesn’t stop Wesley from wrinkling his nose at the smell. He brings in his own lunch most days anyway. In fact, he’s had to tone it down because it turns out bringing in authentic Japanese bentos from downtown is considered strange. Karen complains that his truffle risotto smells bad. Foggy takes one look at his Kale Wrap and spends the next thirty minutes making over dramatic rabbit jokes.
Although it makes him physically sick to think of eating some of the food his new coworkers consume for lunches, he admits that not going out with them makes for rather lonesome lunches. Matt always goes with Foggy and Karen. They invite Wesley, but Wesley will not do street food, not in this town where the health code is a payout away and where the street food isn’t even interesting or gourmet! So Matt kisses Wesley’s forehead and heads out with his other coworkers, leaving Wesley alone in the office for an hour.
He decides one morning that this is not acceptable. He doesn’t pack a lunch, forgetting on purpose to prepare one the night before. So when Foggy, casually, like he knows the answer, says “You coming, Wesley?” everyone in the building stops when Wesley says yes.
Wesley doesn’t make a big deal of it, ignores Karen’s open mouth and just grabs his jacket. They do indeed do street food. Hotdogs.
“We always do this place on Thursdays,” Foggy says, clearly trying his best to include Wesley in the conversation.
Wesley orders his hotdog and takes a seat next to Matt in the bench. He stares at his food, just barely keeping up with the conversation. He’s starving but his mind is rebelling against the thing. He’s considering just tossing the whole thing in the garbage and waiting until dinner. Except Karen, thinking he can’t hear, leans over to say something to Foggy.
“Told you he was too much of a snob to eat it.”
Wesley’s frown is deep enough to be seen in the center of the earth. Defiantly he takes a bite of the dog. Then another. Until he’s licking the tips of his fingers clean. Foggy and Karen are staring but once again Wesley ignores. Matt’s shoulders shake from silent laughter but he, too, says nothing. Not until they are home alone anyway.
“I’m impressed. I really thought you were going to spit that hotdog out,” Matt says.
“I’m stronger than you give me credit for, Matthew.” Wesley says, kissing him gently.
“Does that mean you’ll join us for burgers tomorrow?”
“Fuck no. I’ll pack a lunch and just sit with you all while you eat.”
Matt’s laughter fills the room and Wesley’s heart in equal measure.
Mattwesley prompt!: Matt loves the rain because he "sees" better in it. Wesley does NOT love the rain. "Get under the umbrella Matthew. You'll catch a cold."
(HI YES HELLO I LOVE THIS PROMPT)
Wesley woke up and, for a moment, he was not sure what woke him. His groggy mind fumbled for something to grasp onto. That’s when the second roll of thunder and the rush of rain against the windows hit him. He moved his head, eyes going to the window. The rain was coming down in sheets. The city needed the rain, the summer has been so hot lately. Still, Wesley had never liked the rain, particularly not in the city here it washed up garbage from everywhere corner and moved it to the streets and sidewalks.
Grumpy at the thought of his soggy walk to work in the morning, Wesley rolled over, ready to snuggle back into Matt. Only Matt wa not there. The bed was warm, but not freshly so. Matt must have been gone a little while then. He sat up, looking around and frowning deeply. Where was Matt? Surely he wouldn’t go out as the Devil on a night like this?
He threw his leg over the side of the bed and grabbed his robe from where it hung by the side of the bed. He walked into the living room. The light from that accursed billboard was distorted in the rain. Wesley moved over to the closet and found that the chest Matt kept his costume in was undisturbed. So he hadn’t gone out as the Devil… where the hell had he gone?
“Matt?” Wesley called, even though he knew there was no one in the apartment. He walked back into the bedroom to grab his phone. He dialed Matt’s number only to see the phone start to vibrate and say his name on Matt’s side of the bed.
Worry began to gnaw at Wesley. Matt wouldn’t have left in the middle of the night without his phone, would he? He took off his robe and grabbed his coat and an umbrella. He wasn’t sure where he was going, only that he had to find out what happened to Matt. He got out into the hall and almost to the stairs before he stopped. His brows came together as he thought, his gaze slowly going to the roof access door. The lock had been broken for a few weeks now, despite Wesley’s complaints to the landlord. Was it possible Matt was up there?
Deciding to check, just in case, Wesley made his way up the stairs. He put up his umbrella as he stepped into the storm. In truth it was rather hard to see anything at first, what with the combined rain and dark. But as Wesley stepped out further Wesley saw a shape standing towards the edge of the roof.
Matt hadn’t even put on a coat. He was standing in his pajama pants and a tank top. His head was tilted to one side as if listening to something. Before Wesley even reached him, Matt was turning around. “James?” He asked. “What are you doing out here?”
