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about:
This is a sideblog, and I follow back from my main @grimmusings. Please direct IMs there, since it's easier for me to keep all my messages on one blog. It's also easier to start interactions with me there, where I regularly post open starters and meme prompts. For a full list of rules, see my main. Honesty hour questions will largely be answered IC and treated as anonymous unless signed by a muse.
Will is a canon character from Robin Hood. All details vary based on verse, but in general he's a mix of headcanons, folklore, and influences from Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (1991). I'm happy to write him into AUs and fandom crossovers.
wanted connections:
This is by no means a comprehensive list, and I can roll with most muses as far as basic interactions. I’m happy to ship Will with other fairy tale characters and OCs/fandom crossovers based on chemistry.
Family: Robin Locksley (half-brother), Marian (sister-in-law)
Other: Sheriff of Nottingham, Guy Gisborne, Friar Tuck, any Robin Hood or Wizard of Oz muses
default verses:
ever!after: Characters are reincarnated versions of their fairy tale counterparts, and few know who they truly are. Will is an ex Marine Sergeant who lost his arm and half his unit on his last mission and retired in Fableton. (bio)
fableverse: When the storybook worlds collapse, Will finds himself in a contemporary town called Fableton, where he works as a thief and a mechanic and does everything he can to avoid his half-brother, Robin. (bio)
verses by request only:
I'm happy to write these, but since they're more specific AUs, I don't default on them for asks/memes. Please feel free to request them.
horror!verse: Will is attacked by a rogue werewolf in the 1930s and joins a small pack of career military wolves, most of whom are killed in a dirty mission in the 60s. Reluctant to join and lose another pack, he primarily works as a bodyguard or a mercenary. (bio)
twd!verse: A zombie apocalypse AU with the same history as Ever After, only the breakout happens after Will settles in Fableton.
Will hated Purge night. He didn't know how anything as corrupt as a night of sanctioned murder had ever become legal, and that was coming from a career soldier. He had decades of sanctioned murder under his belt stretching back to WWII and ending with a recent four-year tour in Syria. If there was ever a time Will had found the immortality that came with being a werewolf exciting, it had died with his original pack back in the 70s. He'd mostly wandered since then, occasionally serving under various names or working as a bodyguard or a mercenary.
He was freelancing tonight, though. He'd set himself up with a sniper rifle on the rooftop of his current apartment building to discourage anyone from trying something on his street. It was a lower-income tenement, the kind that couldn't afford protection on Purge night, and though he doubted he would stay there until this time next year, for now it was home. These people didn't deserve to die just because they weren't rich.
There was a small group at the end of the street, looming over a victim he couldn't see clearly through the circle of bodies. Because five on one was totally fair. When his eyes narrowed down the sightline, finger squeezing the trigger, he only hit the aggressors, the bodies dropping one by one with rapid efficiency.
Frank was cursing to himself, his head pounding as he was kicked over and over. Sometimes in the face, in the ribs... His fucking gun had jammed, and in an instant he'd been surrounded. It was embarrassing. Pathetic that he'd been so easily subdued, and maybe just for a moment, he allowed the onslaught to continue, knowing it served him fucking right, though he'd fought through worse, and tonight certainly was no exception. He'd take these guys down. More or less easily. He was sure....
Or so he thought.
Shots rang into the night, one after another. Each guy standing around him dropped like a bag of bricks with sickening thuds to the cold concrete, and he sat up, blood dripping from his nose and his busted lip. His ear was ringing, but damn if he didn't laugh, the pain making him feel just a little more alive.
Dark, trained eyes moved over the rooftops until he found a glint of metal, and he made note of it, clearing his weapon until he was sure it would work again.
Fucking thing.
Heading into the night, he made his way up to that very same rooftop, unafraid of the man atop it, or the rifle in his hands.
"Thought I should say thanks," he muttered, hands up, though he let him see he had a gun too.
"Not here for a fight. Just out for the same thing it seems you are."
Even from a distance, Will could hear the man laugh when he got up, and the corner of his mouth twitched in an answering smile. It took a special kind of person to laugh at imminent death. Once, when he'd still had a family, he'd been the guy cracking jokes and making offhand comments before a mission to keep things from getting too dark. But then everyone died, his sense of humor along with them, the least of the casualties.
Ah, so that was the problem. His weapon had jammed. He released the gun and gave him a quick salute; the guy stood like he was ex-military. After a while, it was easy to see it on people. His ears weren't as sensitive in human form as they were in the wolf's, but they were good enough to clock his approach and ascent. If Will didn't want him up there, he wouldn't have made it that far, and he was quick to wave him forward.
