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prettieparker86 · 4 years ago

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The Ghost of You is Close to Me

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Warning: Sadness? set pre-WWI

Note: I’ve been trying to find my writer’s voice again. It’s felt lost and so far away from me. I still don’t feel it’s back per say. My previous characters still feel foreign to me. But when I feel the urge to write now, I try to listen. Not quite sure what this is. Watched a WWI movie the other night and this sort of rushed out of me like a flood, so I let it pour. For this I really tried to imagine what Tommy was like before the war based on the little pieces we've gotten from the show. And I wanted to explore the idea that she sensed he'd never come back, which in a way he didn't. His body did, but not the Tommy from before.

I’m not super well versed in the Romani culture and what knowledge I gained in the past feels mostly lost, I apologize. I was trying to find the word for horse, Grast was the closest I could. As with cozonac. I’m not sure if it’s really a traditional food. My research said it was. I’m trying my best. My intention is not to offend. Feedback is always appreciated. Thanks

Don’t know what I’m suppose to do, haunted by the ghost of you.

It only takes the sight of him to send you running. As fast as your horse can take you, holding tight to the notion that as long as you never stop running then he never leaves. You hide away to the place you would always run to as children. Back when Tommy's mum would drag the whole Shelby brood up into the hills, running away from her pitiful life in the city and Arthur Sr.

Its a grove of trees overlooking a deep fertile valley, the spot where you use to steal away as children. Long before you knew adults could run away from their grief as easily as little ones, and there was no mistaking it, you were running. You secure your horse to a tree branch where she can nibble away on the overgrown grass encircling the base of trunk, and settled atop a rock that's yours as much as it is the earth's. A rock that has only grown smaller over the years as you've grown bigger. Your family comes to this hills nearly every spring. As a child it never seemed different, now all you see is the changes.

Everything changes, this you know, but you swear if you just sit there long enough this change won't find you. It wont be so. Tommy wont leave. You're oldest companion. Your dearest friend. Gazing out at the valley blanketed in a tapestry of green hues, shadow and light, as the overcast sky moves above you - you tell yourself he isn't leaving. Even though the steady ache in your heart makes it feel like he's already gone. You miss him, before he's even left. You miss him... The words echo through you in shuddered vibrations that sting at your eyes, even worse at your heart, as a rogue tear manages to break free and make a run down your cheek before you briskly swipe at it.

You can't imagine him not being there. Being unreachable to you. You cant imagine not listening to Tommy's thoughts, his sparks of creativity, or the way he can make you laugh. You cant imagine him not being there. The hole he will leave, the one already opening up inside you feels unbearable, sickening, and you just want it to go away. Who will be there when you need someone most? Who will convince you things will turn out ok or you should keep fighting even when neither feel true? Who will know you? Who will see you? Really see you and genuinely care? You never felt you took his friendship for granted, never mistakenly felt there were others who could fill such big shoes, and yet now, as the chill of a breeze sweeps by you, sending goosebumps to prickle on the flesh of your arms, you wonder if you cherished that gift enough. You wonder if it meant the same to him and if he will miss you as deeply once you're gone.

You try not to think about it. You've been trying not to think about it since you received word Tommy had enlisted. You've kept yourself busy, both in mind and your hands. Filling the moments whenever he would start to creep in. But in the end its pointless. Because the more you try not to think of him, try not to miss him... The more you do. Its like trying to stop the rain by shaking your fist at the heavens. Futile and maddening. You see him when you're with the horses, whispering and enchanting them the way only his tongue and heart can do. You see him in the glow of a campfire where he'd often gets lost in his thoughts, scribbling them down or creating a loose sketch. You see him in the charming smirk of a young man, or a joke he once told you. He's everywhere. Inside you. A part of you. And denying that never made it less true.

And the thought of living without him feels terribly sad and lonely in a way your heart feels pathetic to admit and yet hopeless to reconcile. It isn't any place you want to be and yet you also have the sense to understand you have no say in that. You feel immersed in the overwhelming ache of your heart, the one that's been plaguing you for days now, when you suddenly hear the stir of your horse behind you. You glance back and watch as she pawns happily at the earth beneath her hoofs, snooting and pawing at the ground as Tommy appears nearby. She loves him. They all love him. You've often teased he's more horse than man and no one notices that more then the horses.

Tommy meets her joy with firm pats along her neck and gentles strokes to her mane and nose. "Hey girl" He greets.

Seeing him standing there both fills your heart with joy and deeper sorrow. Lean and strong, his hair tousled from his ride over, with those piercing sapphire eyes that cut you like a knife and see right through you at a glance. The sight of him like an old beloved quilt, comforting and well known, now tattered and tore as he rips from your life.

"Little bird", he says as your eyes meet. A name he gave you so long ago you cant even remember how it came to be.

"Grast", you answer back.

"How did you know I would be here?" You ask as you look away, not wanting him to see the turmoil brewing in your eyes the way you know he will.

Tommy shrugs easily, "Just knew." Just knew because he knows you, in a way most will never get to know you. Same way you trust in the way you know him and the ways he's shares himself with you.

When Tommy comes to sit beside you, it takes every ounce of willpower not to hug him desperately, beg him to change his mind, beg him not to go, but you don't, because you're sure it won't change anything.

"You heard," Tommy says, the grit of his breath stressing the weight of his words.

"You're a damn fool, Thomas Shelby. What did the crown ever do for us?"

He chuckles lightly to the fire on your breath, the bite in your words and you can see in his eyes he knows they only come from a place of love and concern for him.

"They need fighting men to win a war. " He tells you, as he pulls a cigarette from his breast pocket and strikes a match. Telling you things you both already know. As if it were that simple. As if the need for more men didn't come from the loss of the ones they have.

"Well then I oughta sign up. I can fight." You carry on as you snatch the cigarette hanging from his lip. Allowing yourself to feel the anger this situation ignites inside you, because anger feels far more powerful and safe than heartache and fear.

"ey, god help any man that stands between you and your cozonac." Tommy teases you, the crook of his mouth curling as he await your reprisal. Knowing your tales of blunder and greatest mishaps better then anyone. Your stories are his stories, your journeys connected.

You gasp in mock offense. "He would have eaten it all! Fistin’ it down like the whole roll was his!"

"A good stab of your fork put an end to that, didn' it?"

"He shouldn't have been so greedy." You feign defense and tug hotly at the cigarette, fighting back the smile pulling at the corners of your mouth to match Tommy's devilish grin. A battle you quickly lose as he elbows your side and snatches back his smoke before you jab him back. And just like that you aren't mad anymore. That's something only Tommy can do, make you laugh when you want to cry. Because he knows you... your dearest friend. The keeper of your secrets, biggest fears, and dreams. It's a gift to be known. An even bigger gift to be known and cherished for who you are. You never thought it wasn't, but you didn't realize how much you needed that gift until it was being taken away.

You both grow quiet against the steady decent of the sun at your backs. The low crinkle of burning paper fills and hovers in the space around you both as his cigarette burns down, subtle like the smoke dancing in swirls past his lips. Its the quiet moments that haunt you now. The hours and space he once filled in your life. The echoing loneliness that you know will only expand and grow in his absence. Those hours eat at you, devour you. Gnawing away until you feel raw and desperate to make them stop, because you swear you can't take another moment in that place. Only this time you know it wont stop. There will be no reprieve, no mercy, your best friend is leaving and you can't stop him. And when he's gone, this- This torturous way of existence, with its crawling of time, absence of joy, and echoing loneliness, it will fill the space his light once illuminated in your life. Like thick dark clouds rolling in over the backcountry hills to settle in around you and call you there home.

Tommy has his reasons, none more then Greta you suspect but you cant help but feel he's choosing the war over you, that he's abandoning you, as preposterous as you know that notion is. But there's nothing logical about missing someone. You can't reason it away with facts and rationality. And it doesn't care that it feels like it's killing some part of you. Nobody tells you missing someone is a physical sensation, a state of being above all else - like an empty or upset stomach, like a punch to the chest or falling off a horse that leaves you winded. It's not merely a thought and it's more than an emotion. You feel it in your bones, the tight hollows inside you, the vibrating ache of longing, the chill that settles in under your skin.

Sitting quietly side by side, you rest your head upon his shoulder. All the girls love Tommy, they always have. With his charming smile, deep set eyes that reach into the soul with a glance, and his devilish humor, its easy to see why so many would be drawn to him. And there was a time even you were too, but there was always too many things in the way and what you've built instead is deeper and more intimate because its not bound to the fickle confines of romance.

Closing your eyes, you can see it all so clearly in your mind. Replaying like a reel at the pictures... Wading in knee high murky pond water and reeds in search of frogs to catch. Covered in filth from head to toe as you battled on rain soaked mud hills with John to see who would be crowned king of the mountain. Sneaking off with mum's herbs and spices into the woods to craft witches brew and cast magic. Building campfires from dried old birch tree branches by the moonlight, to bathe in the scent of it, and tell old spine-chilling tales. Gazing up at the stars on warm summer night, seeing who could count the most. Lying awake late at night by candle light trying to read each other's mind. Hiding in the haystack to terrorize Arthur and any unlucky girl he tried to steal away with for a moment alone. Dragging you off to your first pub in Birmingham and knocking some bloke on his ass when he tried to get handsy. Trying to teach you to drive on slick muddy streets, as you swore at him like a sailor when he wouldn't stop laughing. The keeper of your deepest secrets as you are of his. The person who tried to offer you hope in your darkest moments and celebrated you greatest success. Who genuinely listened to you and sought out your thoughts on matters. The person you trusted most with the innerworkings of your heart and mind. The one you trusted would be there.

All of it feels like yesterday. The memories still fresh and vivid. The thought there wont be more to make constricts your windpipe, tightens your heart, as tears you couldn't possibly hold back any longer fill dangerously to the brim of your eyes... You don't know how to do this. You don't know how to live this. You don't know how to say goodbye to him. To let him go. Watch him disappear from your life. And the truth is... You don't wanna know. You don't want to say goodbye. And a part of you feels hurt this seems so easy for him, though you don't actually know it is. And the part of you that knows Tommy's heart, suspects it isn't so easy for him to say goodbye to you either.

The thought you might never speak to him again leaves a frantic feeling trying to rip free from your chest. How do you find peace when you long for someone still there but just beyond your reach, drifting further out to sea by the moment? How do you let them go when everything inside you screams to pull them back in? The tears feel warm as they fall down your chilled cheeks onto the shoulder of his jacket. He can't see your tears, but you swear he can feel them as he pats at your knee in an old comforting gesture you've grown to trust will be there. As Tommy pulls away, you fight with the urge to rapidly wipe away your tears and keep your pride. But as your eyes meet, you realize there's no room for pride here. Staring into his eyes you fear the silence that's already invading the space he holds.

But then he touches your face and you remember to breathe. Though his hands are rough from work, the pad of his thumb feels soft, full, and steady against your skin as he gently wipes away at the tears fallen on your face.

"I'm coming back." Tommy promises you, and you want to believe that more then you've ever wanted to believe in anything. That he will return to you. But you've heard the news of the war, the dyer news that continues to abound. And something deep and sharp within you whispers it isn't true. He isn't coming back, and that quiet piercing whisper radiates more loudly within you then the words on his lips.

"Let's make a fire," Tommy suggests as he gives your knee a final pat. You can see in his eyes he's trying to mend your heart, soften the blow. A solemn smile of acknowledgment creeping around the corners of his mouth, as if anything in the world can be solved by a stiff drink or roaring campfire.

You nod in agreement, there's nothing the dancing flames, glowing embers, crackling branches, and heady smoky aroma can't clear from your mind. Nothing like bathing in a campfire to wash your mind and soul clean.

You rise from the rock in slow unison. You gaze across the rich fertile valley below as it slowly descends into darkness all around you. Vibrant greens from early now turning to deeper winter tones as night begins to envelope all that you see. This place you know. This man you know. As you turn back to Tommy, watching as he moves past the horses.

Your eyes fall closed for a moment as you call to him. You pray he can hear you. The way he use to when you were children lying awake late at night, pretending there was magic between you. "Dearest friend... I love you and perhaps I always will. I see you're headed on a road, and I don't know where it leads, but you will take a part of me with you. It's been yours a long time. I hope you remember its there, I hope you protect it and treasure it. But I won't stand in your way, because that's what it means to love someone more then yourself." You whisper to him, not with your lips but from that place in your heart that already belongs to him. The one he gets to keep. You embrace the truth that your world will never feel the way it did before. You will never feel like you did before. That a part of you dies with him as he slips away. You acknowledge this new reality for what it is, whether you know how to live it or not, whether you even want to.

You take a deep breath and slowly open your eyes.

He's gone.

#tommy shelby #thomas shelby #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby fanfic #peaky blinders imagine #I'm trying my best

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serpentsapple · 4 years ago

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(Due to the topics discussed, this post includes general spoilers for: the Shades of Magic series, the Grisha Trilogy, the Six of Crows duology, Deathless, The Bear and the Nightingale, The Priory of the Orange Tree, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell as well as the Yukibana no Tora manga.)

Book after book, especially in fantasy, one might come across a similar situation: daring plots, grandiose characters, extensive worldbuilding… until it concerns women. Then, all creativity goes to the drain, reusing the same tropes, the same caricatures of how a woman behaves and where her rightful place is – a supportive aside to the main characters’ journey, absent, if not outright dead. Such criticism is often levelled at male writers, their lack of effort, their fetishes obvious. Yet what of female authors?

Women, it is said, do not fall into the same traps as men and create complex male characters with more passion than any man will spare for a female one. Do they, thus, honour their fictional counterparts in kind? Would reading women be the solution to the neverending waves of stereotyped heroines and love interests?

Unfortunately, we found ourselves confronted to the same rancid ideas in books authored by women. Too often, their characters oscillate between virginity and depravity, eternal victimhood and stupidity. Vapid and vain, or weeping and weak, or sweet and pure, all to better "defile" them later; their personality barely sketched in the sidelines, their existence hardly worth a mention, their life trivial, sacrificed. Thus appears a string of familiar figures: the dead idealised mother, the living but children-fixated mother, weak, crying; the shallow, beauty obsessed queens and girls, stupid and selfish to the core; the beloved sisters and relatives, abused and killed to distress the male half of their family; the missing female friends and aunts and grandmothers and passersby, the women whose very presence is omitted, repeatedly.

This listing may have triggered a few memories, especially to readers familiar with young adult literature, but let’s be specific: do you recall the few appearing girls derided by Lila Bard, in Schwab’s Shades of Magic series? The queen, always afraid and weeping, having no life outside of her fears and her son? Perhaps, if you persisted until the last volume, you also assisted, powerless, to the systematic abuse and slaughter of every other female character while men mourned?

Or maybe have you picked up Bardugo’s first fantasy series, The Grisha Trilogy, with its vain and unnamed Ravkan queen, its most beautiful woman punished with ugliness, its villain’s mother sacrificing herself for her son and disdaining her daughter? Or were you more interested in her later additions to her universe, Six of Crows, with its dead or mad mothers, its silly and grating young wife to a much older man, its manipulated girl-assassin finding no common grounds with her female rival, only death?

Have you opened Arden’s The Bear and the Nightingale and felt dismayed at the lack of care towards Vasya’s sister, sent away at a young age to marry and breed? At the upsetting and unending sexual suffering of a not that much older stepmother, turned bitter and cruel, demeaned despite her resemblance to the heroine, worthy of no compassion?

Perhaps you might have perused Valente’s Deathless where Baba Yaga is portrayed as a bitter old crone expressing sexual jealousy of Marya, espousing views such as a wife’s role is to be a “good mount for her husband”? Her enslavement of the previous Yelenas who were used up and cast aside as Koschei’s sexual playthings (and even more swiftly discarded by the narrative) with Marya giving only a fleeting thought to their plight?

Or Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell wherein a female perspective is conspicuously absent, existing only to be dutiful wives or hapless victims caught in a powerplay between magical men and maleficent fairies?

It would seem only a few chosen women and girls can be in the spotlight. These, usually, take the mantle of "heroines", though, as we noticed, female authors will still not allow them the same latitude as men. Stuck in a man-made world, they must submit to their gazes still, solely rely on them for friendship, love, knowledge and general plot advancement; with their every interaction tied to them, they, too, see their development denied in favour of the men’s. They must shrink themselves, give up on their ambitions, their ambiguity, accept a society designed entirely against them and feel grateful for the scraps of freedom graciously ceded to them. In that sense, they resemble very much the other girls they often strive to detach themselves from.

You may have noticed, in The Bear and the Nightingale, how Vasya, a young girl of fourteen, cannot escape the gaze of a lustful priest, the very narration also espousing his point of view, decentering her. Magic may allow her a way out of forced unions and pregnancies, yet still misogyny weights her down, isolating her from other girls and women, like her stepmother.

You may also have come across the various threats of rape Lila Bard must endure, her cross-dressing to prevent this, her loneliness and contempt for the members of her own sex. You may have noted her ambition and recklessness, only to see it crumble before a male character’s tragic backstory, while her very own desires and excessiveness were handwaved amidst a plot focusing on temptation.

Or you may have seen, in the pages of the manga Yukibana no Tora, a bold female warlord overcome her discomfort with men by ordering a friend to "take" her, turning herself into a passive recipient for men’s sexuality. Her life experience and thus, her differing point of view and confidence in herself is completely swept away. Even in a fictionalised account of her life, she must yield to men’s degrading view of her body.

