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lalunanymph · 3 years ago

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𝐜𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞 — 𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐨

tw. angst, mentions of alcohol, wounds, language, food, suggestive content, fem!reader

+ tagging bby @manjiroscum

“It’s cool. We don’t have any rules.”

What famous last words you had uttered.

That was three months ago. Three months ago when you met Hitto Kakucho in the middle of a dingy bar, fresh from a breakup and mourning over a cheating ball sack who decided to fuck your best friend instead of coming clean that he didn’t love you anymore.

You still recalled the day with surprising clarity considering how you were the furthest thing from sober. The wafting smoke, the sharp smell of alcohol that pooled onto the cheap linoleum floor. You didn’t know it then, but Kakucho had been keeping his one good eye on you all night long (he said it was because you were the only girl in the room and he still had a moral code to protect women even if he was basically a yakuza’s right hand man).

You remembered the low timber of his voice, how he gripped your waist to steady you. The embarrassing moment when you burst into tears and told him about your sad love life. How he took your home, murmuring that you were a pretty girl and had a ton of options. The brazen way you touched his thigh and invited him back to your place.

How he didn’t say no and let you take him by the hand only to pull him into your web of seduction. In some twisted way, he was just as lonely as you were. Dealing with Bonten took a huge chunk out of his life and youth, and with you, he could put aside the façade of an aloof criminal and pretend for one night that he was your knight in shining armour.

One night became two. Then three. Four.

He barely saw his apartment that whole week.

Saturdays and lazy Sundays rolled around and instead of spending precious quality time catching up on paperwork, he found himself obediently pushing a shopping cart, memorizing the curve of your smile as you droned on about some traditional Mexican recipe you wanted to give a go.

You didn’t even blink when he finally came clean of his true occupation, untimely as he had made that reveal over dinner. All you did was shrug and told him to take out the trash.

“So, you kill people?” You broke the silence once he re-entered your apartment, sanitizing his hands.

Drops of sweat beaded his forehead and he cleared his throat, buying time to retort. “Um—yeah. Sometimes.”

A blink. Two blinks. “Damn. That’s kinda hot.”

Kakucho deflated and shot you a disapproving look. “Quit messing around.”

“I’m not!” you grinned, leaning over the counter to peck his cheek. “I don’t really care what you do with your spare time… just don’t put a target on me, m’kay?”

He swore he fell in love with you at that moment and vowed to do anything to protect you.

The next morning, you woke up to the rich smell of butter and toast, shuffling into the kitchen in nothing but his t-shirt to find his bare torso rippling while he stirred a golden cloud of scrambled eggs in your chipped pan and poured a cup of coffee at the same time. Catching sight of you, a warm smile tugged the corners of his lips. “Morning.”

“Morning,” you muttered appreciatively, eyes raking over his defined muscles. “That looks good.”

How did you get so lucky?

Despite telling him how you didn’t want to get involved in love again; to even think about the idea of ripping your heart open to be vulnerable to someone, his quick kisses pressed to your temple and lips were making you reconsider.

Plus, he made really, really good scrambled eggs.

That was three months ago.

Before he discovered through the pipeline that you were going on another date. Before that fateful night in Koko’s club.

“Hey, isn’t that your little wifey?” Sanzu teased, eyes charting over to where you were chatting a guy up. Kakucho swore he had never whipped his head around that fast.

The empty drawer in his apartment that echoed the vacancy sign in his void chest flashed in his mind.

“Why can’t you admit that you love me?” He hated seeing you cry; hated being the cause of it.

But, he had to do this. Just the other day, some sleazeball in a black trench coat had followed you around for the whole day until you finally realized and called him, panic infused in your tone. He had handled it swiftly (of course, he did—he wasn’t Bonten’s number 3 for nothing), blood staining his hands and the front of his shirt.

He had refused your kiss when you leaned in and turned his face away. “We can’t do this anymore.”

Hitto Kakucho was a man who had more money in his life than he knew what to do with, luxurious sports cars lining the walls of his garage and designer clothes that could rival a flagship store.

But the one thing that he could never have was love.

Specifically, your love.

That was the last he had ever heard from you. Your clothes, lingerie and makeup were whisked out of his apartment before night had fallen. Word was you had scrubbed his contact from your phone and started dating again.

The woman who drew stars around his scars, who kissed the gnarled skin on his cheek, who accepted him for who he was… didn’t belong to him anymore.