"Don't mention it. Never cared for bullies, and five on one isn't exactly fair odds." He nodded to the holstered gun, not bothered by the sight of it. They were both armed; it wasn't a secret. "Those 1911's have a weak recoil spring. They need a replacement every fifteen hundred rounds or so. Want a beer?" He nudged the cooler of bottles toward him with his foot. If he was going to have company, it might as well be friendly. Will respected anyone who came out on a night like this to even the odds.
Will hated Purge night. He didn't know how anything as corrupt as a night of sanctioned murder had ever become legal, and that was coming from a career soldier. He had decades of sanctioned murder under his belt stretching back to WWII and ending with a recent four-year tour in Syria. If there was ever a time Will had found the immortality that came with being a werewolf exciting, it had died with his original pack back in the 70s. He'd mostly wandered since then, occasionally serving under various names or working as a bodyguard or a mercenary.
He was freelancing tonight, though. He'd set himself up with a sniper rifle on the rooftop of his current apartment building to discourage anyone from trying something on his street. It was a lower-income tenement, the kind that couldn't afford protection on Purge night, and though he doubted he would stay there until this time next year, for now it was home. These people didn't deserve to die just because they weren't rich.
There was a small group at the end of the street, looming over a victim he couldn't see clearly through the circle of bodies. Because five on one was totally fair. When his eyes narrowed down the sightline, finger squeezing the trigger, he only hit the aggressors, the bodies dropping one by one with rapid efficiency.
grimmusings asked:
“ Fuck being the bigger person; I’m going to start biting people. ” (Will @heartlikeawound)
BITING PEOPLE? WELL, THAT ENCURED A LOOK OF BEMUSEMENT FROM the firebird's features. What was the point in biting another, truly, unless your bite induced some reaction like a toxin upon the other person? Of course, there was biting for the other sense, but she hardly believed that he was discussing that of all things, considering how he'd opened up the sentence.
Her expression did not falter, not even as her eyes assessed him further to figure out the meaning behind his sentence more. She could feel a hint of anger behind his comment; feel a grumpiness within him. It reminded her a little of her brother, she wasn't going to lie but, after another moment of blinking at him, she shifted her weight in her pastel pink heels and drew her teeth over her bottom lip. " I... don't think biting people is really going to solve anything... "
Technically, Will's bite was toxic in a sense, at least when he'd transformed. It had the side effect of turning someone into a werewolf once a month. Having been a survivor of just such an attack once, that wasn't something he would ever willingly inflict on another person.
"I haven't shifted. It wouldn't even hurt that much." He gently tugged at the tie around his neck, obviously wishing to take it off or perhaps hang himself with it. He wasn't in the mood for a stuffy party--ever in his life--but as long as Candentis Lunae was making nice with another pack, he was doing his best to play along and not make trouble. Admittedly, those weren't areas where he excelled. His skills ran more to intentionally provoking a fight for his own amusement or standing dead-eyed on the sidelines watching for threats.
The docs were crowded this time of day. It was a perfect setting, people pressing against each other, brushing through, pushing past, trying to get from A to B while the shipworkers did their thing, unloading and loading shipments and supplies. Victoria preferred the docks, and she especially preferred them right now.
What was an innocent touch or a brush of her hand here and there, when there were so many other hands, elbows and knees (people do weird shit, yknow) everywhere else? Nobody would notice if their pockets got a little lighter, at least not until the redhead was well blended into the crowd.
She walked on, music in her ears, arms along her sides, taking in the crowd carefully. Slim pickings today, but Victoria didn't let that discourage her as she set her eyes on a new victim, takin in his figure, and deciding. All it took, really, was to casually brush up against him, bump into him a little as they passed each other, nimble and clever fingers working their way into his pocket and away again. Quick, smooth. "Oof, sorry," she muttered, glancing at him as if she was genuinely apologetic, before she kept moving, walking just a touch faster than she had moments before, sticking both hands into her pockets to protect her loot.
--
Repairing boat engines quieted his mind and kept his hands busy, but it was his least favorite time of day, when it was swarming with people like this. She was hardly the first person to get that idea. It had occurred to Will the first time he set foot on the docks that this was the perfect hunting ground for thieves, and it certainly had its fair share of crime. While he wasn't hypcrite enough to oppose stealing on the face of it, and even liked to keep his hand in from time to time, he never contributed here. For as much as he resented his half-brother, he'd taken at least one thing from him deeply to heart. He only stole from people who could afford to lose it.