In fact, despite the infinite possibilities offered by fantasy, many women still build cultures infused with conservatism. Traditional gender roles remain enforced in appearances: makeup, dresses, thinness and not a hint of masculinity, which would prove a stain, an assumed hatred against femininity and its unlucky subjects. Society, in such worlds, favours harmless and nurturing soon-to-be mothers, emotional and lesser girls whose value lies in the marriage they will be able to secure. Bloodlines, powers, knowledge and divinity itself all belong to men in an unquestioned misogynistic realm. Female characters must struggle against the chains of sexism before undergoing any other kind of development, if they benefit from such an arc at all. Rape, pregnancy and misery is their lot.

Take a look, then, at the rulers as well as the extras populating these worlds: men, in Schwab’s, as king, guards or nameless sailors, dressed as such, that is, without dresses; men as rulers again in Bardugo’s, as merchants, as mobsters, while women obsess over their appearances.

Samantha Shannon’s Priory of the Orange Tree presents a striking example of a world still conceived by men: in a country ruled by women for over a millennium, producing a blood-related heiress remains such a primordial task that even a queen becomes a broodmare. Forced into marriage, her character endures unwanted sexual unions until she finally assumes her goal as a woman – a mother, through and through. Reverse the roles, parse history: royal men annulled their marriages, kept mistresses, adopted heirs… and yet, and yet. Fictional women are kept on a tight leash. What a waste of creativity!

Disappointing and frustrating, yes. Even moreso as many reviewers – including women – will gloss over such issues, when they do not misconstruct a lone strong heroine as feminist-worthy, or qualify a superficially egalitarian world as "matriarchal". Yet what bothers us further is the way these authors receive a constantly harsher treatment than their male peers, their works immediately ridiculed and their intents disregarded, however flawed they could be. Despite their failings, men’s works are still deserving of an analysis, of some doubts and nebulous improvements; women’s should be denounced and go back to the garbage bin.

The books evoked in this post aren’t to be thrown out and dismissed. They, too, had commentaries and themes that we may disagree with, that we may believe unfortunate, or short-sighted; they had their stylistic failures beyond sexism, their convoluted plots, their lacking arcs; their moments of brilliance and artistry, their moving scenes, their heroines still shining, despite it all. Hence this blog: a space focusing on women in women’s works, neither absolving them of criticism nor disregarding them completely. We want to inspire discussions, not irredeemably condemn… and, hopefully, spark a few ideas.

#writeblr #booklr #shades of magic #the grisha trilogy #six of crows #the bear and the nightingale #the priory of the orange tree #deathless #jonathan strange and mr norrell #yukibana no tora #our posts

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305krw · 5 years ago

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Inflight

Pairing: G-Dragon, OC

Genre: Romance, angst

Summary: An American love columnist meets an old flame midflight. Blasts from the past sometimes have a tendency to bote

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“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Kimberly and I’m your chief flight attendant. On behalf of the entire crew, Welcome aboard Korea Airlines flight 888, non-stop service from Los Angeles to Incheon. At this time, make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position. Also, make sure your seat belt is correctly fastened."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I leaned back into the spacious first-class seat while the attendant went over the rest of the safety instructions. I took in the wide spacious area and complimentary champagne that was still fizzing in the crystal glass. I have been in first-class countless times now, however, it was always a humbling experience for me. I closed my eyes and remembered the time when I'd peered into the aisle from my economy class seat, hoping to catch a glance of the coveted first-class section. The people in the business class looked so far away from me. Their sharp suits and designer dresses were completely contrary to my thrifted ensemble. I remember being so nervous during that flight's take off that I grabbed the hand of the boy next to me. I squeezed his hand tight causing him to look over at me and smile. He had such a wonderfully bright smile.

I opened my eyes choosing not to remember the past, but instead take in my own sharp appearance. My navy high waist business pants were perfectly tailored and my crisp sheer white top didn't have a wrinkle in sight. Versace sunglasses sat on top of my recently straightened hair that had somehow managed to stay immaculate on the way to the airport. I had made it to first-class and I knew that young girl who just a few years ago peered out into the aisle would be proud of me.

"Because we are traveling over water there will be no wi-fi on this flight. However, all passengers are welcome to cut on electronic devices while they are on airplane mode. Thank you."

I took that as my cue to open up my laptop. I had to finish my article " What Makes a Man Fall in Love" which would tie into my interview with Korea's golden boy G-Dragon for next month's issue. It was a load of crap, but it was what would put food on the table, so I opened up a word document and stared at the blank screen. I continued to stare at the blank white screen for a few more minutes. Nothing. I decided to plug in my headphones for a more isolated feeling hoping that it would spark some creativity. I started to lightly hum the slow but catchy tune. Soon my hums were replaced by deep sighs as I repeated the constant cycle of typing then erasing. Letting out one last sigh I finally typed a complete sentence on the barren screen.

"What the hell is love anyway?"

The letters were big and bold. They were taunting me as I sat with my head back against the seat in frustration. Suddenly, I heard someone plop down in the vacant space next to me. To my surprise, it was Mr. Golden boy himself.

"Article not coming along?" He asked with a cocky grin.

"Actually, It's coming along just fine." I almost snorted as I closed my laptop harshly.

"Ahh ok. 'What the hell is love anyway?'" He rubbed his chin like he was pondering the question himself, "I don't think your readers buy your magazine for one sentence articles."

My patience with my unwanted guest was running thin. "How may I help you, Mr. Kwon? I believe our interview isn't scheduled until tomorrow."

"Well, I heard all of that huffing and puffing from behind you and thought that I would come to help you out."

I could feel the heat of embarrassment rush towards my cheeks. Was I really that loud? I should have taken out my headphones! I feigned professionalism and slapped on my best corporate smile.

"Thank you for your concern Mr.Kwon. However, I think I can handle it." He made himself more comfortable in the chair next to me completely dismissing my request for him to leave.

"So, you've never been in love before?" He was still grinning at me. My last nerve had just snapped in two.

"No," I said as coldly as possible. His grin slowly fell into a subtle frown as he heard my answer.

He broke eye contact as he looked down for at his hands for a moment. When he looked back up his signature smirk was back.

"Never?" He pressed.

"No. Never," I said as absolutely as the first time.

"Well, what does love mean to you?" He crossed his arms as he waited for my reply.

"It means nothing. It is a term used by people to make them feel like their fleeting desire and lust is somehow deeper than it is." I was upset with myself for letting my guard down, but I hated the concept of love so much that I lost control. " People use it to make each other feel special. It gives people a faux sense of security and it does nothing more."

He went silent.

"Well, that's quite a cynical view for a love columnist."

"Its the truth. People say that they 'love' someone, but what is the one thing, men especially look for in a relationship?" I let the question hang in the air for a fraction of a second before continuing.

"Sex. And when they can't get it they don't feel like that particular relationship is fulfilling. Love is completely forgotten. Women aren't innocent either. Everyone wants something physical whether it's sex or not. When a human sees an attractive person everything else becomes void. Even an existing relationship. In the end, love is really just a bunch of hormones that either breakdown to horniness or loneliness. " I was on fire and there was no stopping my anti-love rant.

"I write articles for my readers. I give them what they want to hear. I also make people like you look like those fantastic fantasies your fans have. So, since I'm doing you a favor I'd rather not be criticized by you." I was eager to hear how he would come back to that so I turned my body to face him mirroring his nonchalant crossed arms form.

"Oh, you aren't doing me a favor. Unlike you I actually believe in love."

That made me genuinely chuckle. "Ok, so what is love to you? I cocked my head to the side in anticipation. His face grew serious.

"Love means a lot of different things to me. In a webster dictionary type of way love is a mix of emotions ranging from affection to passion. Love is wanting to see that person when you are down, being ok with being in silence with them, having your mind wander to thoughts of them all the time, wanting to protect them.."

My chest got tighter after each explanation. But, I still waited for him to finish.

"But, it is also the small things. Like..when you get scared on a plane ride, yet you reach out to hold their hand because they make you feel safe.."

I was clenching my jaw trying to fight the stinging I felt in my eyes. Memories from our first and last vacation together began to animate in my mind. I needed to remind him of where it all fell apart.

"So, do you love Ms.Kiko? She must be all of those things for you. I mean you guys are the talk of the town."

His expression grew hard. When he didn't respond I angrily pressed the issue.

"I mean you must, right? It has been how many years now? There was even a rumor going around that you cheated on your previous girlfriend with Ms.Kiko."

I had mentioned the rumor to get a reaction out of him, but I also felt the ache in my own chest. I remembered having to sit around as strangers murmured about his previous girlfriend who to them was, frustratingly veiled in anonymity. My own co-workers gathered to gossip about 'how heart-broken she must be' with no idea that they were inadvertently discussing my own love life.

I opened my laptop and returned to the word document ready to take notes.

"What are you doing Eva?"

I set my hands on the keyboard like I was ready to type. "You said that you wanted to help. You can help by giving me the interview I need now. So, tell me about the love of your life. The beautiful Ms.Kiko."

"Eva stop." He sternly ordered as I ignored him. When I didn't react he reached over and shut my laptop. He accidentally pulled the headphones out of the computer which caused the soft melody of his new song "Loser" to flow out of my computer. I nearly chewed a hole through my bottom lip as I tried to get the music to stop playing. Once I did an awkward silence consumed us. That was until he delivered the final blow.

"Do you still love me, Eva?"

I tried to be stern. "Cut the shit, Ji Yong. You know what we had wasn't ever love."

"Really? I always thought that it was." His seemed sincere, but the scars from our past relationship were too deep for whatever this was.

"I'd like it if you left now Ji Yong. Why don't you just get up and leave? It shouldn't be that hard since it's exactly what you did four years ago. Oh yeah, you're waiting until you catch me off guard, maybe even vulnerable and naive like last time."

He started to cut me off, but I lifted my finger signaling him to stop. "Sorry to disappoint, but that girl is gone, Ji Yong. Now if you will excuse me."

I stood up and scooted past him. I found a flight attendant to request a seat change when I felt someone tug on my wrist.

I stage whispered for him to let go so we wouldn't cause a scene. After I realized that he was not planning on letting go I quietly followed behind him to protect both of our reputations. The last thing I needed was to be wrapped up in a scandal with G-dragon. It would undoubtedly ruin my career in Korea. I could see the headlines now- "Foreign Vixen Seduces our Beloved Oppa!"

Finally, as we made it to the middle of the aircraft he aggressively pulled me into the restroom. He stepped closer to me, trapping me against his chest.

"What do you want Ji Yong?" I made the mistake of looking up at him. He wasn't much taller than me so his gaze seemed to look into me.

"Do you still love me, Eva?" He asked slowly. I could feel his breath on my face..tempting me.

"No. I don't." I turned my head to break out of the trance his gaze had on me.

He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look him in the eyes again.

"Bullshit."

I felt the tears start to weld in my eyes. However, I didn't plan on succumbing to him.

With his hand still on my chin, I asked him again. "Do you love her Ji Yong?"

"I left because I had to, Eva. You were too innocent and you weren't ready for the stress that came along with being in the spotlight. I did what I did to protect you."

I scoffed at his ridiculousness. "You expect me to believe that?"

"I do."

He encircled my waist with his arms. I tried to push him off of me.

"Ji Yong stop. What about Kiko? Don't you love her?" I placed my hands against his chest not-so-convincingly trying to push him away, "We can't do this."

His grip got tighter causeing my hands to clench the fabric of his shirt. I kept telling myself that what we were doing was wrong, but as I stood pressed into his chest feeling the familiar embrace all rational flew out the window. I was in a daze caused by his amazing cologne, his firm chest, the desperate look in his eyes, his lips, and the memories of what it was like when we were together. When I loved him.

"I've never once said the words 'I love you' to her." He responded in a husky voice against my lips.

"And that is supposed to mean something to me Ji Yong?"

"Yes. I do not say it if I do not mean it."

He tilted his head more until his lips connected with mine. I felt so many things. Disappointment, lust, excitement, sadness, passion....love.

His right hand slowly trailed from my waist to my hair. He lightly tugged on it deeping the kiss. His lips were soft and careful.

However, a sudden realization seeped its way into my mind. He has never said the words ' I love you' to me either..

#once shot #kpop scenario #kpop fan fiction #dragon fanfic #bigbang #romance #angst #kwon jiyong #korea #seoul #ambw

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wxldchxld · 5 years ago

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An updated timeline:

So, I have reworked a couple of things in Beck’s history but I haven’t written them ON Beck’s history page yet bc that’s going to be a bear to deal with. I’m just going to post this as a hc for right now, and hopefully update the pages in a couple of days.

Look this is LONG and there are trigger warnings for suicide attempt mentions as well as abuse and animal cruelty. None of it is explicit. It’s even more vague than my current history has it. So I’m begging you, if you write with me or want to write with me, please look at this updated canon. But I will put it under a cut for the sake of triggers as well as the insane length that it got to.

Birth - 6

The daughter of a political marriage between the Wolf and the Fox clan leaders. Named Dahlia Adelaida Beck by birth. Born at the height of the winter solstice, marking her as a priestess among her people.

Nicknamed Dolly by her grandmother Alma.

Lives with her mother Élea, her father Oskar, her brother Fenris, and her grandparents Alma and Percy on their family owned land in Montana. She gets Ringo, her first familiar here and learns how to ride a horse, and some basic camping/fishing/farm skills from her father and grandfather. Her grandmother teaches her basic knitting/sewing/cooking. Her mother is, in large part, absent during this period of her life. She and Fenris are inseparable.

At three Beck makes her first shift into a fox, marking her in the eyes of everyone as a feral witch. Whatever meager affection her mother had for her evaporated completely at that moment.

On her sixth birthday she is given a mare who her father has named Dawnbreaker.

Three months after her sixth birthday her father passes. Her mother takes them on a vacation back to her family home in Sweden that lasts the remainder of the year. They stay with her maternal grandparents, Linnéa and Stefan Tandy

A month after Beck’s seventh birthday, Linnéa and Elea have a falling out over the way Elea is treating her children. Elea consistently refuses to take care of Dahlia in particular, and she begins to learn to fend for herself, which is deeply concerning to her grandmother.

Her maternal grandparents ask for custody of both Dahlia and Fenris. Elea responds by taking both of her children back to the states to California where she resumes her master’s program.

Shortly after her mother reverts to her maiden name, and forces her children to do so as well. Dahlia, furious and still deeply grieving her father, declares that her name is Beck, and refuses to answer to anything else.

Elea’s abuse of her children gets worse. Fenris, who was a more passive child, rarely got physically punished like Beck, but he still suffers from severe emotional abuse and manipulation. Beck is, for the most part on her own. She stays out of the house as much as she can, sleeping in parks or other abandoned places, and learning to steal for her food, as there is little to hunt for in the city. This is embarrassing to her mother, and she’s frequently punished for it.

Beck meets Cora, an older witch ostracized by the local covens, who becomes Beck’s mentor in everything she can teach her.

Beck finds the city suffocating, and she frequently wanders out into the countryside when she can, and cries when she cannot. Elea finally consents to bringing the horse her father gave her to a stable outside of town, and lets Beck walk to the stable several times a week. In this time, Dawnbreaker becomes her second familiar.

Both Fenris and Beck are homeschooled by coven members at this time. Most of them are apathetic, some downright hostile to her. She is eventually diagnosed with dyslexia, but is given little help with it.

8-9

Beck is able to stand the city less and less. She begins disappearing for longer periods of time. At first days, then weeks, and eventually she begins to take Dawnbreaker away for months at a time.

Elea, who is using Fenris’ birthright to rule both her people and the Wolves, sends men after her. The fights between them grow even more violent and bitter, and Elea struggles to even cast the appearance that her house is in order. She begins to drive a wedge between Beck and Fen, who still loves his sister dearly. But this backfires, and gives Beck even less reason to return home.

Beck’s mother finds her one final time. When they are brought to Elea this time, they are not taken to the family home in the city, but a secluded section of woods. Her mother proceeds to have her bound, and forces her to watch as Dawnbreaker is hanged from one of the old trees in an attempt to keep her from ever running again.

Several months of inconsolable grief, where she scarcely eats or leaves her bed at all, send her brother Fenris into a mad rage. He begins to plan his revenge in secret. At the next coven meet, he reveals her heinous crime and kills her. The witches absolve him of the murder of another witch in light of what Elea did, and they help cover up the crime.

Shortly after Beck moves in with Cora, but Fenris refuses. He tells her he was offered a chance to learn powerful magic from a coven member, a man Beck doesn’t trust. For the first time in their lives, they are truly separated.

11-13

Fenris and Beck try repeatedly to mend their relationship and get back to where they were as children, but they fail every time. Beck grows more restless, more wild, by the day, and the magic and fear and anger are twisting Fen into someone she doesn’t know.

Before she can even turn twelve Cora’s loving support is no longer enough for Beck. She has no desire to stay in a house, among people, not even someone she loves. She and Ringo leave the safety of Cora’s home permanently, returning only for visits.

On her thirteenth birthday, Beck is attacked by a mountain lion. After a long battle, before the creature makes its killing blow, she catches the animal’s eye. Understanding sparks between the two of them, and this time when she tells it to go, it obeys. Both she and Ringo are nearly killed in the incident, but her familiar manages to limp to the nearest town and bring back help.

She is taken back to California and returned to her brother rather than Cora. Fenris has grown in power and status among the witches there. Her appearance strikes Fenris with a cold terror, and though he is extremely kind to her in helping her heal, Beck feels as if something is deeply wrong.

14-16

After a long recovery, Beck begins to get restless again. She yearns to return to the wilds. The city suffocates her more and more by the day, but her brother refuses to let her go.

Tensions between Fenris and Beck reach a boiling point, and she is eventually confined to a room until she agrees to stay in the city with him. The change overtakes Fenris as the year drags on, and he’s not the sweet young boy she once knew. She feels as if she’s living with her enemy rather than her brother.

