[stolenpieces]

[ milo ventimiglia. 38. male ]  was  that  just  𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐍  𝐋𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐈𝐑,  I  saw  walking  down  the  streets  of  New  Orleans?  The    𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑤𝑜𝑙𝑓  is  known  to  be 𝙸𝙽𝚀𝚄𝙸𝚂𝙸𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴,  but  HE  could  also  be  𝚂𝙺𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙸𝚂𝙷  and  can  be  best  described  by  𝐌𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐃  𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐖𝐒❟  𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐍  𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐋  &.  𝐎𝐍𝐄  𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄  𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐘.

short  and  sweet,  this  is  quenton  labonair, and  the  love  of  my  life.

although  unnamed  in  the  show,  his  name  is  quenton  here.

you  can  read  the  wiki  for  him  here  since  he’s  for  the  most  part  canon.

quention  wanted  better  for  not  just  new  orleans  but  the  packs  inside  it.  that  meant  uniting  the  packs  and  making  a  deal  with  marcel.  he  was  killed  before  he  had  the  chance  to.

quenton  was  on  the  other  side  since  1991  though  now  that  he’s  back,  he  couldn’t  tell  you  what  he  saw  or  experienced  over  there.  he  doesn’t  know  if  he  reconnected  with  hayley,  or  with  his  family,  though  chances  are  he  was  caught  in purgatory  and  unable  to  move  on.

when  he  came  back,  he  knew  almost  instantly  that  time  had  passed  but  his  mind  was  hazy.  he  eventually  made  his  way  to  the  bayou  to  collect  himself  before  going  back  to  the  city  to  find  someone  who  could  tell  him  what  the  hell  had  happened  ---  and  maybe  find  andrea;  because  he  still  had  hope  she  was  alive.  quenton  also  struggled  with  wanting  his  wife  to  be  alive  and  hoping  she  hadn’t  come  back  to  the  confusion  he  struggled  to  believe  was  something  more  than  a  nightmare.    ((  he  hadn’t  imagined  he’d  also  have  a  granddaughter  as  well.

[stolenpieces]

he  wasn’t  proud  of  it.  there’s  some  kind  of  feeling  in  his  chest  that  aches  with  each  sip  of  another  round  of  whiskey  but  now  is  when  it  was  bad.  those  moments  of  deafening  silence  followed  by  bodies  rushing  by  --  but  none  had  faces  he  wanted  to  see  the  most  in  the  world.  when  he  feels  the  air  shift  and  hears  the  stool  beside  him  squeak,  he  doesn’t  even  need  to  look  at  the  presence  to  know  it’s  there  now.  ❝that  seat  is  occupied.❞  his  voice  is  gruff  with  a  hint  of  exhaustion  lingering  in  it.  by  who?  the  ghosts  of  his  life  of  course,

[stolenpieces]

xwitchjo​:

Josie had just finished her first day at Old Algiers High School. It was exhausting to say the least. The weight of recent events was still weighing on her shoulders. She had just finished a salad and coffee at the coffee shop, now she decidedly explore the city a bit. It was quite different from the small town of mystic falls, but it was also beautiful. She stopped to watch a guy who was performing a song on a Saxophone.

🐺

it  was  strange  to  think.  faces  changed,  technology  was  so  advanced  it  practically  scared  him -- but  standing  here,  watching  the  man  play  a  song  with  his  saxophone?  it  reminded  him  of  every  single  reason  new  orleans  was  home  to  him.  of  why  he  wanted  to  unite  the  packs  and  make  treaties  with  vampires.  (there  were  other  species  but  vampires  were  the  main  one,  being  polar  opposites  enough  that  𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦  𝑎𝑏𝑠𝑜𝑙𝑢𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑦  𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑑  𝑎  𝑤𝑎𝑦  𝑡𝑜  𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘  𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟.  not  just  that  but  exist  side  by  side.  to  be  able  to  walk  down  the  street  and  see  this  kind  of  thing?  that  was  rarer  than  you’d  think  back  in  the  nineties.  “i’m  glad  to  see  it  hasn’t  changed,”  changed  in  this  sense  anyway.  why  he  had  to  even  speak?  because  for  a  moment  he  wondered  what  andrea  would’ve  been  like  at  her  age.  “the  music  anyway.”  it’s  a  special  sense  of  home  he  hopes  could  be  instilled  in  others. 