He'd had more than a decade to let that resentment settle in him though, and it barely twinged these days, eclipsed by much more recent losses. Everland was a fresh start for Will. He'd been on the straight and narrow for over a decade in the military, that last tour costing him his arm, some dear friends, and a good chunk of his peace of mind. Fransokyo Robotics was the main reason he'd chosen this place, the metal clockwork arm still an unfamiliar weight at his side.
It was the flesh hand that reached out to snag her elbow and drag her to a halt, however. He'd be a terrible thief if he didn't know when he was being pickpocketed. She was good, he'd give her that. Robin Hood himself would have been proud. He was half-tempted to let her get away with it, but replacing his IDs was a hassle he didn't want. "You can keep the cash, kid. I won't even ask why ya need it. Just give me back the rest."
She wouldn't call it luck. Victoria wasn't dumb enough to believe in luck, and luck sure as hell hadn't helped her before, when she really needed it. No, her skills came from hard work, from repeated failure, from countless bruises and rough-handed grips and being out of breath from fleeing a scene, but it had never been luck.
Which is why she didn't consider herself unlucky when a firm grip caught onto her elbow, stopping her in her track. No, it was lack of skill. Some sort of slip, or nudge, or something that wasn't supposed to have happened. Maybe she'd been distracted.
Victoria kept both hands in her pockets, eyes forward for just a brief moment while she considered her options. She could cause a scene. She was young, if she yelled that someone grabbed her? It would most likely be enough to make him let go, and leave her with enough crowd-sympathy to get away. She'd done it before.
However, she didn't get that far. Before she could make up her mind, he was closer, his voice right by her. She turned around, her face twisted into a grimace. "Kid? Who the hell are you calling kid?"
He made a sound through his teeth, part sigh, part growl, the metal clockwork fingers as silent as the flesh ones as they deftly palmed his wallet back from her. Leo might not set foot outside his bookstore these days, but he kept Will in fine working order should he happen to stop by with a box of doughnuts or some carry out. He released her arm and, true to his word, was midway through removing the cash from his wallet when his gaze finally flicked to her face.
She was a dead ringer for Marian, and for a second, he was somewhere else, half a dozen memories of her at that age flickering through his mind. There might be no love lost between Will and Robin, but he'd always had a soft spot for Marian. He'd dragged his feet in looking them up once he was settled, feeling he'd spent enough of his life peering over his half-brother's shoulder, but that was a few questions answered. "Christ, but you look just like your mother." He tucked the wallet back into his pocket and held out several folded bills for her. Since it looked like he'd missed about eighteen birthdays, it was the least he could do.
Will wasn't in the business of playing bodyguard to wayward witches, but he wasn't the sort of person to look away when someone needed help either. He could tell by her scent who it was before he even opened the door, though it was almost overpowered by the rich tang of freshly spilled blood. He'd so desensitized himself to it overseas that the wolf inside him didn't even stir.
The cabin was isolated out in the woods, but given that he'd brought her there before to patch her up, he wasn't surprised she knew the way back. It was stocked with enough food and weapons to outlast an apocalypse, but it was temporary. Since the deaths of most of his pack, Will hadn't stayed anywhere long. If he was being perfectly honest with himself--always a dangerous prospect--he would have left already if not for Laurel. He feared she'd die without his help, and he didn't need another death on his conscience.
He nodded a greeting, standing aside to let her in, his gaze shifting past her to scrutinize the dark outside. "Come in. I'm more concerned about the blood you left out there. Was anyone following you?" He wasn't concerned for his sake. Even in the army, he was little better than a glorified mercenary. But he liked to be prepared.
with unsteady steps, the witch crossed the threshold, her presence, though weakened, still carrying an air of untamed resilience. even in her battered state, there lingered a quiet, unmistakable relief—like the soft sigh of dusk—at being welcomed by him. but will’s question pierced her like a shard of ice. the answer, bitter on her tongue, was not one she wished to give. every time she had faced such moments—surviving another attempt on her life—her singular aim had always been to emerge the victor, to leave the battleground with only herself breathing. yet this time… this time, she couldn’t be sure.
" i regret, " she began, her voice carrying the weight of weariness and truth, " i don’t have an answer as certain as you'd like. " it was as though the very act of speaking had drained the last of her strength, and when she tried to move further, her body faltered. laurel caught herself against the wall, leaning into it until she slid slowly to the ground, allowing it to bear the weight she could no longer hold.