She is enrolled in a coven school, where they attempt to continue her educate while working around the fact she is almost completely illiterate. This is where she meets Harper, just two months after her 14th birthday.

Beck and Harper fall into a quick, extremely heated teenage passion. All of the grief and loneliness they feel slowly evaporates. Beck reconnects with some of her old friends at this time too. When she’s with them, she feels as happy as she can possibly feel living in a cage, but things only seem to get worse and worse every time she goes home.

On her seventeenth birthday, Harper gives her a ring. Harper is anxious to leave home to move to New York, and asks Beck to marry her the second they’re both eighteen and to move away with her. Harper doesn’t know what’s going on between Fen and Beck. She doesn’t know about the healed bruises and the shouting and the threats. Beck refuses to take the ring without being able to tell Harper the real reason why. Even if Fen did let her leave, she would never survive New York. They don’t break up but Harper vows to leave for Juliard the second she can. With or without Beck.

Between life with her brother and the ever looming deadline of Harper leaving, Beck becomes increasingly fragile and hostile. She knows she cannot stay.

Harper, older than Beck, leaves for New York a few months later, and without her protective presence, things at home get even worse. When she tells another coven witch, the woman either doesn’t believe her, or she’s too frightened to listen.

After several failed escape attempts, and Fenris’ control getting tighter and tighter, Beck eventually attempts suicide. She is taken to a hospital, a place she’d been a handful of times before because of her brother’s wrath, and a woman there offers her help. She accepts and is stolen away.

Beck is introduced to the Sisters of the Holy St. Marciana of Mauretania, a group of humans, witches, and other supernatural beings who masquerade as an order of nuns. They operate in secret under many names and in many places, helping those that no one else will help. After a brief recovery, Beck leaves them, but not without a promise to help if they call on her.

Beck returns home to her family land, despite knowing her grandparents have long since abandoned it. She finds her father’s old VW bus still in (mostly) running order and begins to use it for travel.

In the early spring, Beck returns to the wild herds of Montana, where Dawnbreaker lived in the months they were separated, and where she was born. She meets a golden stallion and instantly recognizes him as one of her foals. The stallion begins to follow her around tirelessly, and Beck tries again and again to send him away. But the stallion will not be shooed, and eventually Beck lets him remain with her. She calls him Grani, and soon after he joins her, he becomes her familiar.

Beck begins to do odd jobs and magical favors for people in order to gain certain magical objects, slowly building a steady collection in her bottomless bag.

Beck remains constantly on the run, knowing her brother’s men are only a breath behind her at any moment. She has the van enchanted so it can be easily concealed, can travel off-road, and can haul a horse trailer.

19-21

Beck mostly still lives in the wilds, but takes several jobs helping children and adults escape situations similar to hers. Victims of domestic abuse by powerful people that are beloved or feared by everyone else. These jobs are the only time she goes into cities, and often while she’s doing research and laying low, she steals from wealthy nearby homes and businesses.

During one of these thefts Beck steals a kitten after it follows her out of the mansion she’d just robbed. The kitten becomes her final familiar, and when she gains her sentience, she re-names herself Angrboda.

In the fall before her 22nd birthday Beck sees Harper jogging in Central Park while working on a job. Knowing it was a bad idea, she still approached her. Harper was different in almost every way, and yet some how she was still as hopelessly passionate and deeply furious as the day she’d left for New York.

22-24

Beck and Harper fall back into a relationship. Perhaps both of them knew it was a bad idea, or maybe it was only Beck, but dread grew alongside passion. Harper could scarcely stand her absences, and life in the city was hell on Beck.

They dated for two years. Harper even consented to moving out of the city center to a farm near Roxbury. Marriage was a frequent topic between them both, and yet it never happened.

Eventually even Harper’s power on the East Coast wasn’t enough to keep Fenris away, and the fear of the conflict that would ensue between the witch factions and fearing her brother and deeply missing her life on the road, Beck left. She couldn’t bring herself to say goodbye, and it has been her greatest regret.

24-present

Beck lives in the wilds with her familiars, constantly traveling, and for the most part very happy. There are people she misses, and places she knows she can never return to, but she’s free. Even on nights when she’s hungry or the weather is bitter and savage, she’s free.

She’s mastered several other forms in this time, and I didn’t want to break down their discoveries by age, but they happened over the years, not just after she turned 25.

#hc

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suffering-and-happy-about-it · 5 years ago

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The Nutjob Twins’ Message (Pieces of the People We Love, Part 4.)

Series description: Not many people had the chance to see a vault or to mean anything in the world of Pandora. Will a hardly built relationship in the loneliness of the desert have the potential to change anything in the world of anarchy and chaos - or will the friends try to murder each other?

Part summary: After hearing the newest message from the nutjobs of “gods”, Scooter seemed to be sure that his friends and family are in trouble. Well, you knew where this was going and you didn't like it at fucking all.

Warnings: A lot of guns, violence, reader is a tough badass - not a vault hunter tho. They’re badass and don’t give a fuck. And Scooter is a dumb bitch, as always. All Psychos and Fanatics are various Vine references - oh, what luck that reader can understand them since she is friends with Bandits.

Word count: 2.9 K

Tagging: @notaliteraltoad

Series masterlist: H E R E

Series playlist: H E R E

“Are you sure that these new vault thieves are your friends? I mean… Literally, any living remotely-human being on this planet is a fucking vault thief for that duo of crazy asses.” - Half an hour ago, you’ve made it to Pintley’s to hear his perspective on Scooter’s suspicions about his friends being the targeted ones. As per usual, you’ve had a can of Dr. Bob in your hand as you took a long swing of that nasty… Something and then, you gave a short look to Pintley. You took Scooter to Hell’s Cauldron immediately after that transmission to discuss everything. To have someone smart to help Scooter with settling on the plan he should choose. Like, you know, a good guardian.

You took him to the only other sane person in the radius of hundreds of miles, hoping Pintley would figure something out real fast - you still had your suspicions about being the one who’ll end up with Scooter and his little suicide mission project, but… A girl can dream, right? Maybe, these two men will actually come up with a smart plan that won’t involve you in the slightest.

So far it seemed, that everyone on Pandora, at least those who and working Echos or turned on radios, have heard. Maybe even other planets could hear the announcement, what could you know? Calypso twins were hunting some poor souls again - but just like you said before, that was none of your fucking business. Whoever these people were, they got into trouble on their own. You were just a small screw in the big scheme of things; so, whoever’s the trouble was, they needed to solve it… Right?

“Man, I’m sure-sure that this gal was talkin’ ‘bout my damn friends.” - Scooter answered with a sad tone of voice, making you come back to the present moment. Even if you were one crazy son of a bitch, you could hear the sadness and even understand it’s where it was coming from, to some extent. Maybe the alleged vault thieves were his friends, this time for real, but how could you know? Again - which part of it was your problem? Yeah, maybe it was Scooter’s problem. In that case, you’d be kinda sad too - and, without single regard or ill intent, you’ll wish the dude your best wishes if he decided to go and help them - but you weren’t about to lay a single finger on a thing that was supposedly connected to the vault hunting business. No. You already knew how the business was running; you’ve tried it, didn’t like it at all and it cost you your other arm. At that thought, you shivered a bit and caught to the steel that was now a part of your body.

“And how comes so?” - With a long sigh, you jolted on your chair as you stated Scooter down, trying to get to know what was going inside the small head of his. - “Tyreen didn’t name any names, did she, Scooterboy? Or did I just didn’t hear them? Damn, don’t tell me it’s my time to get an appointment at the doctor’s.” Sooner, way before the COV started to take over Pandora, the VH business was a dangerous and expensive one as well. It was only for those, who had little to lose. For those that knew their way with guns and those who were ready to commit themselves and their existence for the sole purpose of vault hunting. That was more than seven years ago. Now? It was the first sign you’d look for if you were worried that you’re either having some kind of psychosis or a serious mental diagnose, like being insane per se.

Your wish was to be a part of the legends that were told? Honey, you were more than ready to get a diagnosis and a stamp on top of that. The occasional meetings with the fanatics were more than enough for you. If these crazy asses would get to know or even hear a rumor that you’re helping the wrong side, their Gods’ nemesis, the vault hunters? Man, you would have a shit ton of them behind your back and a bounty pinned on your head. That was a no-no situation for you.

“Because there is only one siren on Pandora at the time and that’s Lilith.” - The man gazed back at you with an empty, deadly stare. You didn’t even flinch. What were you? A bitch to flinch under one not-so-nice look? Damn, the fuck you weren’t. “Technically, two and a half sirens are inhabiting the planet.” - Pintley mouthed out silently and progressed with doing the dishes. - “He has a good point, tho.” - Your best bud of the last couple of years finished with an innocent face, not daring to look at you. But you did know what he was trying to do and you weren’t about to simply give in because the old man had said so. Then, quite smoothly, you turned back to Scooter. “So, Scooterboy has a good point. And what? Why on Pandora should I even give a diddly-damn?” - The attitude you’ve given Pintley was more than well-known to him. Slowly, you slid your back to the chair as you waited for the rest of what he had so say. Oh, your gaze and expression were just daring Pintley to come for you and whoop your ass with all the arguments be got in store. At the exact moment and place, you were in your element.

Fighting arguments, that was where you succeeded 99.9% of the time. This was the sort of fight you preferred. - “Should I shit myself because boo-hoo, oh no, the baddies are after Lilith? Because they want to harm poor old Sanctuary? She, her Crimson Raiders and vault hunting ain’t my business, so I ain’t gonna put my nose somewhere where it... Shouldn’t. Fucking. Be." - Every word was accompanied by a thud, as the tip of your finger bounced from the table. - "They never did anything good for me - why would I willingly put my head down for them to get decapitated?” - The time on your voice was ice-cold, just like your eyes. Boy, you didn't realize how wrong you were at the moment, but that didn't slow you down at all. “And as for you, young man… I can pack you a lunch and wish you safe travels, if you wanna. But you should not expect any help from me, are we clear?” - With the last swing of Dr. Bob, you crushed the can with your metal arm, throwing it to the bin as you stood, putting your coat and large hat back on. Yet at that moment, Scooter did something anyone expected him to do. It honestly threw you off the rails.

The man talked back to you.

“Yea, man, ya a pussy, I can see that. Understood and noted. But because ya a bitch, ya goin’ let these people die? I know it's dangerous and beyond anyone's wildest darn dream, but that's the damn thrill, ain't it? That's why we're doin' that, aren't we, huh?” - Scooter was on his feet as well, throwing his dirty cap on the ground with something, that couldn't be described other than a sudden outburst of fury. He wasn't ending, but he had entertained you nonetheless. As you watched him gasping for breath, your metal arm went to grab the shotgun you had in your holster. “Excuse me if I’m wron’, but who destroyed Helios when Jack wanted to erase Pandora from the universe? Vault hunters. Who killed Jack? Again, man, it were the vault hunters. Who killed the darn destroyer not once, but twice, huh? Who's keepin' the COV away? Stop actin’ like a pussy and let’s help them while there’s still time to do so.” - At first, Scooter wanted to be rude at you - yet when you took the shotgun out and pointed its barrel right at his face, he suddenly shut up. The atmosphere got suddenly very, very uncomfortable.

“Listen to this, Scooterboy. I'm going to repeat myself - nobody... Nobody will be calling me a pussy or a bitch, can you hear me loud and clear?” - Quickly, you put your metal arm for him to see before you hugged your gun tight again. - “This is how it looked the last time I was trying to brave like the vault hunters are rumored to be. So if I will have to repeat myself, then I’ll shoot you down like a practice target. Are we on the same wave?” - The sentence was practically hissed out and now, you were standing two mere feet away from him.

“Vault hunters and Crimson Raiders ain’t my concern at the slightest, you understand? I’m good on my own, I’m a lone wolf, not a team player. So please, go on, run and save your friends and get yourself killed in the process, if it makes you pleased. But don’t make me solve your fucking problems. Because you and I? We aren’t friends, Scooterboy.” - With every word, you made it clear that you might be just the rude asshole you first seemed to be. Maybe the spark of humanity Scooter saw before was an illusion? Maybe you were a nutjob, just like everyone else on this goddamned planet. It was Pintley, who saved the situation. The older man pushed Scooter behind his own back, stretching out his arms to protect the boy from getting shot. For a moment, you were still pointing your barrel at him, but then you put the gun down really fast. Pintley was Pintley; a mentor and a friend.

“Cowboy, that's just enough. Calm down and put the gun on the table, will ya?” - The pub owner said calmly, nodding his head at the table. That son of a bitch. Oh, you knew what bomb he’s about to drop. The m-bomb. Moral bomb. Slowly, you put the gun out of your reach and walked around a bit to calm down. From time to time, you shot a gaze in Scooter's direction, making him realize you're still not done with him. “I know that this is not what you want to hear rite now, but Scooter had a good point in what he’d said. Vault hunters, whether you like it or not, saved your ass more times than you can count on your fingers, and maybe, you don’t even realize any of that. You can’t be very ignorant when you want to, do you know that?” “And you can be a pain in my fucking ass, Pintley. I mean what I said. It's not my damn problem.” - Now, you were speaking with your mind a bit more clear and you knew that the situation went from 0 to 100 really quickly; partially because you could be a damn idiot and partially because Scooter accidentally remained you of the accident with your arm. Again, you shivered lightly and smoothed over the arm, looking away from both of them.

“Hey. I know since you were a small girl, don't I, huh? I know you have some unfinished business with the vault hunters. We all know you don’t like them. But hey, the least you can do is that you can give Scooter a headstart, how does that sound?” - Pintley asked with a small smile, running his fingers on his mustache. He was one sly motherfucker, that needed to be said. - “Nobody wants you to join their little scout troop, you can just... Help him get there, what about that?”

“What kind of headstart are we talking about here?” - Now, the anger turned into tiredness. Without asking Pintley, you slipped behind the counter and grabbed one bottle of vodka, drinking straight out of it. Right. You didn't have to head out on a huge adventure, you could just... Help a bit and then pretend you have never met Scooter before. Sounded good enough to you. “Maybe, you can enable him to travel the Fast Travel network? That should do the trick, huh?” - Pintley looked over his shoulder at Scooter, patting the man's arm. With a sigh, you leaned your elbows into the counter, taking one fucking long swing. No. You took it back. Pintley was insane. Fast travel was one of the things that Hyperion came with as well - a system of teleporting machines that absorbed your DNA, sent you through digital ports to your final destination, and there, the Fast travel station put your body together again. Said network was working all over the known galaxy and inhabited planets. But it wasn't working in Hell's Cauldron. You knew where the nearest working was, and very well, had to be noted. No. You weren't about to get yourself fucking killed.

“Are you seriously out of your mind?” - With another swing, you put the bottle down so violently that it almost crashed in your palm. Then, you stared at Pintley for a bit longer. - “Do you really want me to persuade the boys from Walrus to switch it on for Scooterboy?” - Most of the people in Hell's Cauldron knew who Walrus was. He was one of the few bandit barons that weren't insane enough to sign his boys up to the COV. He was insane and he wasn't exactly fond of you (which was your fault and you knew that), but he could still be considered an ally. “Basically. They like you, Blindy and Rayray owe you a lot. Try it, that’s the least you can do.” - The man walked to you, made you stand up, and then he carefully smoothed your shoulders, shaking you a bit. - “Bandits of Ham’s Creek know you and trust you in their crazy, weird way. Come on, Cowboy. Do it for me. Do it for him. Do it for the universe.” “Pintley, seriously, you want me to talk to the bandits.” - Now, you were whispering with not-so-slight irony. This was like the start of a freaking good anextode. - “These men… They don’t have a functional brain between them. They listen with their knees. I don't even know if they can speak our language and I'm still not the most fluent in psycho. If you forgot, these two nutjobs Rayray and Blindy, are the normal ones out of all the men that live there, and they are like… Batshit crazy, these two. The rest is straightway nuts. Do you even remember the last time they were celebrating? If not, too bad, because I fucking do.”

At this, Pintley stopped for a moment to give you serious look. Then, he smiled. - “Cowboy, come on. We both know you would do that if there weren’t the Crimson Raiders or vault hunters mentioned. You’re just being overly dramatic.” - His index finger flicked your nose and you opened up your mouth, searching for a valid argument. Without any success, you must've admitted. Then, Pintley looked at Scooter as he knew that he already won the moral persuading. “She’ll take you to Ham’s Creek. She’s just being too hot-headed.” - Your mentor winked at the mechanic and switched to his position behind a bar, giving you the vodka bottle you've already opened. The atmosphere inside the room slowly gotten a bit better as you put your shotgun back to the holster.

“Let’s fucking do this, then.” - A low growl came out of you as you finished the rest of the bottle, throwing it to the bin once more. With a surprising speed, you walked to the new functional Catch-A-Ride, asking for a light runner. “Ya mean right now? Like now-now?” - He said with a sign of worries in his voice. You looked at him with a snort and started the engine. “Now. Tomorrow’s late, Scooterboy. Crawl in, I just want it to be over already.” - As you pushed the gas pedal down, the engine howled loudly and you leaned into the leather seat with a long sigh. Then, you looked over to the scooter sitting in the gunner's nest. - “Remember, you’ll stay glued to my back at all times until we set our feet to the place do you understand what I’m saying? You move a foot away from me and they will make a delicious soup out of you.” “And aren’t they like… Asleep now or somethin’?” - He yelled back at you. You almost turned around and gave him an ironic look, but you just make the car rush forward. Bandits and asleep? Those words weren’t making sense when someone used them in one sentence. Those fuckers were running on an hour of sleep per day, or so you heard. That was why almost each one of them was batshit crazy. Good thing was that you didn't need any navigation - you knew the way to Ham’s Creek by your heart. You'd be able to drive there from literally anywhere in the proximity of sixty miles.