[stolenpieces]

tobiasxdanvers​:

(He’s playing Gone, Gone, Gone- Philip Philips )

Classes has ended a few hours ago and the auditorium was devoid of life. The students and facility had gone off somewhere. Honestly, the vampire felt like a freeloader. If he was going to remain in the city, he would need his own place. He couldn’t life off the hospitality of others. 

It was rare that he pulled out the old Gibson he had purchased just before the war. His classroom has the best acoustics. Giving one final glance and listening quietly. The halls seemed silent. Enough time for him to strum a few songs before retiring for the evening.

Eyes closed as Tobias moved his fingers, strumming along the old strings. The old girl still sounded good, even after years of unuse. Closing dark eyes, the man allowed himself to get lost in the song.

For several measures, only hums slipped from his lips until light hums became soft words.

I surrender honestly.

You’ve always done the same for me.

So I would do it for you, for you.

Baby, I’m not moving on,

I’ll love you long after you’re gone.

For you, for you.

You will never sleep alone.

I’ll love you long after you’re gone

And long after you’re gone, gone, gone.

After the song wrapped up, the hair on the back of his neck stood up, alerted the instructor that he had not been alone. “Okay, cats out of the bag. How long have you been standing there?” A sheepish expression moved over his face.

🐺

he  knew  things  were  different.  new  orleans  had  always  beckoned  people  in  after  all;  even  if  the  faces  were  the  same,  technologies  had  advanced.  there  were  new  fears,  new  wars,  new  stories . . .  but  quenton’s  head  and  heart  struggled  with  making  sense  of  it  all.  his  life  belonged  in  the  nineties,  not  now,  and  quenton  knew  that.  while  he  tried  to  get  species  to  work  together,  he  never  saw  himself  living  past  a  certain  point.  everyone  should  die  sooner  or  later;  which  is  the  problem.  HE  KNOWS  HE  WAS  MURDERED.  quenton  can’t  shake  that.  everything  he  knew  is  gone  but  the  belief  of  this  being  unnatural  was  still  there.  far  more  unnatural  than  even  the  curse  of  being  a  werewolf.

the  music  is  what  lured  him  in.  it  sang  to  him,  rather  than  the  man’s  voice.  the  lyrics  were  something  he’d  said  once.  maybe  not  in  the  exact  order  per  say  but  they  had  been  said  nevertheless.   𝐇𝐄  𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐒  𝐇𝐄  𝐖𝐀𝐒  𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃.   it  made  him  miss  his  wife  even  more  than  before. quenton  was  going  to  leave  but  his  feet  remained  there  in  the  door.

quenton  figured  senses  were  better  depending  on  what  you  were.  hearing,  sight,  strength . . .  but  the  man  hadn’t  been  alerted  until?  something  really.  no  real  example  flashed  in  his  mind.  ❝just  a  few  seconds.❞   it  hadn’t  just  been  the  words  that  reminded  him  of  his  wife,  but  of  the  guitar  reminding  him  of  the  fact  that  he  and  his  family  would  do  the  same  out  in  the  bayou  every  other  night  or  so.  it  was  their  way  of  truly  coming  together.  chatting,  eating,  playing  music . . .  and  that  was  a  heaven  he’s  not  sure  if  he  even  had  when  he  had  the  chance  to.  a  few  seconds  is  a  lie,  however,  though  the  way  he  had  said  it  was  soft  and  𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡  truthful.  ❝sorry  for  being  a  nosy  body  but  did  you  write  that  song?❞

[likesmagic-deactivated20210630]

[wnq-writers]

He was a fighter. He really was. I’ve watched people tear him down, and then ask for his help. And he would help them. He would spend hours helping them. I’ve always admired that part of him.

r.k (via renrps)

m𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫            ❝𝐇𝐎𝐖𝐋❟ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃.❞