" i promise — i’ll help you clean all this blood, " she said softly, her blue eyes shimmering with a mix of sorrow and dependence as they met his. a weary smile tugged at her lips, frayed at the edges by exhaustion. " that is… if i manage to survive this, of course. "
"Then I'll count on us having company at some point." There was no fear in him, just a kind of grim resolve. It had occurred to him before now to offer to solve her problem for her. He didn't even need to be a werewolf for that. One sniper rifle and a decent vantage point, and it was done. He would have, if he thought for a moment she'd take him up on the offer.
"Hey, hey-- alright, take it easy." He knelt beside her, an arm tucked beneath her back and her knees to lift her, cradling her gently against his chest. He tucked her onto the battered couch, heedless of the blood, and shifted her carefully to examine the gash in her shoulder. It was nasty and she was losing blood, but by itself, it shouldn't be fatal. He worried there was something more he couldn't see. Will could stitch her up, but if it was magic hurting her, he was less than useless.
"Shh. Think I'd let you die on my watch? Put some pressure on that, honey." He slipped the bandana from his pocket--a very unfortunate white, the color a sign of neutrality among the wolves--and pressed it to the wound, placing her hand overtop it to hold it there. "It needs stitches. Try not to pass out while I get the first aid kit." It might be better for her if she did faint. He had some local anesthetic that would help, but patching her up was by no means going to be a painless process. He returned with the kit, kneeling in front of the couch.
Will had been in hundreds of bars like this one, all of them interchangeable. Shit, he might have even been in this specific one before. They all blurred together over the decades. Without that unerring sense of direction, he might not even know what part of the country he was in. They all looked just the same inside, from the darkened windows and the cheap neon signs to the bachelor parties and the permanent drunks parked at the end of the bar.
He was on his second drink and debating the pros and cons of challenging the cocky dart players. He was a werewolf and a sharpshooter; he could win that ten drinks in and blindfolded. He'd spent a lot of evenings hustling dudebros out of their cash, and he could see precisely how it would play out. It would invariably start a fight and get him thrown out, and he'd be right back to being bored only without any alcohol.
He was quite fortunately pulled out of that train of thought by her approach. He'd had a lot of practice blending in with humans. He didn't turn any faster than a human would have, but he knew it was wasted on her. Whatever she was, it made his nose burn like hell. No human had ever smelled like that. Too bad Will had always sort of liked things that hurt him. "Will." He smiled back, taking her hand. "Couldn't agree more. I'd love a drink."
Lilith's eyes zoned in on him, gaze narrowing ever so slightly. She'd sensed something a little different about him. He had an aura that wasn't fully human. And the closer she got to him the stronger the scent became. Which only made him more interesting.
"Good -" She leaned against the bar, catching the bartender's attention to order them another drink. Once she'd finished Lilith's eyes returned to him. "So -" Gaze flicked over him again. "Not a vampire, they usually have a tangier scent." Head tilted. "Not a demon. I'd know if you were." She inhaled slightly, trying to place it. "Werewolf? Hell, I haven't met one of you in years."
"Most of the packs stay off the radar. Safer that way." The white bandana poking out of his back pocket marked him as packless and neutral so he could roam the country without worrying about whose territory he was in. It wasn't foolproof. Pack animals could still get testy about a stranger coming in uninvited, but he typically left any time he caught a whiff of his own kind. It wasn't worth the trouble.
"So, you have the advantage, Lilith. You know what I am, but I don't know what you are." He was guessing by her comment and the scorched smell that she was hell-adjacent, but there was something off about it from the usual demon scent. It should have sent him packing immediately, but Will never did know what was good for him. He tipped back the rest of his drink when the fresh one arrived, the empty glass whisked away.
open: to anyone for platonic, masc for romantic. both muses with or without supernatural powers welcome !
plot: laurel is a witch on the run ( her coven wants to kill her rip ) and your muse has been her shelter for a while. she got herself almost killed ( again ), and of course, she is knocking your muse's door. laurel normally always wears high gloves because due to her abnormal witch powers, her hands look like this: click. but your muse already knows what her hands without the gloves look like, her little secret.