And only little did you know that this was the place where your trouble had started... And that it'll get progressively worse over time.

#borderlands #borderlands 2 #borderlands 3 #scooter bordelands #pandora #after tales from the borderlands #he is very much alive and you can’t stop me #i love borderlands #scooter x reader #scooter x fem!reader #children of the vault #lilith the firehawk #oh yeah boi #rewriting be like: lit

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ofaphrvdite · 5 years ago

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silence ! raise the royal standard, for the bastard princess of rajasthan, LEELA JHAWAR, has arrived. being 26 years old, she is out of line to the throne. many around the court call her the hellion, by virtue of her being brazen and nonconformist, while also being perverse and turbulent. — played by naomi scott.

- THE BASICS.

full name: leela chandani jhawar name meaning: leela ‘play’, chandani ‘moonlit’ known in history as: the bastard of rajasthan, the moonlit princess, the crowned serpent date of birth: july 29th, 1641/1994 age: twenty six star sign: leo profession: influencer (modern verse) / bastard princess of rajasthan (royal verse) loyalty: house jhawar, rajasthan, the coalition alignment: chaotic neutral mbti: estp spoken languages: hindi, advanced marathi, advanced english, intermediate ottoman turkish (royal verse) / english, intermediate french (modern verse) mother’s name: lady marie victoire von arenberg father’s name: raghunatha jhawar siblings, if any: padma jhawar, vijaya jhawar, manikya jhawar, raya jhawar height: 5’6” hair colour: black eye colour: brown

- BACKSTORY / MODERN VERSE.

born to a real estate tycoon and his second, swimsuit illustrated model, wife, leela hadn’t wanted for much in her childhood. she was the youngest of five and doted on by all her family including her half-siblings. until the age of seventeen, she knew nothing but happiness. she was spoiled and never learned how to fend for herself beyond wrapping people round her little finger and getting what she wanted with as little effort as possible.

so when her father’s fortune fell through and they lost everything, life got a little bit harder for the heiress who had never worked a day in her life. suddenly she was expected to work to help provide for the family, and she needed skills that she did not possess. college was off the agenda, she had literally nothing beyond her bank account that she was passionate about. so she started off selling clothes, organising the wardrobes of the people she used to call friends. slowly she built up a client portfolio and she was bringing in money for home, but not enough for her to keep up with her luxurious tastes.

eventually leela began to post on instagram. outfits of the day, workouts, skincare. she started racking up sponsors and soon realised that the more together her life looked, the more views and money she got. if she posted a selfie from her dull bedroom mirror, she might get a few hundred likes, a thousand at most. if she took the same picture in the bathroom of an upscale restaurant and tagged it then she would garner ten times the amount. even if she hadn’t eaten there. who needed to know that?

over the next few months she grew her instagram following and made the natural transition to youtube. she began to vlog her day, post meals she wasn’t eating full of sponsored supplements she wasn’t taking. she would post doctored photographs of her holidays in the maldives that never happened, just sunbathing in her back garden. when she went anywhere, it was because she was invited there as an honoured guest. little lies that would dress up her feed, give her the life she craved but didn’t have. as the money began to roll in, the lies needed to be upped.

leela’s life is mostly a lie. she does now possess a fraction of the money she used to have, enough that she can afford some of the luxuries she pretends are her own. rather than posting a photo of the rented gucci dress, it now hangs in her wardrobe. a proud testament to her supposed hard work. it’s a dishonest career that could be toppled with just one youtube expose commentary. but she was careful to cover her tracks, there’s no way she’s going back to the other life. whilst her siblings settled into quiet careers, leela was intent on keeping her star shining bright.

as she climbs higher, she only gets herself deeper into the lie. the friends she has made on her way up all assume her pockets are as well lined as their own and leela has to keep up. every holiday they plan, or weekend away in cabo, she must attend or risk losing the reputation she has cultivated. but whilst she has money, it’s not nearly enough to cover the costs of her made up life. the debts are beginning to pile up and very soon she’s going to have to pay them off or cut ties with the life altogether and risk public humiliation - but even that isn’t enough to slow the swipe of her credit card.

her weekends are always the same. she parties until the early hours and returns to her empty flat. literally empty, she only has the bare minimum flat pack furniture to fill out, because every cent of her earnings goes on the materialistic purchases she needs to stay afloat. the parties are always the same, and she always drinks too much. barely ever does she really enjoy them, but it’s an image she must keep up. who wants to a follow an instagram page that stays in on a friday night watching tv?

her family have expressed their worry on multiple occasions, that have only made the stubborn self-proclaimed social media star to push them away. she doesn’t want to hear about all she’s doing wrong, that it’s not too late to really make something of herself instead of wasting all her time and potential on people who will desert her when her bank account depletes. leela knows full well that she’s the family fuck up, so why should she bother trying to change that now? either she’ll soar, or she’ll crash to the ground in a ball of flames. but at least she’ll look good doing it. at least she’ll be remembered.

- BACK STORY / ROYAL VERSE.

the netherlands, despite being her place of birth, is known only to leela through sailors stories and distant memories - ones that may be no more than a product of an overactive child's imagination. her mother had been of noble blood once upon a time, wed to a high up ambassador tasked with securing trade through india. the lady marie was a renowned beauty in her home, one leela’s father had found impossible to ignore. their affair had been secret dalliances, whispered promises when he was just a prince about to ascend. when her mother returned to the netherlands, it had only been just long enough to realise she was pregnant, to carry the child to term, and to flee to the arms of the man she loved. she remained in rajasthan as his proud mistress.

her life as a bastard would no doubt have been a miserable one in europe, with the eyes of scandalised nobles on her. but the halls of rambagh palace were filled with warmth, the young leela’s laughter imbuing the walls with joy and shielding her from others disdain. her summers were spent boating on the man sagar lake, and then evenings in the hidden depths of jal mahal. despite her status, she was never made to feel less. even at dinners, when her title saw that she must sit at the back for feasts to save guests the embarrassment of sharing a meal with a natural born daughter, she was sought out as the life of the party. the back of the hall always roaring with laughter as leela delighted them all with tales of her adventures and jokes at her siblings expense. she may have been born destined for low birth, but she was born loved. cherished by her father for her wild spirit, and treasured by her mother for being her only child. the two women were indeed very similar, both ambitious but keen above all else to lead a life of their choosing. decided by no one but themselves. perhaps that was why leela was her father’s favourite.

her childhood was as perfect as one could have asked for. almost pristine if not for the large black burn that would mar her for life. at sixteen, an evening in the cellars of jal mahal had gone horribly awry. with her siblings around her she had her first taste of wine, and all reason between the five of them had gone out the window soon after. leela had left to retrieve another bottle when she’d run into one of the noble guests staying with them. bastards were a product of lust, and their offspring assumed to be wanton too. the man had said as such when he had gripped her arm tightly. if her brother had not come looking... the man had been executed, and she had turned into her mother when the axe had swung. to this day, she avoids small spaces and dreads the feeling of someone lurking over her. she would be in control, she would have the advantage, or she would have nothing from them.

leela relishes in being a bastard, for she has all the royal benefits of her four siblings, but near none of the responsibility. whilst they must smile and preen for foreign visitors, leela can go where she wishes. no escort need follow the bastard of rajasthan, their moonlit princess they so adored free to wander the city and mix with commoners and merchants alike. it is for that very reason that her father saw an opportunity for his kingdom, and a use for the wandering leela. a bastard she may be, but everyone needed a place.

as she grew, leela’s friendly banter turned quickly to flirtation and she soon learned she had inherited more from her mother than just her beauty. the bastard soon grasped that her looks could be used for her own advantage, and manipulating the men of the court became her favourite sport. with one flash of her smile, men and women alike would bend to her every whim and that had been her first taste of true power. her father instructed her to use her charming talents to extract secrets from tight lipped nobles, the merchants in the city and the peasants he ruled over. leela was not royal, nor was she common, she was on a plane of her very own. the lowest trusted her and accepted her as one of them, whilst the highest saw her as nothing but a useless nuisance - evidence of their ruler’s indiscretions. secrets were easy to garner for the unseen, and leela was difficult to deny. the whispers she had fed back to her father have stopped many a disaster before they even had the chance to take root.

but they took their toll on her too. leela can charm whoever she wants but always for a purpose. making bonds, forging friendships? this she has never mastered. always a fleeting enigma in another’s life. for that she suffers in quiet loneliness. she has the love of her family, but not much else. she’s never learned how to keep a hold of something for good. she loves her freedom, and has traded any stability in her life for it.

though she swans about the halls in red satin dresses and trusted brown leather boots, it is not just her seductive charm that she takes pride in. rajasthan is known for war, for it’s soldiers that were unmatched but for the warriors of old. she was no different. unlike the noble ladies, she was able to train from a young age and soon grew to be an excellent warrior of her own. though she will never be able to join the men at any front, she ought not to be crossed in combat either. with a sword she is light as a dancer, a breeze on a ships sail. many men have gambled their chances, and lost their bets and dignity soon after. often she trains with the men at the waterfront, enjoying the wind in her hair as swords ring around her. in another life, she might have boarded one of those ships and sailed the seas as an infamous pirate queen.

life didn’t change much for her when the war broke out. in fact, it didn’t change much for rajasthan at all. for a while they stayed out of europe’s messy business, not caring for a sultan that washed up dead on some beach. eventually, their powerful cavalry was sought out by the ottoman empire and they were drawn into the fight to aid the coalition. still, leela went about unchanged. the battles were not brought to their home, only men were sent away to prove their glory in a fight. life was all rosy for the bastard princess, until a certain kingdom came begging.

the marathas had allied themselves with the entente, with trade promises that had fallen through and leaving them with empty pockets. the two kingdoms had always been in petty dispute with the other, never really coming to blows but the tension had always been there. a war waiting to break out if neither side were careful. the marathas were still a great kingdom, well known and revered. it was not a fight leela’s father wanted to engage in, and so an agreement was drawn up. they would fill their empty coiffers in exchange for their alliance with the coalition. to seal the deal, leela was offered as a bride for the prince and a betrothal was arranged. a bastards hand for a prince was slap in the face, and they all knew it, but the marathas had little room to negotiate.

unsurprisingly, leela was not one to bow to authority. in fact, had she not been the daughter of a king she would be the one to rise against him, to rebel against the monarchy’s imposed rule. but such is not the case, so she finds other ways to flout the powers that be. ignoring the courtly graces everyone knew she had, purposely misusing titles and mocking the nobles who sneered at her. leela is overconfident, impudent and refuses to listen to anyone about what she can and cannot do. she is prone to chaos, revelling in it more often than not. she is quarrelsome, sometimes just for her own pleasure as she lacks any knowledge of consequence.

her very touch means chaos, and trouble follows her every smile. the serpent is chanted proudly by the people that adore her, for she is a woman who would drag a man to their grave given the chance, and slithered her way into the hearts of many. leela is bold, and relishes the adventure that her life has given her. she cares very little for anything. as far as she's concerned, she has all she could ever want.

leela is not pleased with the loss of her freedom, and her pending title of queen should raj ever make it to the throne. nor is she keen on the cocky prince, but she is thrilled that her hand is proving an embarrassment for him. they’ve both been sent to versailles to represent their separate lands, but leela only sees this as a chance to enjoy herself and see more of the world. her father has reminded her that she is there to be the face of rajasthan on the world stage, but that’s all semantics. after years of doing whatever she wished, she is not like to change now even if she may end up outranking all her siblings in the end. a nasty twist of fate for the woman who’d always been impossible to forget but never wished to be caged.

#! * INTRODUCTIONS.#! * INTRODUCTION / leela.#does this suck? mb so #but its done!!#modern rly was half assed i cant lie #tw assault mention #sorta??

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kaibagirl007 · 5 years ago

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Come Undone 5/6

( the fifth part of a mini side-fic series to accompany my RP with @dragontamer05 )

Despite the fact that Seto now found himself blocked from his descendant’s mind, he still continued to linger close by Kaiba, just on the off-chance that the barrier between them might weaken and crumble. So far though, it was seeming to be permanent. But things weren’t at a complete loss and waste of his time. Now that the blue-eyes white dragon was aware of his existence, she visited him from time to time and eased his loneliness.

‘I do not like him,’ Seto stated bluntly to Blue as he sat nestled against her with his eyes firmly fixated on the one-eyed man conversing with his descendant as they seated out in the open air beside the grand chateau. ‘He reminds me of Aknadin and should not be trusted.’

Blue raised her head from where she lay and craned her neck to stare at the pharaoh snuggled right beside her wing. She purred softly as she spoke to him in her dragon tongue.

‘Yes, I am perfectly aware of who he is. It does not alter my opinion of him, especially since I am also aware of the things he has done.’

Annoyed by Seto’s response, Blue’s purr morphed into a growl as she scold him for his bias and used the tip of her tail to knock the Khepresh from his head.

‘You are more understanding and forgiving than I…’ Seto commented as he leant over to retrieve his headpiece. He then looked at the blue-eyes and gave a sly smirk, ’… yet you refuse to extend that forgiveness towards my descendant. That makes YOU biased too.’

Sparks crackled at the back of dragon’s throat as she warbled in protest before turning away and slumping her head back down on to the ground where it had been just moments before. It wasn’t that she refused to forgive her duelist for having hurt her human, but the fact that he had so much to atone for and had done virtually nothing since the brief cafe encounter to even suggest he had intentions of doing such. Only when he’d start to show progress would she reevaluate her stance on him and his worthiness to be granted forgiveness.

Blue heaved a sigh as she watched the wine drain from Kaiba’s glass as he listened to Pegasus talk. She tried to stay optimistic for the three human souls and her own that were tangled in destiny’s thread, but even she was dubious about what the final outcome would be. Her duelist had strayed so far from the light and into darkness that she herself was having trouble keeping him in her sight. Would he ever return? She hoped so; her human longed for him… and so did she.

“… as you can see, Kaiba Corporation is in perfectly capable hands-“

“My company shouldn’t be in HIS hands, it should be in MINE!” Kaiba growled angrily as the other finished informing him of his company’s current performance under his brother’s control. He slammed the empty wine glass down on the table beside them and immediately began to pour more of the deep red liquid into it.

Pegasus’ eye wandered over the gaunt,- almost skeletal,- frame of the young man seated before him. He felt a sense of guilt for having stood by and allowed the deterioration to occur when he could have perhaps stepped in sooner and prevented it. Had he done so though, he knew there would have been no trust left between them that had finally seen the other approach him on his own accord. “Your brother did what he did because he’s concerned about you, as are a lot of people, myself included.”

“Pfft, the board’s only concern is how my ‘image’ reflects on the company.”

“You can hardly blame them. Some of the parasites you choose to mingle with these days don’t exactly have glowing reputations themselves.”

“Interesting choice of word you used to describe my ‘friends’,” The snide remark was made as Kaiba raised the wine to his lips once more.

“Those people aren’t your friends. They’re socialites, sycophants and call girls; not a single one of them cares about your wellbeing.” Pegasus failed to hold back the scornful remark. He knew it could have potentially put an end to the conversation,- and quite possibly their friendship if the other was in a defensive mood,- but he felt it needed to be said.

“Meh, the feeling’s mutual,” Kaiba lazily shrugged and continued drinking. He’d lost count of just how many glasses of wine he’d had, but knew for a fact he was nearing the end of a third bottle between them, of which he’d easily drank two on his own. Maybe that was why he currently felt so loose and relaxed as he admitted, “I don’t ‘love’ or ‘care’ for anyone these days… not even myself…”

Without saying a word, Pegasus reached for his own wine glass and sipped as he patiently waited to see if the other would continue to talk without prompt. Surprisingly, he did.

“I’ve developed an unhealthy lifestyle of parties and debauchery that gets worse each day…” Kaiba stared down into his drink as he spoke. Why? Why was he so suddenly okay with disclosing this? Was it the wine? Had he finally reached the point where he was past caring? Or was confiding with Pegasus,- a man who had seen him at both his best and worse,- actually something that he was willing to do?

“My self-respect is shot… With no regard for my life, I will fly and drive recklessly, sometimes even under the influence… Drinking myself unconscious has become a regular occurrence… I engage in hollow sex with women whose names and faces I don’t even remember… I’ve experimented with a range of drugs and have OD’d more than once…”

Regret was detectable in Kaiba’s voice as he spoke, and Pegasus fought hard to keep a frown from his face as he listened. I should have acted sooner instead of waiting for you to come to me.

There was a brief pause, and Kaiba struggled to keep his mouth neutral as it repeatedly twitched into a frown as he spoke, “Last week, I… I felt so desolate, I… I played Russian Roulette, in the hope I’d… end it all.” With his darkest confession voiced, he then downplayed it as he continued with a psychopathic look in his eye. “But lo and behold, I’m still here. I’m invincible. A walking god amongst men. I can do whatever the fuck I want without fear of consequences…-“

’I told you; that is NOT how destiny works!’ Seto yelled, only to startle Blue whose wings fidgeted and sent his Khepresh tumbling to the ground for a second time.

“Mhmm, and what if death lay just around the corner for you? Then what?” Pegasus asked. He’d been given an unnerving peek at the other’s current state of mind which was proving to be more unstable than he and Mokuba had first suspected.

Then I’d welcome it with open arms. Kaiba’s thought was dark, honest, and something he dare not say aloud. He looked Pegasus straight in the eye, “I’m not afraid of dying if that’s what you’re asking.”

Pegasus calmly set his glass down, and breathed in as he placed interlocked hands on the top knee of his crossed legs. He was about to address the elephant in the room that had caused such desolation, and did so in a casual manner. “The thought of living without Kisara still terrifies you, doesn’t it?”