(But, you were never his in the first place).

Kakucho swallowed past the unspoken words lodged in the back of his throat. Days spent chasing your shadow down grocery lines, eating eggs that tasted like cardboard when it wasn’t served along with your sweet smile and hilarious anecdotes weighed heavily on his shoulders.

He shrugged the girl off his lap and abandoned his colleagues without another word.

“Strange,” Ran quipped, eyeing the broad back of his superior disappearing out the club. “What’s gotten into him?”

“More like who,” Rindou added and Ran followed the direction he brother was staring at to find you tossing your head back, laughing.

“Oh.” The older Haitani blinked. “Right. I forgot. They’re not dating anymore.”

Sanzu hummed, settling back into the smoke-encrusted leather sofa. “Who knew Saint Hitto himself had a little piece of ass by the side.” The pink-haired man amended, “But, they never dated, though.”

“Not yet,” Rindou snorted. “Money’s on the table that they’ll get back together.”

Ran gave his brother a look. “What makes you so fucking sure?”

“Kaku-chan~” the drunk stripper with half her tits hanging out her short tank top pouted at the three of them with over-lined lips, short skirt riding up to expose the moons of her impressive ass. “Where did he goooo?”

Rindou returned his brother’s look with a pointed one. “That’s why.”

Outside the club, Kakucho lit up a cigarette, taking a long drag. He had to escape the spinning room, had to forget, had to remove himself from the situation before he made a huge mistake—

“Let’s go back to my place.”

That voice.

He peeked up to find you stumbling out of the club in your too high heels, dragging along that same man who was staring lasciviously at your curves. You giggled when he caged you into his embrace and squealed at his nipping kiss on your neck. Kakucho doesn’t know what had gotten into him; that dark fury that could only be described as an impulse riddled his brain and his feet dragged him towards the both of you before his mind could play catch up.

“Y/N.”

You froze and turned to him, eyes wide and disbelieving. “Kakucho?”

“What the fuck do you want, scarface?” the man scoffed. “We’re kinda busy here, if you can see...” noticing Kakucho’s lame eye, he added, “… or not.”

His fist flew before he could hold himself back. The man was out cold on the pavement and you were shrieking at him.

“What the fuck—Kakucho! You asshole!”

He doesn’t apologize. This was the most emotion you had shown him—minus the last time you had walked out of his life—and he brought you into his arms, stealing the last dregs of your fury with his lips. Your palms had stopped slamming against his shoulders and were tangled in his midnight blue hair instead, his mouth desperately swallowing your insistent moans.

Take me back, he wanted to scream. Just take me back, Y/N.

(But you were never mine in the first place).

“Can we—?” he swallowed a low groan when you nipped his neck. “Can we start over?”

Your lips paused in their descent down his throat and for one singular, terrifying moment, Kakucho thought you would finally push him away. He would understand. It’s what he deserved.

But, you didn’t, and he found himself staring down at your glassy eyes and too bright cheeks; your lower lip fighting back a wobble as the same wave of yearning he felt in his soul echoed the throbbing, aching loss in your chest.

“Yeah. We can.”

The cab that was meant for another man brought him back to your apartment where he took you against the door, your dulcet cries echoing off the moon-soaked walls.

That morning, he had woken up first to your restful expression. The polaroid picture on your nightstand of you during your last birthday celebration was swiped and tucked lovingly into the folds of his wallet. He expected to feel regret at his actions, to berate himself for his stupidity in roping you back into his life. But, strangely, all he felt was peace.

Until his ringtone shattered the morning; Kokonoi’s voice instructed that there was a lead on his case and he had to leave immediately. You blinked awake to find him getting dressed and he pressed a kiss to your forehead, telling you he had some business to handle and to save him some dinner for tonight.

He never came back like he promised.

Instead, it was an unknown man who called and told you to head over to the hospital where you arrived, shivering and pale, only to be told that Kakucho had been shot and was being treated under a sworn deal Bonten had with that centre.

The bloody polaroid with your smiling face that had to be pried from his lifeless hand by a surgeon sat like a ghostly spectre in your periphery.

Midnight hair bleeding like an ink stain across a sterile pillow, chest steadily rising and falling, it was foolish of you to think that Kakucho was impenetrable. That was how he wanted the world to perceive him, but under the layers of steel, smoke and scars, Kakucho was—and still is—just a man.