standing at the door—if one could even call it standing—she was barely upright, the aftermath of the battle she’d waged still evident in far too many ways. a deep wolf’s gash marred her shoulder, blood spattered across her face, and worst of all, her hands—already darkened by shadow—were now stained in a much deeper shade of crimson. she might convince someone she'd been attacked by wild animals, but the state of her hands was beyond explanation, beyond hiding. the darkness swallowed her hands deeper whenever she used her powers excessively.
and so, here she was again, at the only place that ever offered solace in moments like this. this home had been her refuge for a while now, though laurel wasn’t entirely sure whether the one who lived here appreciated these… surprise visits. yet, regardless, not once had they ever turned the witch away.
now, barely holding herself upright, she knocked—tainting the door in the process—and leaned heavily against the wall for support. she wasn’t entirely visible when the door creaked open, but with a faint twitch of her fingers, she managed a small wave of greeting. there was no need to speak. they would recognize laurel immediately—her hands alone, marked by shadow and blood, told the tale all too clearly. "greetings, i am deeply sorry for the blood on your door."
Will wasn't in the business of playing bodyguard to wayward witches, but he wasn't the sort of person to look away when someone needed help either. He could tell by her scent who it was before he even opened the door, though it was almost overpowered by the rich tang of freshly spilled blood. He'd so desensitized himself to it overseas that the wolf inside him didn't even stir.
The cabin was isolated out in the woods, but given that he'd brought her there before to patch her up, he wasn't surprised she knew the way back. It was stocked with enough food and weapons to outlast an apocalypse, but it was temporary. Since the deaths of most of his pack, Will hadn't stayed anywhere long. If he was being perfectly honest with himself--always a dangerous prospect--he would have left already if not for Laurel. He feared she'd die without his help, and he didn't need another death on his conscience.
He nodded a greeting, standing aside to let her in, his gaze shifting past her to scrutinize the dark outside. "Come in. I'm more concerned about the blood you left out there. Was anyone following you?" He wasn't concerned for his sake. Even in the army, he was little better than a glorified mercenary. But he liked to be prepared.
I really want a plot with a werewolf that has been in wolf form for a long time and/or has lived in the woods most of their life with their family. A human moves into an old cottage/home in their woods and at first they don’t like them and they get angry but they notice that the human is all alone and has no pack so they go visit from time to time and sometimes will leave a small dead animal on the porch and the human is confused until they see this enormous wolf one day. But the wolf slowly moves closer each day until one day they’re just hanging out on the porch and the human thinks it’s okay to pet them and over time they make friends with it until one day they wake up and there’s a random human asleep on their couch, screaming ensues, and the stranger sort of cough barks out their name because their vocal chords are still getting used to this again and they’re like hey human it’s me relax and things go from there.
The docs were crowded this time of day. It was a perfect setting, people pressing against each other, brushing through, pushing past, trying to get from A to B while the shipworkers did their thing, unloading and loading shipments and supplies. Victoria preferred the docks, and she especially preferred them right now.
What was an innocent touch or a brush of her hand here and there, when there were so many other hands, elbows and knees (people do weird shit, yknow) everywhere else? Nobody would notice if their pockets got a little lighter, at least not until the redhead was well blended into the crowd.
She walked on, music in her ears, arms along her sides, taking in the crowd carefully. Slim pickings today, but Victoria didn't let that discourage her as she set her eyes on a new victim, takin in his figure, and deciding. All it took, really, was to casually brush up against him, bump into him a little as they passed each other, nimble and clever fingers working their way into his pocket and away again. Quick, smooth. "Oof, sorry," she muttered, glancing at him as if she was genuinely apologetic, before she kept moving, walking just a touch faster than she had moments before, sticking both hands into her pockets to protect her loot.
--
Repairing boat engines quieted his mind and kept his hands busy, but it was his least favorite time of day, when it was swarming with people like this. She was hardly the first person to get that idea. It had occurred to Will the first time he set foot on the docks that this was the perfect hunting ground for thieves, and it certainly had its fair share of crime. While he wasn't hypcrite enough to oppose stealing on the face of it, and even liked to keep his hand in from time to time, he never contributed here. For as much as he resented his half-brother, he'd taken at least one thing from him deeply to heart. He only stole from people who could afford to lose it.
He'd had more than a decade to let that resentment settle in him though, and it barely twinged these days, eclipsed by much more recent losses. Everland was a fresh start for Will. He'd been on the straight and narrow for over a decade in the military, that last tour costing him his arm, some dear friends, and a good chunk of his peace of mind. Fransokyo Robotics was the main reason he'd chosen this place, the metal clockwork arm still an unfamiliar weight at his side.