“No.” Kaiba’s response was curt and his expression close to outrage.

“I’ve been where you are. I know the pain of losing someone you love beyond all things imaginable. That girl has left a void in your heart that you feel will never heal-“

“Shut up! You know NOTHING!”

Despite the hostility being shown, Pegasus remained calm. “I lost the woman I love too. I know exactly-“

“NO, YOU DON’T!!” Kaiba screamed. His eyes were wild and face creased with distress. “You lost Cecelia because she died. You didn’t chase her away because you were too fucking proud to tell her how you felt!”

“And how do you feel?” Pegasus felt his heart break from seeing his friend so anguished. There was some consolation though; he hadn’t been pushed away like others who had tried to help before him.

“I didn’t tell her, so what makes you think I’d tell you?”

Okay, maybe he’d spoken too soon. The other’s defences were clearly raising again. Pegasus knew he had to tread carefully from now on. “You don’t have to go through this alone, Seto. You’re in a dark place right now, one you may feel is impossible to escape. Well I assure you, it’s not. Let me help you, or at least stop this destructive behaviour of yours. You fill your life with people, substances, and rituals that aren’t good for you. If you’re not careful, your brother is going to be burying you way before your time is due-“

“I told you, I’m NOT afraid of dying!” Kaiba stated as he rose to his feet from where he sat.

Pegasus copied his actions. “What about leaving Mokuba alone? Are you afraid of that?”

“He’s proven himself capable of managing Kaiba Corp, I’m sure he can deal with my death if it were to happen, which it won’t. I’m not going to purposely end my life. But I’m not going to stop living it how I choose either… Just back off.”

There was a long moment of silence as the two men stared each other down. Both Seto and Blue watched with bated breath.

“Very well… “ Pegasus conceded and calmly sat back down. “Shall I have Croquet bring you another bottle?”

“No. I’m done here.” Kaiba stated before turning to head towards his jet and leave. Only a couple of steps were taken before he froze, looked back over his shoulder and calmly spoke, “Continue to watch over Mokuba for me. He needs guidance that I’m not capable of providing.”

“You sell yourself short, my boy.” A sad smile accompanied Pegasus’ words. He remained where he sat and make no effort to intervene as Kaiba then continued on his way.

‘Is that it?’ Seto was disappointed with the outcome. He got up from Blue’s side, and whilst she ran towards his descendant, he approached the one-eyed man. ‘Go after him!’

Pegasus fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair. He wanted nothing more than to prevent the other from leaving but knew that his hands were tied. At least he was safe in the knowledge that the younger man’s ability to fly wouldn’t be hindered by the vast amount of wine consumed, which had in fact been non-alcoholic. He reached for his own drink once more.

‘If you value the friendship you supposedly share, you would stop him from leaving!’ Seto continued to scold even though he was aware that he could not be seen or heard. ‘He is your associate; your partner; your ally; your brother in arms! For the love of Ra, HELP HIM!!’

Crash!

Pegasus and Seto both stared and blinked at the wine glass that had smashed on the ground. “Clumsy me,” the former tittered whilst the latter couldn’t help but wonder if his outburst had startled the one-eyed man into losing grip on the drink.

“I’ll get that Mr Pegasus, sir.”

“It’s fine Croquet, I’ll see to it,” he waved his hand at the loyal servant hurrying towards him, before reaching down to pick up the main body of the fallen glassware. “Fetch me a mop… and my phone; I left it on charge.”

“Yes, sir.”

Blue let loose a roar as Seto watched Pegasus fish out the remaining shards from the dark red puddle. The aircraft was readying to take-off, which meant they both had to leave too.

‘If,- by some miracle,- you can hear me, please save my descendant from himself… I saddled him with far too much.’ the pharaoh spoke remorsefully before disappearing to rejoin the white dragon.

The sound of the jet’s engines rumbled in the distance. Pegasus raised his head and looked towards the sound’s source to see not one, but two Blue Eyes take to the sky. He watched them climb higher amongst the clouds and vowed: I will do my damnedest to save that boy.

“Your phone, Mr Pegasus, sir.”

“Thank you, Croquet.” Pegasus took the handset offered to him and allowed the other to take over with the wine clean-up. No time was wasted as he swiped through his contacts and made a call to Mokuba.

“Hey Pegasus! Did Seto keep his word and visit you like he said he was gonna?”

“He did. In fact he’s just left.“

“How is he?”

“Infuriatingly stubborn.” Pegasus simpered at hearing the optimism in the young teen’s voice. The bond may have frayed between the two brothers, but this one’s hope was keeping it from breaking completely. He just prayed it would hold out for a while longer. His lips relaxed and his tone turned sombre, “My dear Mokuba, there is something we need to discuss. However, I have a feeling you are not going to like what I have to say…”

#my crappy writing #rp stuff #fanfiction #Come Undone

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mountphoenixrp · 5 years ago

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We have a new citizen in Mount Phoenix:

Poseidon, the God of the Sea, whose origins stem from Ancient Greece. He is now a City Council member and the fire chief at the MPFD.

FC NAME/GROUP: Gong Yoo GOD NAME: Poseidon PANTHEON: Greek OCCUPATION: Fire Chief at MPFD and a Council Member HEIGHT: 6'0” / 180 cm DEFINING FEATURES: A full back tattoo depicting the bustling animal life in the deep ocean, all in black and white - as well as a traditional tribal tattoo on his thigh that was done by a traditional tattoo artist in Hawaii. During intense emotions his eyes will change into a teal, ocean blue.

PERSONALITY: It is no secret that Poseidon can be a bit of a hothead. All too often acting on emotional impulse rather than strategy. More often than not he opposes those in power or those that believe they can tell him what he can and can’t do as he is very independent. The god is not known to back down from a challenge or act in any way inferior to others. He is quite confident with himself and takes care of how he looks, preferring to be admired rather than feared. As such, he has learned to be quite charming and charismatic as well as persuasive. As he as lived with mortals for quite some time now he has also come to appreciate humanity and good that they hold. However he is still aggressive and viscous to mortals that show themselves to be the worst of humanity.

HISTORY:

Chapter 1; “It was then that I returned to the sea”

The mountain was comfortable, peaceful and full of life. Yet, under the rule of his brother and the distance from the sea, Poseidon remained out of place. Many wondered why he had yet to return to the sea after so many years away… The war was long forgotten and siblings did as siblings do and moved on as if no betrayals ever took place. His desire for earthly possessions and his soft spot for another warming his bed distracting him from his duties as not only a husband but as a deity of the sea as well. For some time, Poseidon neglected his duties as the King of Atlantis and as the god of the seas. His brother - who was seldom different from him - threatened him should he not return to the deep waters and tend to his people. The god was a stubborn one, never really one for being told what to do, especially when Zeus was concerned.

Poseidon recognized what it seemed to his eyes that his family chose to ignore. Mortals were forgetting about them, fewer and fewer worshipping them as well as less believing in them at all. Becoming only a little more than myths on the tongues of mortals. The god had found it difficult to live amongst the humans as his siblings began integrating with them. Creating new lives for themselves with the mortals they once ruled over. However, Poseidon had no desire to live among the mortals like the others did. As Olympus slowly dwindled in population, the ruler of Atlantis stood and looked out over the mortals below… Loneliness and the call of the ocean pulling him from the safety net he’d made for himself back to the salty depths and the golden castle that felt more like a tomb than a home.

Chapter 2; “I shall guide them to shore, even if I no longer gain the recognition that I once did”

A faithful wife, a vast wonderland at his disposal, creatures far and wide that answered his every beck and call… what more could a man - a god - ask for? He often forgets the love he holds for his domain when he is gone and enjoying the spoils of dry land. Even when he is no longer the name on many sailors lips, he still protects them and guides them to the safety of the shore. That is until, he is challenged and that spark inside of him that fuels his pride and rash decisions is set aflame. “An unsinkable ship” or “The worst storm in recorded human history” are all calls to the impulsive decisions of the God of the Sea.

The human world was always changing, growing and advancing. Poseidon ventured along land whenever he could, charming all he came into contact with and enticing many far and wide. Feeding starving fishermen and smiling kindly to the children he leaves behind. They may never know how much he actually cares for each and every one of them, even if they were more often than not accidents. Most of his time on land and was spent pursuing and exhausting amount of men and women then returning to his wife. Who would eventually leave him to better herself among the mortals who taught her that they way her husband treated her was not love and he did not deserve her faithfulness.

The god could not resent her for her choice to leave him. In fact, it was a turning point for the god as it forced him to recognize the way he was treating those closest to him. He began to look in on himself and contemplate his flaws for the first time in centuries. Realizing the wrongs he’d done and learning from his mistakes was a tough process for him but… he did it and arose stronger than he’d been before.

Chapter 3; “I could rain down hell upon those who spoil my domain”

Poseidon never imagined this day would come. A day where he walked along the shores of his home, with his toes in the blessed sand and the sea foam that meets his ankles, yet he picks up trash at his feet. A rumble in his chest that echoes as thunder along the horizon, a glare in his eyes as he watches drunken teens leave bottles and wrappers along the sand. His gaze spitting daggers as he sits in town hall meetings around the globe as the people beg their government to stop dumping their waste in his precious seas. His heart singing as young people create new ways to save the creatures that live along the top layer of his oceans, those that suffer the most from their indiscretions.

He enters large skyscrapers owned by those who control the slug that finds its way into his lakes and rivers. Stands in conference rooms with people who believe him to be nothing more than a crazy environmentalist, not as a god that could end their greasy lives where they sit in their crisp suits. He would fight for the strength to keep the power within him contained, the one time he chooses to ignore his impulsive nature and stick to a plan. The only plan he has that doesn’t involved murdering every executive mortal that deems the lining of his pockets to be more important that his precious oceans. He fights on their level, with money and persuasion, though that doesn’t always seem to be what fuels them.

The god stands in a crowd of young people, with signs above their heads, fight in their spirit, compassion in their hearts and hope in their veins as they beg and plead with the older generation to save the oceans. He stands on court steps, in court rooms, on beaches surrounded by volunteers, sits in the audience of speakers and protests cruel aquariums and corporations that think of the salt water on the coast as their own personal dumping ground. He swims the banks of the shores, collecting trash that sinks, sits on the rocks outside his beach home and unwraps plastic tied around the necks of turtles. Soothes the whales that cry for their dying children and feeds the sharks that are being threatened for simply existing.

With a trident in his hand, his toes in the sand and an anguished smile on his lips, a slow tear rolls down his cheek as he stares at the oil that just washed ashore. He stares at the piles of fish that drowned in human greed and showed the god the worst side of humanity that he wished would never come.

Chapter 4; “I do not run and I do not hide, I am merely preserving my cause”

He changed his face often yet, kept the same conviction in his voice, kept the markings on his skin and the emotion fueled teal-blue eyes that hold waves in their depths. Young people are not stupid, they are the root of his cause, the reason he has hope for humanity. It did not come as a surprise to him that a few would catch onto his lies and falsehoods. As many in the groups he kept with for the cause shifted their attention to finding out who the mysterious person with different faces kept appearing, he left. Knowing that in order to get them back on track he needed to no longer distract them with the mysteries of the gods and powers beyond their comprehension.

There was a place he could go that he’d ventured to before. A place that was home to members of his family as well as other pantheons. Children of Gods and Gods alike roaming streets safely, living their lives and protecting one another. An island and a city which he knew well as well as the potential of his own children being there now both excited him and worried him. As he fought for his cause and worked with the best of humanity to save his domain he met many men and women who enchanted him. Unashamed in fathering children with the women and pursuing anyone charmed enough with him to spare a second glance. He could only imagine they may find themselves here eventually, if ever. Poseidon could admit he had work to do still in the fathering department but, if he found one here or if one found him… he would try his best.

After all, he needed to befriend more young people to fight for the future of his domain.

POWERS: Among the usual abilities of the gods - Poseidon can control the movement of water using only his mind as well as summon massive storms in the oceans. With the use of his trident he can produce earthquakes and tidal waves. He has the ability to speak to and control sea creatures, with the use of moisture in the air he has the ability to fly. A lesser known gift of his is that he can create life with the use of water but, at great cost to himself. STRENGTHS: Confident, Charismatic, Independent WEAKNESSES: Impulsive, Impatient, Prideful

#kpop rp #krp #kdrama #gong yoo #gong jichul #mp; welcome

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anodyne-sunflower · 6 years ago

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100 Years-Stephen WraysfordxReader

A/N: Inspired by 100 years. Went a bit of a different route on this one. It was the first idea that came to mind for this song, so yay. Also, this came out to be a one shot lol My bad.

MOOD MUSIC: 100 Years by FatM

***

Fingers grabbed your dress punishingly, causing an ache that seemed to vibrate into your whole body. It was sorrow enough to feel weak, but to be the only one around fighting to survive...that was a harsher sentence dealt by the gods. “No!” You screamed, kicking your legs and tightening your grip on the soldier’s arm as he dragged you violently into the nearby home. The bombs had done their jobs, and stray soldiers littered throughout the village in search of anything useful. Unfortunately, survivors were deemed just that.

“Stop struggling!” He yelled back, his thick accent hard to understand as either German or Russian. It was never easy to tell now days, you merely ran from anyone in uniform. He threw you down to the ground and searched your body for any hidden weapons. You were likely no cause for concern to most, but it was a fool’s action to pretend you weren’t a possible threat. Yet, you still fought him, scratching at his face and slapping at his chest as he tore the necklace from around your throat. He observed its value with his eye, a smile on his lips as he leaned down to address you. Only those words never came. In a flash of light he was upon you, blood splattered across your face and dress as he gurgled some end to his life and laid heavy atop you. For a moment, you laid there shaking, breath trembling with fear and relief alike. Somewhere deep in your mind you knew it was a bullet that took his life, but your current state didn’t allow that logic to come through.

“Check the other rooms. Make sure every bloody corner of this home is secure.”

“Yes, Lieutenant!”

With a quivering hand you dared to touch the fallen man’s chest, holding your breath tightly as you heaved with all your might. He fell unceremoniously to your side, the thud of his body making you want to hide away in some deep corner of the world. There was no humanity in this, and yet you did it all the same. All in the name of survival.

“For god’s sake, Firebrace. Help her up!” The soldier yelled, motioning for another behind him to relieve you of the duty to yourself. You watched them both carefully, noting the casual way the one in the cap belted his weapon. He was a tall, ominous presence. Yet, through some unknowing force, you felt some sliver of comfort by his side. It was only when he glanced down at you, with those green uncaring eyes, that you felt some fear take you. “Be quick about it.”

He ordered, not revealing any discomfort at the blood that drenched your body now. The only emotion you happened to see in his eyes, was surprise. Perhaps at his own distaste of his actions, or simply at the fact he found any survivor here. But, that expression was fleeting, and you still took it upon yourself to watch him carefully as he reached the corner of the room. His eyes settled on the table there, sometimes glancing out the window cautiously. Although, it was plainly obvious by now, these English men had taken this village for their own. It seemed the one attacking you, was a stray of the Central Powers army, after all.

“Here, miss.” The other soldier, Firebrace, extended his hand towards you. Remnants of a smile on his lips as he awaited your cooperation. There was gentleness in his gaze, but you cared not for it. In your mind, allied or central, those in uniform meant certain death. With little manners, you moved from him, scrambling to the edge of the room and spitting upon the floor he walked on. Damn his kind gaze, and damn his uniform. Those symbols were just patches on a dress tunic. Nothing more.

“Are you hungry, miss?” Firebrace knelt down by you, worn smile still there as he attempted to still your anxious nature. But, you paid him little mind. Opting to ignore his offer of food in spite of your growling stomach.

“Leave her, then.” The one in charge spoke up, sifting though papers on the table as he nodded for Firebrace to join him. “Gather the others. Have them bring in our supplies. This place will do for a command center, for now.”

“As you wish, Lieutenant Wraysford.” Firebrace followed, rushing some other soldiers out the room as he went to retrieve their belongings.

So that was his name, you gathered. It somehow suited him, as if the syllables themselves carried the weight of his duty.

“Is this your home?”

The question caught you off guard, his sudden interest in your life now making you apprehensive. You supposed it would’ve done you better to respond. After all, you weren’t acquainted with this lot, and he could do as he willed with you if he wanted. However, he merely sighed at your lack of response, his boots stomping along the ground as he came to you.

With a heavy sigh, he kneeled down before you, causing you to retreat stiffly into the wall. He rested one arm on his thigh, licking his lips as he offered another question. “Do you speak english?”

It was the first question you felt any comfort in answering. “Yes.”

“You have an accent. Where are you from?” There was distrust in his voice, and you supposed you couldn’t fault him that. These days, trust was in short supply and female spies were hardly an unimaginable concept.

“You can sit there all night if you please. Just know,” he rose back up. “If you’re any threat to my men or me...I will kill you.” There was hesitation in his eyes, yet all the same you knew he meant it. He would carry the burden of life lost at his hands, if it meant keeping those around him alive.

“Italy.” You finally answered, watching as he turned back to look at you. He simply nodded then, and continued on paying you no mind. It was in this palpable silence that you decided to observe them all. Noting the numerous soldiers drifting in and out of the building with boxes and crates. Some were holding supplies, others maps and pages of what you could only guess were plans of a sort. It was as if you didn’t exist to any of them. The greater threat of their enemy was gone, and you were, if at all, of very little consequence.

“Do you have family?” Again, he broke the silence, his gaze still on the papers at his table as he sparked the conversation. It was strange to you, that he’d even care to ask such a thing. Maybe he was lonely, you contemplated, or maybe he was digging for information through the veil of kind inquiries.

“Dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He appeared genuinely struck by that comment, but aside from those expressive eyes of his, there was little else to read from his face. “And your name?” He pressed on, though he still seemed preoccupied by those papers. No doubt deciding his next move in this war.

You had to pause at that one, unsure of your response. There was power in names, you were taught at a young age. But, all of that likely meant little now days. The world was flung into chaos and all that mattered was country and cause.

“I assume you have one, don’t you?” He commented, almost amused by your vow of silence towards him.

“Y/N.”

“A lovely name.” A thing all men say, you had come to learn. As if that compliment alone could wash away the distrust you felt. You could only stare at him, eyeing his table like a life line. In a way, it might’ve been. Especially how passionately he pointed at the maps and papers while he spoke to another man dressed like him. They seemed entangled in some deep conversation, not caring in the least that your ears could possibly listen in. For a second, you entertained the idea of running off, but it didn’t matter anymore. Even if you got passed them two, the others could easily dispatch you. There was no hope in getting very far.

“Thank you, Weir.”

“Aye. Don’t go far, Wraysford. Might need you for things.” This Weir waved, patting another soldier on the back as he left the room. They all looked tired, some barely dragging their feet along like they were already dead. Even this Wraysford fellow appeared worn and exhausted, his eyes darkened by the circles underneath them. His hands were dirty, caked in all manner of impurities and it contrasted the way he carried himself. With pride and dignity that you’d come to expect of most soldiers. But the lower your eyes took you, the more you realized just how wearied they all were. His boots, which appeared to be fine leather at one point, were now chipped away at, signaling that the area they came from was not ideal.

For some reason, that gave you the courage to speak up. Wondering on about this man named Wraysford and where he came from. “And you?” He seemed taken back by your question, no doubt surprised by the curiosity now directed towards him. However, his eyes seemed to brighten by it. As if the overwhelming change of topic from war tactics to basic human conversation was preferred and welcomed.

“What of me, Y/N?” He replied, in no particular manner. Yet, the tone of which he spoke your name had a hint of eagerness to it. Like his loneliness was rolling over in waves to be eased.

“What is your name?” You sat unmoved in your spot, fidgeting with the hem of your dress. Wraysford leaned up to his full height, looking you up and down to check for any form of trickery. He had clearly learned far too many harsh lessons by speaking with those outside his uniform.

“Lieutenant.”

“That’s a title, not a name.” You pointed out, observing the corner of his lip almost curve into a smile. A rare thing to witness, you guessed.

“Names mean nothing now.”

“Then why ask mine?” It was almost offensive to you, the lack of trust he sent your way. It may have been entirely warranted in these times, and yet you felt that ache in your chest all the same.

“Lapse of judgement.” He answered, letting the papers he held slip back to the tabletop as he drew towards you. It was like his interest had been piqued, and with that he kneeled once again in front of you. With a stern look your way, he sighed, falling back into the wall and resting his head against it. The heels of his boots scuffed the wooden floorboards, only adding to the damage already done by bombs and bullets alike. You couldn’t divert your gaze elsewhere, so you watched him, noting the refined way he tilted his cap up and removed it. It left his hair a mess, but it only added a charm to him you hadn’t noticed very well before. Up close you could see the fine details of his face, the freckles that dotted every inch of skin. It gave him a less threatening vibe than before and in some way it calmed you. Beneath the cap, laid a human being, capable of atrocities and kindness all the same. Just like you.

“Tell me, Y/N...” he paused, running a hand through his hair as he laid his head roughly back against the wall. He closed his eyes in a mock sense of peace, an official signal of his hint of trust towards you. “How have you survived this far?”

It wasn’t an off inquiry, though you still found it a strange thing to ask. A woman surviving on her own with little food, and no supplies was a likely death sentence. But, here you stood, and only now had you truly thought back on it. Surviving was simply in your nature, you gathered, as it was for everyone. “I don’t know.”

“Hm.” Wraysford chuckled softly, opening one eye to inspect you. There was a strange tug then, like your own curiosity wanted to reach out and graze his cheek in wonder. Maybe that was just your caring side, a symbol of comfort you wanted to offer him. The time for such fancies was over now, though. All you could do was remain silent until he relented.

“It seems that makes two of us. I don’t know how I’ve gotten this far either.”

For him, a lieutenant, to admit to that...it pained you. They all seemed plenty prepared to fight, but in truth, a weapon meant little for survival. It was the mind’s resolve that truly fought this war. You wished he’d see that, because he no doubt had to bare witness to acts no human should see. “I’m...sorry.” It made no sense to apologize, but in that moment you felt for him. For all your anger towards the world and the heartache brought upon you by soldiers of all kinds, you knew he never wanted to harm anyone. Perhaps you were merely sorry for his struggles, or even for him falling into a second of weakness.

“For?” He asked, head leaning up to finally look at you. He held his cap in one hand, dangling it from his knee while he sat there. If it wasn’t for your presence, you were certain he’d of fallen asleep.

“I don’t know.”

“Well,” he looked away. “I suppose we all have something to be sorry for these days.”

Another harsh reality, you agreed. Who hadn’t committed a crime to a certain degree. Whether it was killing, stealing, the list went on. “Do you have family?” You blurted out, wondering if he was perhaps married. It was a strange thought to have, but he was so obviously a handsome man, even beneath all that muck and dirt. Someone with a passion like that in their eye, they had to have someone waiting on them back home.

“No.” Wraysford said, once again averting his eyes as if to conquer the demons of his own thoughts. There was another silence then, for a long while. So long, in fact, the light outside had already drifted to darkness and the other soldiers had begun to pick corners to sleep in. You watched them all, wondering about their own families back home. Were they all as alone as you? Or as lonely as Wraysford seemed? It was a depressing thought to linger on, it nearly soured the entire existence of these men.

“Have you ever loved anyone?” The silence was cut by him, his eyes now fully open and engaged with staring at you. You felt a heat rise to your cheeks, the sudden intimate inquiry bringing back fond old memories.

“Y-Yes...” Once, so very long ago, you thought. Or at least it often seemed that way to you. It was hard to remember how long this war had gone on.

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

He had that expression again, genuine sadness for your plight. It made your heart stir, and for a moment you contemplated letting your tears fall.

“I’m sorry.” He only said, opening his mouth like he wished to add more sentiment to that, but there was none. His words could not bring your love back.

“And you?” You curled your legs closer into your body, holding them to save some heat in this cold. His eyes caught that subtle movement, and he quickly removed his large coat from around him before handing it to you. Beneath the thick article, he seemed thin, yet no less imposing. His suspenders hugged his torso tightly, giving him a distinguished look that suited his status. “Thank you.”

“Yes.” He seemed to finally answer, his eyes centered on his hands as he picked dirt off. It was plain he was trying to concentrate some of his thoughts away from the pain that was so evident in his eyes. At least that, he could not hide from you.

“Is she...” You didn’t want to say it, for fear of harming his heart any further. But, you grew the courage and finished. “Dead?”

His lips fell into a solemn smile, before meeting your worried gaze. “She may as well be...” It felt a horrible thing to even say, but those words seemed to hurt him further than anything you could’ve said. You let him stew in his pain, obviously not equipped with any information or skills necessary to nurse it.

This caused the silence to drift in again, and for a second you believed him to be asleep. Except his voice lingered now, a gentler tone laced within it.

“Stephen.” He stated. “My name is Stephen.”

***

A/N: okay so...not a drabble lol

#eddie redmayne #birdsong #stephen wraysford x reader #stephen wraysford #stephen wraysford x you

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friendlyunclej · 6 years ago

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An Unrelenting Annoyance

Prologue

For the past century or so, I’ve been locked inside of a forsaken hammer, glorified and prayed to like some deity. I rather enjoy the praise, not so much the confinement. My damn underling, a man I had trusted with only my most dire secrets, constructed this weapon to take me down and he only managed to trap me in it. The only solace I’ve had for these decades upon decades of loneliness is the knowledge that he’s more cursed than I am. Even though I hate him and he’s just a pile of bones and wrappings now, I’d rather have his company than this nomadic tribe who offer up champions for me. This nomadic tribe who found me inside the ruins of a decrepit pyramid they’ve used me as an excuse to build their own small society based off of lust and glory. It was endearing for the first half of a century, but, once I realized that they were more bark than bite, my patience grew thin. I would send each new “champion” on the same task and each of them failed. One after another after another, they all fell short. The only one to ever come close to completing it was, by far, the most regrettable champion I’ve ever been bound to. His name is Jholon Bhaazim Aijo, and, by some miracle, he’s stayed alive after all my attempts to kill him.

The Epitome of Old World Grudges

His first task was simple: Find an ancient stone mechanism, imbued with the strength to rejuvenate any body part it is attached to. It was guarded deep within the archaic ruins of a cult which was obsessed with attempting to kill the gods. The opening I led him to was carved into the foothills of the tallest mountain in Kalldor, a continent split between a misty forest and a giant range of mountains. Of course, he took every stop along the journey to stick his sword in whatever gash was available. What was supposed to take only a few weeks took a year.

The worst part was that I was present for each time. Each failed attempt at love and each one that went too long to be comfortable, I was there in the corner of the room, staring through the gem I was stuck in. That giant gem is shoved inside of a massive hammer that’s been made into various instruments. Every champion loved to use it to prove to both women and men that their manhood was worth a cuddle or two. I enjoyed watching the first twenty times, but it bothered me that Jholon was more concerned with relieving his own tension compared to my own. After the thirtieth time, I gave him a migraine that grew with each lover he fancied. He continued until he was almost comatose from the pain. Only then did he seek out the dungeon. Many others before him brought along help, such as trusted tribesmen and hired killers. Instead, he fought alone, wishing that no one else would need to suffer my trials. All things considered, he was the most impressive fighter to wield me yet. He ran through the entire dungeon without a single word to me, full of enough fire and focus to challenge a Demon Lord. By the time he got the relic, he was bruised, cut, and battered from a hundred different traps and twenty other blades. Upon reaching the artifact, he was limping on a shattered right leg from narrowly dodging a tripwire trap that almost crushed him with boulders. I warned him not to attach the artifact to his body, yet he didn’t listen. He attached the Dwarven stonework pucks to both sides of his knees and he witnessed the stone protrude upwards and downwards across his leg to then lock in as a new brace. Within moments, his wounds shut themselves as his bones reset under the skin. Then, he couldn’t get it off...as I had warned him...the entire journey through the dungeon and before. When I tried to reprimand him, he only responded in frustrated grunts and insults, not listening to a single word I tried to tell him. All I could do was give a sigh of disappointment as he continued to my next task. Well, that and make sure that the splint could never be removed as punishment. Next task was a bit more difficult: In the center of a horrendous swamp, there was a cursed totem at the bottom of a ghost town which was half drowned. He continued alone, fighting off natural creatures of the swamps as well as the ghosts and undead of those who once lived there. He tore through the remains of the town with relative ease, but continued to shrug off my warnings and advice as if I wasn’t there. After the first day of clearing the town of undead on his way to the center of the marsh, he took refuge in an old broken down saloon where the front half of the building was submerged in water. He found old bottles filled with liquor that would have been older than him and he had no hesitation in taking a few bottles as a drink. As his mind was poisoned by the bottles, a malformed Siren sluggishly worked her way out of the water towards him. His inebriated mind and high libido saw a beautiful young woman with an enticing body, while I saw the truth: A water-logged and infected corpse, barely alive as pieces of her organs would slip out in the water. As he leaned in for a kiss, the undead Siren dug her hands into his skull as she dragged him into the water. He fought furiously, the burst of pain and blood revealing the truth to him. He begged me for help. I refused, hoping he would die and his son would prove to be more compliant. He continued to thrash against her in the water, fighting for his life. He would have died and I would have been freed from him had that rotten Siren not ran him through with the artifact. Impaled on the spiked gem at the very bottom of the marsh, he stayed awake as a pyre of fire burst from his chest and back. The flames were so powerful that burnt the Siren to ash and the surrounding the liquid to vapor. Before he could get back to his feet, the whirlwind of flame turned into a torrent of beautiful colors and nature, reminiscent of my home. It levitated him above the marsh just as the holes in his chest tore forth with rapid explosions of black puffs and sparks. He stayed awake through all of this, and continued to panic but, nevertheless, found a way to place me as the one to blame. When he woke up the next morning absent the energy that was surging through him, he found his impaled body no longer scarred with a newfound warmth from where he had been run through. He glanced around to now find himself in the middle of a frigid blizzard, wearing barely any cloth as he had always spent his life in the desert. I wanted to claw my eyes out as he continued to wade through hip deep mounds of snow without going to a town less than half a mile away for more appropriate clothing. It pleased me when he found out that he couldn’t keep a single thought straight now with a whirlwind of energy trapped inside of him. Once I had moved on and bound myself to his son, I found out that he would teleport with each sneeze. For the final task, he was the most formidable, fighting to practically his last breath. The mummy, my old friend, was nearly brought to kneel before the Solovey and I would have been freed from my prison had Jholon not stopped to try to speak to it. He tried to make an ally out of it, hoping to work against me. He was pleading with it, trying to convince a long dead vessel that it could side with him. The next thing I witnessed was the bandages from the mummy wrap around his neck as he was lifted twenty feet towards the ceiling of the pyramid. Just as the Solovey fell from his hand and I felt his life begin to fade, I was relieved, knowing that I could finally be rid of a man who could only blame me for all the troubles he had experienced. Granted, he may have been justified in choosing me as the blame for his misfortune, but that doesn’t make it any less of an insult to me. The last thing I saw before blinking back to the tribe is a lifeless Jholon crashing against the ground, followed by a mysterious blue spark of lightning crashing through the top of the pyramid. Despite the blue spark confusing me, I felt only joy without the presence of his life anymore. Now, I could look towards his son surpassing him, only to later be further disappointed.

Epilogue

He came back, though. Jholon returned to the tribe no more than a few days after I felt him die. He must have made a deal with something else, as if he sold his soul or made a deal for my own in exchange for his one day. He had no sign of damage and seemed to ignore me entirely. I had become unbound, but I’ve always been able to torment those of the bloodline I was bound to. He seemed immune now. His son wouldn’t be the age to take my trial for almost a decade, so I waited in agony. He walked around with no problem or issue, but, every so often, he would stare at me in the dead of night with no lights around. I swear that I would see a blue aura staring back, just over his shoulders. The blue mist felt familiar, but the only person I knew with power that great was dead. Noone that betrays me gets the chance to come back, I pride myself in that fact. There’s no possible way that he’d be back somehow.

It’s impossible that he’s back with that mummy still around. Isn’t it?

#d&d #tales of baicia #Serhya #Solovey #Jholon Bhaazim Aijo #Unda

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engiwhat · 7 years ago

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Scar Tissue

It hurt.

He grabbed at his own skin, rough fingers pulling at scar tissue. Pain echoed in the flesh, whether absent or present, and if it weren't for the bathroom light, his own severe expression reflected back at him, he would have had difficulty convincing himself that old wounds remained closed.

The pain wasn't new though. Sometimes, Nguyen thought of ghosts, spirits trapped inside discoloured flesh, chewing at injuries in retribution. Revenge. His fingernails dug into a deep, stiff scar on his chest, eyes glazing over as his mind chased the memory, reliving it in vivid detail.

He remembered the blood, the anger. The clawing desperation to hold on to life, and his hands being the ones to end it. He remembered the night weighing on his shoulders, starless sky offering no comfort, no presence. The loneliness and hollow sensation, like he had torn something integral to himself out and --

“Nguyen.”

He was back in the bathroom. Eyes sharpening, the only sign of surprise was the quiet and shallow inhale. In the doorway, half-illuminated by the bathroom glow, stood his boyfriend. The small man, practically drowning in Nguyen’s t-shirt, didn't move until they made eye contact through the mirror.

Even now, Nguyen hated when Cato saw his scars. Every inch of skin felt the searing heat of shame, a history of violence forever convincing himself of his lack of worth. He was monstrous -- men had died at his hands for little reason. He had caused pain and suffering.

He wrought cruel things, and his soft, small boyfriend deserved to be sheltered from such cruelty.

“Nguyen. You can talk to me.”

The words offered so much, and he wanted to mourn the selflessness of the man behind him. He couldn't meet Cato’s eyes, couldn't stand the concern there, the caring that was unearned, undeserved.

He should have known that he couldn't escape it.

Slender fingers ghosted over his skin, light at first, but gliding to run through his hair. Nguyen leaned against the counter, half hunched as though he could hide his face and everything it had seen. But, persistent in his care, Cato wrapped his free hand around the white knuckled grip of the former Yakuza. It was still gentle, still soft, but the persistence pulled at Nguyen’s heart. He looked up again to see the wide eyes, the slight pout on rosy lips, frown further pronounced with the worry written into his tan skin.

Instead of speaking, Nguyen watch his boyfriend’s eyes flick over him -- no change in expression made itself known as Cato searched for… something. Nguyen wondered what he saw, chin tilted up to be able to observe. Finally, his hand moved from Nguyen's hair to cup his face.

“Come back to bed.”

It was like music, and not for the first time, Nguyen mourned Cato’s inability to hear. The voice of his boyfriend, though it fluctuated during emotional times, was almost lilting. With the fear of being too loud, Cato often erred on the quiet side, and everything seemed to be so considerate, so careful. He followed with the slightest pull of the hand around his, and let Cato bring him back to bed.

The bedroom was dim, bedside lamp glowing on Cato's side, the sheets pushed back. Guided by the manoeuvres of thin hands, Nguyen laid down above the blankets.

“Cato, you --”

Nguyen was cut off by a finger poking his forehead, narrowed eyes silencing him with demand. In surrender, he raised his hands, and shifted to rest on his belly with the silent urging from his worried boyfriend. It hurt to see the concern on his face, to know that he put stress on Cato. He tried his best not to worry the younger man.