“I believe that’s my line, Hero.” Wesley looked between Matt and the city. “You’re the one out in the rain in the middle of the night without even a coat. What is wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” Matt said, shaking his hair. “I was just enjoying the rain. It’s so much easier for my senses to work in the rain. I can see for miles like this.” He sighed, almost wistful. His gaze went back out to the city. “There’s a young couple kissing in the rain three blocks away. And someone just plucked a poor, half drowned kitten from the storm just up the street. People are incredible.”
Wesley thought of all the drug addicts getting soaked to the bone and the gang members shooting each other over turf but said none of this outloud. Matt always had more confidence in people than Wesley did. “You’re going to catch cold, Matt. Get under the umbrella.”
“I’ll come in soon. Just a few more minutes.” He turned to Wesley, all puppy eyes. “Please?” How could Wesley said no? Wesley turned to leave but Matt grabbed his arm. “No, stay. I want you here.”
So that’s how Wesley stood in the rain. The umbrella really only kept the top most part of him dry. His pajama pants were getting soaked. He didn’t complain, standing near Matt and watching him enjoy the city. Wesley would never grow tired of watching this man, this Devil he’s fallen so hard for.
After a few minutes, Matt nodded, satisfied. Wesley put the umbrella over them and they walked back inside together. Wesley made Matt stand in the doorway while Wesley fetched a towel. They both got out of their wet clothes which Wesley gathered for the wash. By the time he returned Matt was already in bed. Wesley noticed his nose was a little red and he sneezed.
“I told you.” Wesley chided. “You’re going to get sick.”
“Shut up and snuggle me,” Matt commanded.
Normally Wesley was the one to give the orders in this relationship, but just this once he was happy to obey.
Sand shifts between Quentin’s toes. The summer sun makes his already brown skin even darker. Every drop of sunshine sinks into him as if in apology for the very long winter that Quentin had been forced to endure. He is a desert creature, winters and snows are not for him. Waves crash against the beaches and Quentin wades up to his waist. The ocean is perfectly cold and the combination of it with the sun makes for one happy Sphinx. After a moment he ducks down and lets a wave crash over his head, wetting is mess of thick black curls. He laughs when he arches back out of the water, spraying salt water behind him.
On the shore, Daniel sketches his happy kitten. Quentin has always been his favorite pictorial subject. It’s not that Daniel is a great artist, he’s really not, but he likes the calm centeredness of drawing. All winter he’s been planning this trip and it’s worth every penny to watch Quentin bask in the ocean spray. Quentin comes trotting back up to where Daniel sits on the beach chair. He bends down and kisses Daniel, Quentin’s lips cold and wet and perfect. They pull away, beaming at each other, both content and happy in this moment.
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Joseph has nightmares but they don’t talk about them. It isn’t that Tom hasn’t tried to bring them up but Joseph, ever agile, evades and redirects until any conversation about bad dreams is forgotten. This does not mean that Tom doesn’t know, of course he does. More nights than not these days they sleep together. And, more nights than not, Joseph wakes himself in the night with a racing heart beat. Tom has learned it’s easier for Joseph if Tom pretends to be asleep after these episodes. Most of the time Joseph will sit up, take stock of his environment, then slip back to bed.
Until the night Joseph wakes up and begins to sob. Tom’s never seen Joseph cry, not a single time. So he can’t help himself. He drops the facade of sleep, sits up, and pulls Joseph to his chest. Joseph’s arms go around his stomach and he sobs brokenly against Tom’s chest. Tom lets him. He is so much physically stronger than Joseph but it’s rare to feel he’s the emotionally strong one in this relationship. He combs his fingers through Joseph’s short, brown hair already showing signs of early graying. He rocks his brave, strong, human lover back to sleep. After that night, Tom no longer feigns sleep, waking when Joseph does, holding him or just touching him. Neither of them says it but they both feel better, safer, after that.
Tesla is ten when she flies for the first time. This is something of a big deal. Her parents can see her magic, can see that it’s wind based and strong as a hurricane. She’s easily the smartest child in her school, already moving up grades like a dog chasing a cat. The thing is, most witches can’t fly. It’s difficult to twist the threads of reality enough to do it. Manifesting wings big and strong enough to fly with is exhausting and manipulating wind to carry you requires an intimate understanding of the science at work. There’s the static friction that keeps people anchored to the earth, the velocity of the wind, the weight of the individual. There’s also the fact that if the wind is too strong it could kill. Controlling a current like that, it’s math on a level most people, particularly most ten year olds, are not comfortable with. But Tesla is not like normal ten year olds.