It was the flesh hand that reached out to snag her elbow and drag her to a halt, however. He'd be a terrible thief if he didn't know when he was being pickpocketed. She was good, he'd give her that. Robin Hood himself would have been proud. He was half-tempted to let her get away with it, but replacing his IDs was a hassle he didn't want. "You can keep the cash, kid. I won't even ask why ya need it. Just give me back the rest."
~ @heartlikeawound || semi-plotted one night stand || Will & Lilith ~
Lilith knew how to enjoy herself. In humanity's eyes she was the definition of sin and disobedience so why not lead into it a little? Besides, she'd learned not to get attached to people - They only ended up being disappointed by her in the long run. Therefore, it was easier to keep to herself, spending nights with people to fulfil her desires and then leaving in the morning, never to be seen again. It tended to be a lonely life, which Lilith tried very hard to ignore and over time she'd become hardened to it. It was easier to be alone.
Eyes scanned the busy bar, lips pursed as she tried to figure out who to talk to. Selection was limited. A mouthy group of men having a bachelor party. Some couples dotted around the place. A few cocky men playing darts. And - "Hi." She smiled as she slid into the seat at the bar beside the only viable candidate. "I'm Lilith." Hand extended. "Being frank, you're the only interesting looking person in this bar so I'm here to buy you a drink, if you'll have me."
Will had been in hundreds of bars like this one, all of them interchangeable. Shit, he might have even been in this specific one before. They all blurred together over the decades. Without that unerring sense of direction, he might not even know what part of the country he was in. They all looked just the same inside, from the darkened windows and the cheap neon signs to the bachelor parties and the permanent drunks parked at the end of the bar.
He was on his second drink and debating the pros and cons of challenging the cocky dart players. He was a werewolf and a sharpshooter; he could win that ten drinks in and blindfolded. He'd spent a lot of evenings hustling dudebros out of their cash, and he could see precisely how it would play out. It would invariably start a fight and get him thrown out, and he'd be right back to being bored only without any alcohol.
He was quite fortunately pulled out of that train of thought by her approach. He'd had a lot of practice blending in with humans. He didn't turn any faster than a human would have, but he knew it was wasted on her. Whatever she was, it made his nose burn like hell. No human had ever smelled like that. Too bad Will had always sort of liked things that hurt him. "Will." He smiled back, taking her hand. "Couldn't agree more. I'd love a drink."
"'Try putting soldier of fortune down on your tax return and see how well that works.’”
HISTORY:
tw: death, war, injury, weapons, violence, blood, scars, self-loathing, guilt
'10s
Will never met his father, but he knew him. Everyone did. James Locksley was one of the richest men in New York City in the early 1900s, happily married with a son that was his pride and joy, so of course he could never be associated with a scandalous affair with a woman from the wrong side of town. Iris Hendricks struggled to make ends meet, and though she never explained some of the things she had to do so they could survive, Will understood. As soon as he was old enough–-before that, really–-he was taking any job he could to support her, many of them on the wrong side of the law, and quietly resenting the man who had left them both without a backward glance.
'30s
When she died suddenly just before his eighteenth birthday, Will was blindsided. The next couple years were a blur of drinking and bar fights and scraping by. It was by far the lowest point of his life, and he didn't much care if he lived or died. He thought death had finally come for him when something attacked him outside the city. He didn't know there were wolves that close--if that was even what it was--and he didn't understand how the wounds could be healing so fast. He had no idea what was happening to him until Andrew Grant stepped in. He was the alpha of a small, wandering pack, most of them career soldiers.
He never even knew the wolf who turned him. It was Grant who helped him through those first full moons when he was terrified and still half-believed this was some sort of delirious fever dream, who gave him a place in his pack and on his team when World War II found its way to the States. Will had a documented allergy to authority, but it was different with Grant. He'd finally found someone worth following, someone worth his loyalty, and perhaps he'd never known just how deeply loyal he could be. The pack was family, brothers, comrades in arms, and as far as he was concerned, that was the whole world.
'70s
There was always a war to fight somewhere, and he spent decades as a soldier, eventually working his way up to Sergeant and Grant's right-hand man. Slowly, though, the pack dwindled as members drifted off to put down roots or fell in battles. Even supernatural healing wasn't always a match for modern warfare, and the better they were at what they did, the more dangerous the ops got. He wasn't prepared to be the last man standing when one of them went wrong.