Regardless of his concerns, his thoughts were muted by the sudden firmness of fingers working into his back. Despite himself, he groaned with the cruel kindness of the massage. He felt muscled knots and stiff scar tissue protest in response to engagement, only to loosen afterwards. The care given to him wasn't earned -- but in the wake of what he had often deemed ‘magic fingers’, it was impossible to focus on his shame.

He relaxed; something he had been incapable of for so much of his life. Feeling small circles working through the tension between his shoulder blades, he made all manner of horrifying noises. The groans of pain and then relief escaped him without though, Nguyen coming undone at Cato's fingertips. In moments like these, there was a distinction between the present and the past he so often obsessed over; he was caught in the moment, mind cleared and thoughts quiet.

An abrupt giggle made him twist his head to look at Cato, kneeling on the bed next to him.

“What?”

Nguyen grumbled, suspicious of the sudden laughter. But Cato shook his head and replied without thinking.

“I can’t hear you, but I can still feel the vibrations whenever you make noises.”

He pointed out, and wasn’t that just the cue to let blush blossom on his face. He tried to hide the heat of his face by burying his head in the pillow, though he could hear the lasting giggles. On one hand, it was cute to listen to the break in concern, but he couldn’t help but feel as though he was being mocked a little. The sensation was lighthearted though, belied by the care that worked into his flesh.

He started to slip into sleep, slowly relaxed to a point where it felt natural. Soon, the fingers retracted, and were replaced by soft kisses. Nguyen was certain that his boyfriend had to be some sort of baku spirit -- able to ease away bad dreams and pull people into sleep. Of course, baku were a little too tapir-like to be compared to the oft fragile beauty of his man, but the sentiment was the same. Nguyen sighed at the feathery touches, lips setting goosebumps upon his skin.

Slowly, as though quick movements would break the moment and all its tranquility, Nguyen would turn to lay on his back. Firm hands dwarfed the hips on which they rested, pulling Cato to straddle him. From this angle, he looked up at the soft man, whose face was warmed by the lamp next to them. One of Nguyen’s hands raised to cup the smooth jaw of his boyfriend, who leaned into the touch as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Moments like these made him wonder if statues could come to life -- perhaps God himself carved this man from dusky stone. Those slender fingers captured the hand he had raised, and not for the first time, Nguyen felt his breath escaped him.

“You’re beautiful.”

He whispered, and like always, a blush rose on Cato’s face, the flustered sense of embarrassment that lasted no matter the situation. Nguyen grinned, the predictability of the humbleness making him ever so fond of the modest man.

“You should see yourself.”

Countered Cato, still clearly caught off guard.

No, Nguyen thought. No, I should not. But he wouldn’t speak his self-deprecation to the man who looked at him like he could offer the world. It was not his place to take that admiration from the man above him. He cared too deeply, and when Cato leaned down to place a kiss to his lips, Nguyen just pulled up from the mattress, raising his head to meet the embrace halfway.

It was so easy to get lost in the moments like these. To drink in the soft skin against his, to give into the fingers that traced themselves delicately over his scarred chest. It hadn’t been so easy in the beginning, both of them nervous and afraid of pushing each other away, but now there wasn’t any hesitation. Nguyen knew that Cato was his, that he was Cato’s -- the certainty in that had been proven time and time again, and now the moments together were as natural as rising chests, light filtering through trees.

“Nguyen.”

The whisper was half-spoken in the air between them, half-spoken into his flesh. His name on Cato’s lips (even the one that wasn’t truly his, the one he used to hide his past) sent electricity sparking to his spine, his groin. Rather than reply out loud (too breathless, too infatuated to do so), he hummed, a hand moving to cup his lover’s soft features.

“Trust me,” finished Cato, a clear plea in his light eyes. Confusion knitted together thick eyebrows on Nguyen’s face, and his thumb swiped the other’s cheekbone, tracing under somewhat watery eyes.

“I do trust you.” There was such a strong sense of worry that fueled Nguyen’s proclamation, his heart twisting as he tried to puzzle out how long his worried boyfriend had thought himself untrustworthy. More than that, the sense of guilt that threatened to flood his lungs was well founded; Nguyen didn’t share many things with Cato, but sometimes he forgot how perceptive the young man could be. It was disarming to connect the high sensitivity to feelings and social situations to such an otherwise naïve, if composed, individual. But Cato kissed the inside of Nguyen’s wrist, shaking his head.

“No. Not with this. Not with your pain.”

The explanation took the wind from Nguyen’s lungs, a sensation like having kicked a puppy or having burnt down an orphanage replacing his former assurances. Before he could begin to apologise (still trying to think about how he could keep his past from hurting his present), Cato was speaking again.

“I don’t need to know where the scars come from. I won’t ask you anything like that. I know that… for whatever reason, you can’t tell me. I understand.”

The expression on Cato’s face was heartbreaking. No, Nguyen wanted to protest, it’s not your fault, it’s all mine, you deserve more than that. He wanted to explain that it was his own fear, his own inadequacies -- but his mouth was dry and it was Cato’s turn to swipe under his eyes, wiping away tears Nguyen hadn’t realised were present.

“But please, hayatim, my dearest -- please trust me with the pains of now. I can help you through them. Whatever has passed, it’s over; you don’t need to suffer now, alone.”

No. That wasn’t what he had meant to achieve. Everything he did, every choice, it was to try and protect Cato. Cato -- his soft darling, the man who whispered sweetly to him, who scrunched up his nose at the smell of coffee and squinted whenever trying to understand technical reports. He never meant to push the other way, only to shield him and his too-soft, too-worried heart from the pains that Nguyen had earned. Even now, they felt more like karma, a deserved punishment.

But not at this cost. Not when the man he loved struggled to make eye contact, lip pulled between his teeth and worried until Nguyen broke. He pulled the other down, capturing his lips once more, and when they broke apart, he had found his words.

“I promise. I didn’t mean -- it doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you.”

The relaxation that flooded Cato’s sharp shoulders reassured Nguyen of his boyfriend’s state of mind, the metaphorical weight lifted from his poor, worried lover. The smaller man leaned forwards, careful to keep Nguyen’s lips in view, and murmured in a less strained tone.

“Thank you.”

A kiss, a body shifting to lay down next to him, head tucked under Nguyen’s chin. Then, once more, in a tone that was tainted by sleep, Cato spoke.

“... thank you.”

And if Nguyen carefully noted the breaths it took for his lover to fall asleep, the amount of time it took Cato to shake off the last of the tension from overburdened shoulders, well… that was no one’s business but his own.

And perhaps Cato’s.

#my work #my writing #oneshot #gay #scar tissue #fake identity #deaf character #hurt/comfort #staccato uzun #akira / nguyen

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lastsonlost · 8 years ago

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Feminist male-bashing has come to sound like a cliche — a misogynist caricature. Feminism, its loudest proponents vow, is about fighting for equality. The man-hating label is either a smear or a misunderstanding.

Yet a lot of feminist rhetoric today does cross the line from attacks on sexism into attacks on men, with a strong focus on personal behavior: the way they talk, the way they approach relationships, even the way they sit on public transit. Male faults are stated as sweeping condemnations; objecting to such generalizations is taken as a sign of complicity. Meanwhile, similar indictments of women would be considered grossly misogynistic.

This gender antagonism does nothing to advance the unfinished business of equality. If anything, the fixation on men behaving badly is a distraction from more fundamental issues, such as changes in the workplace to promote work-life balance. What’s more, male-bashing not only sours many men — and quite a few women — on feminism. It often drives them into Internet subcultures where critiques of feminism mix with hostility toward women.

* * *

To some extent, the challenge to men and male power has always been inherent in feminism, from the time the 1848 Seneca Falls Declaration of Sentiments catalogued the grievances of “woman” against “man.” However, these grievances were directed more at institutions than at individuals. In “The Feminine Mystique,” which sparked the great feminist revival of the 1960s, Betty Friedan saw men not as villains but as fellow victims burdened by societal pressures and by the expectations of their wives, who depended on them for both livelihood and identity.

That began to change in the 1970s with the rise of radical feminism. This movement, with its slogan, “The personal is political,” brought a wave of female anger at men’s collective and individual transgressions. Authors like Andrea Dworkin and Marilyn French depicted ordinary men as patriarchy’s brutal foot soldiers.

This tendency has reached a troubling new peak, as radical feminist theories that view modern Western civilization as a patriarchy have migrated from academic and activist fringes into mainstream conversation. One reason for this trend is social media, with its instant amplification of personal narratives and its addiction to outrage. We live in a time when jerky male attempts at cyber-flirting can be collected on a blog called Straight White Boys Texting (which carries a disclaimer that prejudice against white males is not racist or sexist, since it is not directed at the oppressed) and then deplored in an article titled “Dear Men: This Is Why Women Have Every Right To Be Disgusted With Us.”

Whatever the reasons for the current cycle of misandry — yes, that’s a word, derided but also adopted for ironic use by many feminists — its existence is quite real. Consider, for example, the number of neologisms that use “man” as a derogatory prefix and that have entered everyday media language: “mansplaining,” “manspreading” and “manterrupting.” Are these primarily male behaviors that justify the gender-specific terms? Not necessarily: The study that is cited as evidence of excessive male interruption of women actually found that the most frequent interrupting is female-on-female (“femterrupting”?).

Sitting with legs apart may be a guy thing, but there is plenty of visualdocumentation of women hogging extra space on public transit with purses, shopping bags and feet on seats. As for “mansplaining,” these days it seems to mean little more than a man making an argument a woman dislikes. Slate correspondent Dahlia Lithwick has admitted using the term to “dismiss anything said by men” in debates about Hillary Clinton. And the day after Clinton claimed the Democratic presidential nomination, political analyst David Axelrod was slammed as a “mansplainer” on Twitter for his observation that it’s a measure of our country’s “great progress” that “many younger women find the nomination of a woman unremarkable.”

Men who gripe about their ex-girlfriends and advise other men to avoid relationships with women are generally relegated to the seedy underbelly of the Internet — various forums and websites in the “manosphere,” recently chronicled by Stephen Marche in the Guardian. Yet a leading voice of the new feminist generation, British writer Laurie Penny, can use her column in the New Statesman to decry ex-boyfriends who “turned mean or walked away” and to urge straight young women to stay single instead of “wasting years in succession on lacklustre, unappreciative, boring child-men.”

Feminist commentary routinely puts the nastiest possible spin on male behavior and motives. Consider the backlash against the concept of the “friend zone,” or being relegated to “friends-only” status when seeking a romantic relationship — usually, though not exclusively, in reference to men being “friend zoned” by women. Since the term has a clear negative connotation, feminist critics say it reflects the assumption that a man is owed sex as a reward for treating a woman well. Yet it’s at least as likely that, as feminist writer Rachel Hills argued in a rare dissent in the Atlantic, the lament of the “friend zoned” is about “loneliness and romantic frustration,” not sexual entitlement.

Things have gotten to a point where casual low-level male-bashing is a constant white noise in the hip progressive online media. Take a recent pieceon Broadly, the women’s section of Vice, titled, “Men Are Creepy, New Study Confirms” — promoted with a Vice Facebook post that said: “Are you a man? You’re probably a creep.” The actual study found something very different: that both men and women overwhelmingly think someone described as “creepy” is more likely to be male. If a study had found that a negative trait was widely associated with women (or gays or Muslims), surely this would have been reported as deplorable stereotyping, not confirmation of reality.

Meanwhile, men can get raked over the (virtual) coals for voicing even the mildest unpopular opinion on something feminism-related. Just recently, YouTube film reviewer James Rolfe, who goes by “Angry Video Game Nerd,” was roundly vilified as a misogynistic “man-baby” in social media and the online press after announcing that he would not watch the female-led “Ghostbusters” remake because of what he felt was its failure to acknowledge the original franchise.

* * *

This matters, and not just because it can make men less sympathetic to the problems women face. At a time when we constantly hear that womanpower is triumphant and “the end of men” — or at least of traditional manhood — is nigh, men face some real problems of their own. Women are now earning about 60 percent of college degrees; male college enrollment after high school has stalled at 61 percent since 1994, even as female enrollment has risen from 63 percent to 71 percent. Predominantly male blue-collar jobs are on the decline, and the rise of single motherhood has left many men disconnected from family life. The old model of marriage and fatherhood has been declared obsolete, but new ideals remain elusive.

Perhaps mocking and berating men is not the way to show that the feminist revolution is about equality and that they have a stake in the new game. The message that feminism can help men, too — by placing equal value on their role as parents or by encouraging better mental health care and reducing male suicide —

is undercut by gender warriors like Australian pundit Clementine Ford, whose “ironic misandry”

often seems entirely non-ironic and who has angrily insisted that feminism stands only for women. Gibes about “male tears” — for instance, on a T-shirt sported by writer Jessica Valenti in a phototaunting her detractors — seem particularly unfortunate if feminists are serious about challenging the stereotype of the stoic, pain-suppressing male. Dismissing concerns about wrongful accusations of rape with a snarky “What about the menz” is not a great way to show that women’s liberation does not infringe on men’s civil rights. And telling men that their proper role in the movement for gender equality is to listen to women and patiently endure anti-male slams is not the best way to win support.

Valenti and others argue that man-hating cannot do any real damage because men have the power and privilege. Few would deny the historical reality of male dominance. But today, when men can lose their jobs because of sexist missteps and be expelled from college over allegations of sexual misconduct, that’s a blinkered view, particularly since the war on male sins can often target individuals’ trivial transgressions. Take the media shaming of former “Harry Potter” podcaster Benjamin Schoen, pilloried for some mildly obnoxious tweets (and then an insufficiently gracious email apology) to a woman who had blocked him on Facebook after an attempt at flirting. While sexist verbal abuse toward women online is widely deplored, there is little sympathy for men who are attacked as misogynists, mocked as “man-babies” or “angry virgins,” or even smeared as sexual predators in Internet disputes.

We are headed into an election with what is likely to be a nearly unprecedented gender gap among voters. To some extent, these numbers reflect policy differences. Yet it is not too far-fetched to see the pro-Donald Trump sentiment as fueled, at least in part, by a backlash against feminism. And while some of this backlash may be of the old-fashioned “put women in their place” variety, there is little doubt that for the younger generation, the perception of feminism as extremist and anti-male plays a role, too.

This theme emerged in Conor Friedersdorf’s recent interview in the Atlanticwith a Trump supporter, a college-educated, 22-year-old resident of San Francisco who considers himself a feminist and expects his career to take a back seat to that of his higher-earning fiancee — but who also complains about being “shamed” as a white man and voices concern about false accusations of rape.

As this campaign shows, our fractured culture is badly in need of healing — from the gender wars as well as other divisions. To be a part of this healing, feminism must include men, not just as supportive allies but as partners, with an equal voice and equal humanity.

Cathy Young is the author of two books, and a frequent contributor to Reason, Newsday, and RealClearPolitics.com. Follow @cathyyoung63

#feminism

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oikyskau · 8 years ago

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hello! got a idea/suggestion for fanfic but i'm dreadful at writing (unlike you)! alternate universe malec and magnus reveals/shows/tells alec he's a warlock?!✨✨✨ don't worry if you don't want to xx

thank you :x i didnt know whether u meant any au or the season 1 au, so i improvised i hope you like it!

The rain glowed neon in the city light, pouring from the grey clouds that overtook the sky. The sound of it meeting the ground drowned out all other noise, creating isolation out of soothing chaos. Magnus couldn’t help but think of how fitting it was. That today of all days would see nature announce its sorrow.

It had been months now since that fateful party. Since Magnus had regained his magic and his heart. Since he met the boy in blue. He could still remember Alec asking him to stay, how the confidence had made Magnus hesitate until he noticed the careful urgency radiating off Alec. Therefore, body still brimming with new-found life, he had agreed, and felt his heart skip at the smile that lit up Alec’s face.

After that it had been meetings between clients, late night texts, laughter shared across food, fingers intertwined, and lips pressed to cheeks. Being with Alec was exhilarating, the energy between them palpable. Every date felt like they were caught in their own personal gravity, pulled closer and closer together with each smile.

There was a steady flow to their conversations, and a comfort to their silences.

It had been at an Ethiopian restaurant, recommended by Luke, that Alec told him about his parents. He had seemed off when he came in, hands fidgeting, face unraveling in a way Magnus hadn’t seen before. It was then that Magnus felt it for the first time, telling Alec that his parents had died when he was young, a terrible accident that left him orphaned, It had felt like a hole in his chest, his fingers twitching. He wanted to tell him then, wanted Alec to know everything about him.

But he didn’t. The words had been stuck in his throat, held back by his own fear. But despite his initial hesitance, he knew that he couldn’t compromise himself like that. His magic was part of him, part of who he was. It kept him alive all these years, kept him company when the loneliness crept up his veins, filled him with pride when nothing else did.

A few days ago, they had been out dancing. Bathed in light, their bodies pressed together. Alec’s eyelids had dipped, his hand had moved to Magnus’ chest. Noses dragging against each other, their lips had been so close. Magnus’ hand on Alec’s ass, pulling him closer and closer.

“Take me home,” Alec had breathed, and Magnus’ fingers sparked. As if struck by lighting, he had stumbled backwards, left Alec standing there in the middle of the dance floor, hands still reaching out. Magnus had heard his name ringing behind him, but before Alec could reach him, he had disappeared into a portal.

Now, standing on his balcony, watching the rain fall gently to the ground, Magnus was waiting. At first glance, the text had seemed foreboding, but Magnus knew that the can we talk? was only laced in concern. His heart beat hard in his chest as he watched Alec step out of his car. A little wave of his hand accompanied the hurried steps towards the door. A few more minutes, lost in his thoughts, and the wave was returned, door opening before Alec could knock.