She does the math between classes and during her lunch breaths. She practices on dolls and glasses and library chairs that she drags into quiet corners. Tesla figures it out over a weekend and is so delighted she can barely contain herself. She doesn’t tell her parents what she’s about to do. They’ll try to stop her and she’s not interested in being told what to do. She goes to her backyard, braces herself in the middle of the grass.
Deep breathes, in and out. She feels the wind around her, starts to call it to her. Her fingers are spread, arms at her sides, feet shoulder length apart. The air around her gets thick, almost soup-like. Limbs shake on trees. Tesla thinks she can hear her mother calling from inside the house. She blocks all of it out. Her brown eyes are shut tight, her thick, curly black hair becoming wilder as the wind takes shape around her. On an inhale she is standing firmly planted on the ground. On an exhale she is in the air. Five, ten, fifteen feet above the ground. She opens her eyes. Below her, her parents are watching, hands over their mouths. She looks up at the sky, out at their suburbs. For a moment, there is no time, no space. Tesla and the air are one. It tells her its secrets. A smile breaks over her face. She can fly. But she’s already exhausted from the effort of will bending reality this much takes on her. She lowers herself back to the ground, into her parents waiting arms. She can hardly wait to do that again.
2) Look into your eyes and the sky’s the limit
Tesla wakes up to the morning sun peeking in through the edges of her blinds. She turns around and there she is. Navâ  looks so stunning in the dim light of morning, just as she had the night before. Her long, thick, gently curling hair is piled around her. Tesla reaches up and moves some of it from her face. She has never had an ounce of artistic talent but if she was a painter, her hours would be spent painting this beautiful woman, her Navâ. She wants to live in this moment, in this place where she and Navâ never have to worry, never have to leave each other’s sides. This is where she wants to live and die, in this moment.
How long they had waited for this moment she didn’t even know. First the long patch of time between falling for Navâ and admitting it, then the months and months as they kissed and shared touches before this at last. It wasn’t even that the sex was good (it was) but just how comfortable they had both been during and after it. Tesla had never felt less shy, less unsure of herself, than when she had been with Navâ.
It reminded her a lot of the first time she took flight, the first time she had seen just how much power she had in her tiny body. Navâ made her feel powerful. There is no time, no space, only this bed and this moment.
Then Navâ opens her eyes. Her smile is bright and sleepy. Her hand comes up to cover her cheek, light brown skin against black. “Morning, T.”
“Good morning, little bird.” They kiss and Tesla thinks, in that moment, that this must be what worship feels like.
3) Just stay alive that would be enough
Lonnie’s not breathing. Tesla registers it the moment she gets to her side. Hells and Heavens, there’s so much blood and Tesla’s not this kind of doctor, not the kind that knows what to do with a bleeding best friend, one who isn’t breathing. They weren’t fast enough, if she had just pushed the wind a little faster, made them get here in time. She’s pressing her hands against Lonnie’s wounds, trying to stop the blood.
Navâ is there, pushing Tesla aside as she bends down and puts her hands over Lonnie’s wounds. Tesla has seen Navâ heal before, but it usually has to be done in pools or at least with a running water source. She’s never seen what Navâ does when there isn’t water at the ready. What happens next is not something Tesla could have predicted.
Navâ closes her eyes and draws in breath. Water, in beads, starts to pull itself from the ground and Tesla realizes that Navâ is drawing water from the roots of the grass, of the trees nearby. It all pools, collecting at the worst of Lonnie’s wounds. Tesla falls to her knees, watching in awe as Navâ’s face twists in effort. The will required for this kind of magic… Tesla recalls the first time she flew, how exhausted the effort had made her. She reaches out, touches Navâ’s shoulder. She presses her will into Navâ, giving her strength while draining her own. How long they stay like that she doesn’t know. But suddenly, below them, Lonnie lets out a breath. When Tesla looks, she sees that the wounds on Lonnie are closed, the blood drying.
It’s not a miracle, it’s more than that. It’s magic like Tesla hasn’t seen before, magic stronger than hers. She knew, of course she did, that other people had magic stronger than her own. How could she not? But she’d never seen Navâ work hers like this, never seen water magic sucked from dry air before. It’s like discovering a new element, the implications and applications of such power swimming fast up the streams of her mind. She’s not even aware of time existing as she thinks of what magic like that could do.
Reality comes crashing back in when Navâ lets out a soft sound. Tesla turns in time to reach out and catch her before she falls. Just like that, all thoughts of what Navâ could do with her magic are gone. She has an exhausted girlfriend in her arms and a wounded friend on the ground. They are all alive, that’s the good news. Now they just have to get home. Tesla lifts both girls in her arms. She flies them home. She no longer has to think through all the math involved. She’s stronger, now. But she’s not the strongest person on the flight. This doesn’t upset her. She’s always liked learning new things.