It wasn't the first time Will wished he was dead. For all intents and purposes, he was, his identity dying with his squad, since there was no way he could explain how he'd healed from that. He was back where he'd started, aimless and looking for a purpose, although this time he didn't limit himself to one city. He spent time with various packs as he traveled first Europe and then the States, many of them the new homes of his old pack members, but nothing stuck.
Present
He was more or less back where he'd started before he met Grant, only now he was cursed with a longer life. He traveled the world, reluctant to join another pack only to lose them again, and finding none that inspired the kind of devotion of his old alpha. Will knew his way around mechanics and weapons, so it was easy to settle in a town and make himself useful for a few months. The wanderlust never completely left him though, and when that restless feeling started growing in him again, he took jobs as a bodyguard or a mercenary, even signing up for the occasional tour of duty, his most recent a four-year circuit in Syria.
"‘You fall asleep in the foothills, and the wolf comes down from the mountains. And you hope someone will wake you up. Or chase it off. Or shoot it dead. But when you realize that the wolf is inside you, that’s when you know. You can’t run from it. And no one who loves you can kill the wolf, because it’s part of you. They see your face on it. And they won’t fire the shot.’"
PERSONALITY:
Depending on the context, there are two sides of Will you're most likely to get. The more common is the easy charmer who can make small talk with anyone (probably while he's stealing your wallet), the casual flirt who's quick with an irreverent joke or a slightly wicked smile. Heads or tails how much of it is real or just sleight of hand at any given moment, but it's the one most people are familiar with.
When it comes to conflict, the charm falls away, and it's all business. He can deflect just about anything aimed at himself, but he has no tolerance for people who come for his people, or for bullies in general, and he'll fight for those who can't do it themselves. On the battlefield, it's dead-eyed sniper stares and clean, efficient fighting, nothing wasted. He's there to get a job done, and he's gotten very good at it after almost a century.
The nightmares are less about the people he's killed than the one's he's failed, and there's a bit of a self-hating streak buried under the rest of it. Deep down, Will doesn't believe he's a good person. He's not even sure he's aiming to be a good person most of the time, when so much of his life has been purely about survival. It's not the best way to live, but it's a good way not to die, and no matter how self-sabotaging he can be at times, he's not the type to let himself give up.
RELATIONSHIPS:
platonic
Platonic is where Will excels, whether that's family or pack (not a lot of distinction between those for him), and he's always made casual friends easily. He'd always been fascinated by cameras, some of the skills oddly transferable from aiming a weapon, and photographs are some of the only things he's saved over the decades. When he's bothered to unpack instead of leaving his stuff in storage, framed pictures cover his walls, and when the talk over drinks turns to stories about the past, he's always got a few. It's the only real way of keeping their lost loved ones with them.
He struggles when it comes to deeper connections. He's a deeply loyal friend, and there isn't much he wouldn't do for the people close to him, so by necessity he can't give that much of himself to just anyone. He'd do anything for the his pack when he has one: fight, steal, or die for them on a dime, but there's a wall there that didn't exist before. Losing Grant almost destroyed him, and he doesn't think he has that in him again. If his life has taught him anything, it's that everything ends. Better not to have anything he can't live without.
romantic
All casual, and he'll be the first to admit he's not looking for anything serious, or ever had anything he'd consider serious, and that's entirely by design. He knows he tends to hurt people simply by being himself (and no matter how often he says it, some people won't hear him on it), so it's safer just to keep it simple. He's out the door when either side starts to catch feelings.
Of course, that's just as much a self-preservation instinct. He loves deeply and recklessly when he lets himself, and he's a little afraid of how that would translate in a romantic relationship. He's already lost the two people who were most important to him, one family and one pack, and watched his pack members survive the loss of their mates, and he's not sure he can do it again. Letting someone that close just to lose them might wreck him permanently.
antagonistic
Will tends to take people not liking him as a personal challenge, but it's even money whether he'll try to win them over or find the exact thing that irritates them and lean on it, so there's probably no shortage of petty antagonism. Typically, he's not one to take it seriously though, or to find offense where none was meant.
Of course, it's a different story when his pack is at stake, and he'll take a battlefield approach on that. Nobody wants to be standing too close if it's bad enough to call up the soldier. He wouldn't choose vengeance for its own sake, but he wouldn't hesitate to make a point either. He can make it clean with no evidence, or he can make it messy enough to be a warning against coming at them again, but neither will trouble his conscience. Don't fuck with family. Don't fuck with people who can't fight back. The rules are simple but unbreakable.