Wrapping his heart in steel, Magnus turned. Now or never.

Alec was still standing in the doorway, eyes stuck on Magnus’ form. There was a small box in his hands, and when he noticed Magnus staring a small smile built on his face.

“Hey,” he said, moving closer. Redness crept up his cheeks as held the box up for Magnus to take. “I don’t know what happened. But I thought, um, when we were out, you talked about being from Indonesia and missing the food, and there’s a restaurant right next to the Institute, but I didn’t know what you liked, so I just...well.”

Opening the box, Magnus couldn’t breathe. Alec must have mistaken his silence for dislike because the words began pouring out of his mouth, “It’s weird, isn’t it? I googled it afterwards and apparently it was developed during colonial times in the Dutch East Indies which probably isn’t fitting at all. I was thinking about flowers but-”

“Alexander,” Magnus interrupted, dragging his eyes from the cake to Alec’s face, a pink hue on his cheeks, “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

Alec beamed, and Magnus’ decision was made.

Taking Alec’s hand, he pulled him to the couch, carefully putting the box onto the table. Alec looked restless, leg bouncing up and down, but there was a stubborn edge to his voice as he clutched Magnus’ hand tighter the moment he tried to pull away. “What’s wrong, Magnus?”

“There’s something I need to tell you. About me.” Taking a deep breath, Magnus hesitated. There was so much he wanted to say, but he didn’t know where to begin.

At this, Alec’s other hand found his face, a warm comfort against his cheek. Leaning into it, Magnus closed his eyes. “I want to know everything about you, Magnus. I don’t care what it is,” Magnus felt Alec’s thumb swipe under his eyes, “C’mon, open your eyes. I trust you.”

And Magnus did, eyes burning gold.

Alec’s breath caught in his throat, but he didn’t move away. He was frozen, gaze fixed on Magnus’ face. “What, Magnus, what are you-”

Taking Alec’s hand off his face, Magnus pressed a kiss to his palm and snapped his fingers. Suddenly, the whole loft was draped in colour, blue and purple dancing through the air, sparking at his fingertips. Transfixed, Alec reached up, the magic curling around his wrist. Wide eyes met gold.

“There’s much I need to tell you. But maybe I should start at the beginning. I’m a warlock, Alexander.”

Searching his face, Alec found only honesty. For a moment, the silence draped over the two men, but soon a smile spread over Alec’s face, and gentle laughter spilled past his lips. “When Izzy asked about you, I told her you were magical.”

All anxiety fell from his chest, the same way his heart fell into Alec’s hands. But he still couldn’t keep calm, there was one more thing Alec had to know. “That’s not.. everything,” he began, “you told me once, you wanted a normal life, grow old with the person you love. But.. I can’t give you that. I’m immortal, Alec.”

Alec’s eyes narrowed, grabbing Magnus’ hands once again. “That’s backwards.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“You’re the one who’s going to suffer, not me. It’s your choice whether you want to stay with me, and watch me grow old.”

The magic stilled. A familiar feeling settled in his chest, growing and growing until he felt like bursting, and it only spread when Alec’s hands settled on his face. “I always knew you were incredible, Magnus. And this, your magic, has been there the whole time, even when I didn’t know. You deserve someone who accepts all of you, who loves all of you. Thank you for giving me this chance.”

Like clockwork, their lips found each other. Pressing Alec into the couch, Magnus settled between his legs, and let his magic run free. Breathless gasps filled the room as it sunk into Alec’s skin, surrounded both of them. Free and courageous as their bodies melted into one.

#1.2k words hope you like it kadhahs #malec #shadowhunters #magnus bane #alec lightwood #chameleonspace #pure-magnus #patronusmagnus #softdaddario #hufflebee #malecisright #i was supposed to write igbomh today and instead i wrote this akdhsd #my writing #answered /#thanks for asking!

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mrmichaelchadler · 6 years ago

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King of Thieves

“King of Thieves” is a heist film inhabited by a grey-haired gang of British acting royalty, men who had, in their younger days, played all manner of criminals and hustlers. Leading the pack is Michael Caine, who has embodied some of the most clever and most sadistic criminals the cinema has ever known. Backing him up are gritty thespians like Ray Winstone, who was Gal in “Sexy Beast” and Michael Gambon, the thief of “The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover”. Jim Broadbent is also present, and though cast against type, his acting resume does include “Boss” Tweed in “Gangs of New York” among other shady roles. The trio is joined by Tom Courtenay, who was once confined to a cinematic reform school for theft in “The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner”.

That’s a lot of robbery expertise for one movie. And the advanced ages of these actors make them as unlikely a band of suspects as the real-life crooks they portray. Those men were responsible for 2015’s Great Hatton Garden robbery, the biggest jewel heist in London’s history. The caper was so intricate and well-executed that investigators initially assumed it to be the handiwork of a much younger European robbery syndicate. Imagine the surprise when the true villains turned out to be several senior citizens with rap sheets as long as their lifespans.

With this cast and this story, “King of Thieves” should have been a homerun for any director. But James Marsh (“The Theory of Everything”) can’t decide if he’s making a light comic caper like “Going in Style” or a heavy, terrifying crime drama like “Mona Lisa.” Not even a master of both genres like Caine can navigate the wildly shifting tone of Joe Penhall’s sloppy script. The result invites confusion and ultimately indifference on the viewer’s part. When one character makes a joking reference to Alec Guinness’ brilliant Ealing comedy “The Lavender Hill Mob” the comparison does this film no favors.

I mentioned “Going in Style” because both films concern themselves with rowdy old men who choose robbery as a means of trying to outrun the Grim Reaper. But both versions of that film stacked the deck with reasons that force their characters’ hands. Here, the idea seems to stem from boredom more than anything else. “King of Thieves” starts out with Brian Reader (Caine) reminiscing with his wife (Francesca Annis) just before her sudden death. At the funeral, his partners in crime keep talking about old victories and Reader becomes hungry for an invigorating score.

A heist film is only as good as the execution of its caper set pieces. The fun of films like this is reveling in the often Rube Goldbergesque ways someone can steal something. Reader’s plan involves drilling through walls, pushing over heavy cabinets, a perpetually drunk fence, a lookout who can neither hear nor stay awake and a skittish young safecracker named Basil (Charlie Cox) who is way out of his league. Somehow all this manages to sit onscreen generating little interest. Meanwhile, Marsh overcompensates with unnecessary quick cuts and on-the-nose needle drops, drawing attention away from the mechanics and the minutiae of Reader’s plan.

In keeping with the proverb about “honor amongst thieves,” the alliance starts to fray as soon as the team succeeds. This leads to the only spark of intrigue “King of Thieves” offers: Who earns the film’s title? One could predict that it’s Brian Reader, who masterminds the heist yet walks away right in the thick of things. Could he secretly be orchestrating a complicated plot to sow distrust amongst his team in the hopes they’ll all off each other and leave the riches to him? Is it Winstone’s brawny Danny Jones, the muscle of the team? Or is it Gambon’s Danny the Fish, the fence with a very small bladder and a very big booze habit? The deserving heir to the throne is obviously the one who doesn’t get caught.

Penhall based his script on an intriguing, informative Vanity Fair article by Mark Seal. I highly recommend reading the source material instead of spending nearly two hours watching this film. “King of Thieves” is a disappointing mess that lacks both suspense and a clear identity. Not even the occasional joy of seeing these fine actors riff with one another can save it.

from All Content http://bit.ly/2CPjtga

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hrrytomlinson · 8 years ago

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hiiii, here are a bunch of fics I’ve enjoyed and loved reading throughout the month of february. I recommend that you read these great fics in march, if you haven’t already. there are SO many good and unique AUs this round, so please check them out!!

(all fics with a star are my favorites and if there are two stars then it was a favorite favorite)

1. Saved Tonight (30k)**

Harry is the world's most persistent seduction-baker, a questionable dog-sitter, and Louis's biggest fan. Louis hasn't written in years, is trying to pass loneliness off as cynicism, and absolutely hates his fans. It's probably destiny.

2. Too Real to Fake It (82k)*

With seven years of blissful marriage behind them and four wonderfully unique kids to brag about, Harry and Louis seem to finally have life all figured out and under control. How much more real could it get?

Very real it turns out, when Harry reluctantly leaves home for a 5 day business trip leaving Louis to manage their rambunctious, hyperactive household. Do they really have it all under control or are they just faking it?

Featuring all the usual suspects, inside jokes, embarrassing moments and of course, Harry and Louis' wild antics + the addition of their four equally wild and outrageous kids.

3. When You Look Like That (16k)*

“You… you still have the dress form I got you for your eighteenth birthday? You've kept it for ten years, Harry?” Louis’ eyes flick around Harry’s studio. It’s big and modern, with floor to ceiling windows that help flood the room in bright sunlight, just like the lobby. However, he can't stop staring at the faded, but present, heart surrounding the “H + L” written delicately in Louis’ handwriting in the center of the mannequin.

Louis is a songwriter who is nominated for a Grammy and he needs a suit. Fast. He seeks out help from a very popular, very mysterious designer who just so happens to be his ex-boyfriend.

4. Dress You Up In My Love (103k)**

Harry is single, and more than anything wants to find love. Agreeing to sign up to a dating website was a bad, bad idea. Niall's bad, bad idea. Louis is single, but has no interest in relationships. Or so he tells himself.   Harry is a lawyer whose boss, Nick, happens to give him a bonus, which he decides to splurge on a new work wardrobe. Louis is a frustrated designer, working as a personal shopper at Selfridges. Louis happens to be working on the day a very beautiful, but out of his depth, new customer ambles into their department in need of advice. Louis might have just found the muse he never knew he was looking for.

5. Of Honey (24k)*

Harry wants what most hybrids don’t have. Love, for instance. Companionship. Understanding. And sex so good it hurts.

6. If You Keep Holding Me This Way (22k)**

Harry is a uni student who just so happens to enjoy dressing up as a long-haired androgynous sub persona to go out to bars and pick up men to dominate him. He tries to keep his BDSM life and his personal one separated, but that gets difficult when his crush on a classmate gets serious and his two worlds collide.

7. Then We Talk Slow (20k)**

The picture showed Harry smiling widely (with a fucking dimple) at the camera, his glossy brown curls situated artfully around his shoulders. Louis couldn’t see his whole outfit, but it seemed to consist of a pink, floral button-up with most of the buttons undone. Louis could also detect the dark outlines of tattoos on his chest, although he couldn’t quite make out what they were underneath the shirt.

What he could make out was that his own heartrate seemed to have picked up significantly.

Shit.

This was so not good. Not only had Louis drunkenly sent messages in a deliberate attempt to interact with this man, he was now insanely attracted to him without ever having met him in person.

Maybe Liam was right – drunk tweeting really was a horrible, rotten idea.

A famous/non-famous AU in which Louis banters back and forth with his new record company on Twitter, only to find out that Harry is the man behind the tweets.

8. Love Endless (The Road to Recollection) (171k)**

The year is groovy 1973, and eighteen-year-old Louis Tomlinson is as gay as the rainbows that never waste their time in gloomy ole' Fortwright. Would be fine if he wasn't so viciously bullied at both home and school for such a "harmful" sexual preference.

Yeah, yeah, we've all heard this story, haven't we?

Believe him, Louis didn't think he was anything special either.

Until he found the mansion. The notoriously haunted mansion hidden deep within the forests of his tiny blip of a town in Bumfuck Nowhere, Idaho. No one with a brain ever goes near it, but Louis could use a little excitement in his life...and possibly a Band-Aid or two.

After discovering the mansion was less abandoned than he'd thought, he's now left with the most riveting mystery of a lifetime; every new finding leaving him with more questions. Who is this elusive owner, and why won't they show themselves? Why is there a set of journals in the same handwriting that span over centuries? Why in the world is there a padlock on the refrigerator...and who the hell is Alexander?

9. Dance Me (to the End of Love) (19k)*

You would think that it's a simple process - you meet, you fall in love, you get married. But when you add one lawyer and one overly-competitive high school teacher to that equation, it's no longer a straight line from beginning to end. Or the story of how a simple proposal becomes a competition where no one loses in the end.

10. For a Spell That Can’t be Broken (8k)

“Why do you have to bug him so much, Lou?” Niall asked, chewing on the sleeve of his Gryffindor robes. “He’s a good kid.”

“I’m aware of that,” Louis argued petulantly.

“Are you sure?” Niall asked, his expression sincerely concerned.

“Don’t mind him,” Zayn spoke up. “Louis’ just got a weird fetish for tormenting boys he likes.”

Or a Harry Potter AU where Louis' got a secret crush on Harry and won't admit it until a late entrance into potions class outs him.

11. Cocoons and Crow’s Nests (10k)*

Harry is happy to live his life in the confines of his Cocoon. Louis specializes in breaking down barriers.

It's a young love, coming of age Larry Stylinson one shot.

12. Dance Like Warriors On A Battlefield (20k)*

Down in the arena, the triumphant gladiator places his foot on the back of the loser, holding him there as he waits for instruction on his next move. Kill or let live. It’s barbaric, really, the bloodlust involved in this sport. Louis is pretty sure that if it wasn’t for his distaste for the killing there would be a lot more blood soaking that sand.

As it is, his father rarely gives the kill order anymore. He gives the order to let the loser live. Louis rolls his eyes, turning away. He doesn’t miss the way the gladiator’s eyes linger on him.

13. Record Your Fate (and Write Me In) (13k)*

Harry is the Archivist, it's his job to record what happens in the universe.

He's only a few days into the job when things take an odd turn.

Suddenly, the small blue eyed boy seems more important than writing about crowning dignitaries.

14. Tangled Up in You (45k)

Harry blinks once. And blinks again. And says, his voice dangerous: “Niall, did you get me a mail-order bride?”

Because what the actual fuck. It kind of looks like Niall’s just purchased a person. For Harry.

“What did you get me, then?!” Niall must hear the tinge of hysteria in his voice, because he’s pulling himself together, trying to stop himself from laughing.

There’s still a big grin on his face, though, when he says, “I got you a professional cuddler.”

A professional…what. “What?”

15. This Ain't Just a Thing That You Give Up (34k)

Harry turned to Liam to whisper something about not being in Kansas anymore but his best friend was frozen to his spot with a look of complete disbelief on his face. Harry looked to his right, the direction Liam seemed to be focused on, and saw a small group of people who had paused their discussion to look towards him in confusion.

A small group including Zayn Malik and Louis Tomlinson.

Harry is fairly sure his jaw actually dropped.

"Li, is that...?"

Liam nods his head emphatically. "I'm about 110% sure that yes. It is."

Or… The one where Harry is a baker in addition to being a college student who just happens to meet the crazy famous Louis Tomlinson while on spring break. Featuring personal assistant!niall, roommate and best friend!liam, and costar/model!zayn.

16. Resist Everything Except Temptation (100k)**

The lethargic sound of heels clicking against wood resonated across the sea. Footsteps descended the staircase, every assured step creating a menacing aura as it grew closer. Perspiration gathered along Louis’ palms as the rhythmic sound halted in front of him.

There was a metallic slide of a sword being pulled out of its sheath, the sound startling Louis out of his cocoon of sterile shock. His shoulders jumped as the tip of a blade flattened underneath his jaw. Louis’ distorted reflection stared back at him in the polished metal. Engraved rose petals twisted his appearance as they crawled up the length of the sword. The sword lifted and took Louis’ chin with it.

Standing in front of Louis was Captain Styles.

OR The one where Louis is the commodore's son who is forced to become a part of Harry's crew when he is captured.

17. Far Afield (11k)**

Harry Styles is a witch who owns the best flower shop in Manchester. Lottie Tomlinson is planning her wedding, and brings her brother along to her first appointment. Both men have been having a bad day and sparks fly.

18. You’re Either In Or You’re Out (12k)

Louis' tone is maybe a bit harsher than necessary, but he still stinging from the suggestion that he was staring at Harry. Sure, the way his legs are encased in those skinny jeans is mildly intriguing. But Louis is here to be the next Top Designer, and he'll be damned if he lets a pretty boy with a sinful mouth get in the way of his dream. Especially if that sinful mouth is spewing phrases like bohemian pantsuit. Honestly.

Or the one where Louis tries out for Project Runway, Harry is his stupidly gorgeous competitor, Liam is Tim Gunn, Zayn is the supermodel host, and Niall is the guest judge who knows nothing about fashion.

19. These Bountiful Silences (123k)**

They live in a world where they can only say four words per day. Harry meets some people that don't want to live that way.

20. Kiss the Boys (8k)

“Being able to blatantly kiss pretty boys out in the open is my favorite part of Pride,” Harry says without preamble, leaning into Louis’ space, inviting pink lips quirking up as they get closer to him. “You up for it?”

“Um,” Louis glances at Zayn for help. He’d thought for sure after the way he’d just seen Zayn and Harry kissing, there had to be something more going on there. The last thing Louis expects to see on Zayn’s face is a knowing grin.

Harry leans closer and for a split-second, Louis wants to meet him halfway but then he thinks better of it. He doesn’t know the landscape here and in just a couple of weeks living with him, he’s already learned that Zayn is really bad about holding his feelings in. He doesn’t want to risk stepping on the toes of his closest friend here at Uni. So, at the last second, Louis raises his empty hand and covers Harry’s mouth before the boy can complete his mission.

“Sorry, Curly,” Louis says jokingly, “I just don’t know where that mouth has been.”

21. Manhattan From The Sky (47k)**

Harry's been raised to know that successful men do not fall in love. Louis believes that love is all you need to be successful in life. They meet.

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