"This was his territory as much as it was mine. I would get angry, and then he’d step in, not to defuse the situation, but to cover it with napalm.”
STATISTICS:
≛ Age: 106
≛ Height: 6'0"
≛ Build: Lean and packed with muscle from a dedicated gym routine that includes weights, cardio, and sparring practice
≛ Eyes: Blue that shifts in shade depending on his mood, the lighting, or the shirt he's wearing
≛ Hair: Dark brown, cut close when he's been overseas, but he's been known to grow it out in the intervening years, sometimes long enough to brush his shoulders and with the scruff to go with it
≛ Distinguishing Features: Faded scars from the attack that initially turned him, along with a couple more recent here and there from silver, but nothing he pays a lot of mind to. There's a tattoo of a howling wolf and an iris flower on his ribs for Grant and his mother, and various military ink scattered here and there.
strengths
≛ Physical strength, agility, and endurance. He's a ruthless and efficient fighter in either form, with decades of martial arts and weapons training. A high tolerance for pain lets him push through all but the most severe injuries to get a job done (and he'll spend most of the first month after a tour sleeping off the physical and mental effects). He won't flinch at violence or doing the dirty work to protect the pack or discourage further threats--and if he's pushed that far, he might even enjoy it a little.
≛ Extensive weapons training, in both long-range and melee, from years of military ops. He's a sharp eye behind a sniper rifle or a blade between the ribs before you even knew it was coming, and hiding knives or smaller guns among his regular clothes has become a bit of an art form. While he has the usual weakness against silver like all wolves, there are silver bullets and knives in storage with the rest of the weapons that aren't for daily use, and a little nausea won't stop him from using them if he's up against another pack or rogue wolves.
≛ He's always been able to make easy small talk with strangers, swiftly charming them into letting their guard down. It was partly a survival tactic at first (watch this hand while the other robs you blind), but it's so much a part of him he can't separate it anymore. He's good at character assessments after short interactions, getting a sense of someone's strengths and weak spots, and they're usually pretty accurate. That's not to say his own issues don't cloud his judgement from time to time, and he's a little too capable of turning that critical eye on himself.
weaknesses
≛ Will is his own worst enemy, and while he's aware of his self-sabotaging streak, he's probably not conscious of just how deep it runs or the way it shapes almost every aspect of his life. There's too much blood on his hands for him to ever consider himself a good person, and there's still a fair bit of survivor's guilt in him over his mother's death and Grant's. If people got what they deserved, they'd still be standing instead of him.
≛ Going hand in hand with this self-sabotage is the fact that he's a proven flight risk. He's always got one foot out the door on any romantic relationships. No matter what he's temporarily committed to, there's a part of his mind that's always going to be making contingency plans. It's safer to assume nothing is permanent, and it's become a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy for him.
≛ What's that they say about poking a sleeping dragon? Will usually knows where the lines are, but that doesn't always stop him from deliberately stepping over one. It's not something he turns on friends or pack members regularly, since he actually likes and respects them, but he will occasionally entertain himself (or them) by seeing how long it takes before a stranger takes a swing at him. Fighting back would be unfair, of course, so he'll just smile with blood on his teeth, offer up a mocking salute, and walk away.
aesthetics
made of mischief ≛ heart like a lit fuse ≛ click of a camera shutter or a sniper rifle ≛ blades twirling between fingers ≛ polaroids all over the fridge ≛ how sharp is your knife (flirting) ≛ permanent five o'clock shadows ≛ I am being perfectly fucking civil ≛ roar of a bike ≛ cocky smirks ≛ blowing smoke in your face ≛ leather and motor oil ≛ sorry about the blood in your mouth ≛ open road at sunset ≛ middle fingers hanging out the window ≛ baking asphalt ≛ wolf stares ≛ desert sun ≛ sticky fingers ≛ allergic to authority ≛ mocking salutes ≛ loyal to a fault ≛ the fire was put out as quickly as it started
⭒˚⭒ WILL SCARLET ⭒˚⭒ has just turned to a new page in their story. They're a [ 30 ] year old cismale (he/him), and you might know them better as WILL SCARLET from Robin Hood. They're currently working as a mechanic at MASTER MECHANICS. They look a lot like ⭒˚⭒ SEBASTIAN STAN ⭒˚⭒ and come from a world of [ magical realism ], but you'll know them best by their sticky fingers, heart like a lit fuse, allergic to authority vibe. ⭒˚⭒