The one who had made the call to you—Kokonoi—was mindful to filter in the doctors and nurses, wary of your piercing sobs coming from inside the room. The atmosphere outside the ward was tense, every executive tight-jawed and wondering how the ever efficient Kakcuho had been taken off-guard in a mission that had gone horribly south.

“If Kaku dies, then what?” Ran asked, breaking the tense bubble.

Unexpectedly, it was Mikey who quipped, “Continue with that thought and I’ll make sure you’re the first to go, Haitani.”

Ran zipped his mouth shut and Rindou grimaced.

Another soft sob behind closed doors floated over to where the men stood and every gut hardened simultaneously. Kakucho had to make it through. Bonten would be nothing without him.

You would be nothing without him.

The fire that was Hitto Kakucho that had kept your brittle heart warm since the day you met him was smothered by passing hours filled with nothing but beeping monitors, until night blanketed over and brought back the suffocating darkness; a bleak endless nothing that you had fought tooth and nail against since the day you forced yourself to walk out of his life.

Somewhere between the hours of drowsiness and pinching yourself to keep awake, his fingers twitched in yours.

“Love?” His raspy voice shattered through your consciousness like a gunshot and you nearly jumped, overwhelming him with your cries of gratitude and unceasing kisses.

“You ass,” even when sobbing, he found he could not take his eyes off you. Your beauty that could never be marred only served to make his foolish heart throb harder. He crooked one finger to wipe a stray tear from your cheek, and you leaned into his touch, greedily absorbing the feel of his pulse point against your skin.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, thumbing your cheek. “I didn’t expect… I wasn’t careful enough—”

“It’s fine,” you interjected before he could beat himself up further. Sparing him a smile, you added, “Don’t do this to me again.”

“But, I will.”

The silence that followed could rival a wake. He added morosely, “As long as I’m in Bonten, this is what I have to deal with—what you have to deal with.”

Are you ready to go through this with me?

That implicit question hung in the air like a waiting axe.

“I don’t care,” you muttered hoarsely. “All I want is you. I don’t care about anything else.”

Relief, potent and unlike any other, filled his chest. Also, hope. He could never forget that swooping emotion when you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his.

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you, too, Kaku.” You tittered, cheeks warm from his confession. “So, does this mean we’re officially an item?”

Despite the ache in his ribs, he chuckled. “Beat me to the punch, princess.” Sincerely this time, he nodded. “I’m not really in the right shape to get on my knees… but can I be your boyfriend, Y/N?”

Your answering smile could have blinded him for good. “Never thought you’d ask, Hitto.”

Your sweet laughter carried through the door and roused the rest of the executives fully awake. Ran and Sanzu stared at each other in confusion, but Rindou, who already sensed what had transpired, straightened from his slump against the uncomfortable plastic chair and stretched out his palm, grinning in smug satisfaction.

“What I tell you, huh? Time to pay up, assholes.”

#kakucho x you #kakucho x reader #hitto kakucho x reader #kakucho angst #kakucho fluff #tokyo revengers drabbles #🦢 writes

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bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 4 years ago

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I wanna love you good

(sequel to ‘and down they fell’ equally as inspired by the lovely @221bsunsettowers)

tw: smut

very possessive/protective siren!Jaskier

---

The crew, now with Geralt safely in tow, made it out to sea without a hitch just as Jaskier had planned (although perhaps his little performance at the failed hanging had slowed the soldiers on their trail by quite a bit). The very much not hung-by-the-neck-until-dead Captain quickly resumed his duties. After he and Eskel charted a course for the opposite end of the coast, far from the navy that wanted them dead, Geralt excused himself.

“No worries, Captain,” Eskel replied. “You’ve had a very long day. The crew will be more than understanding.”

“At least I’m still here,” the pirate chuckled darkly. “Almost wasn’t.”

“You were always safe,” the first mate reassured him. “Jaskier had that plan ready to go almost as soon as you were taken captive.”

“Really?”

“He was practicing his battle cries, Captain. He was going to save your life come hell or high water. I don’t mean to make any assumptions about your precious wife, Geralt, but it seems to me that sirens mate for life.”

“I think I agree with you,” Lambert said from his seat in the corner. “He was scary.”

“You should probably go see if he’s alright,” Starkey piped up. “The poor boy was practically feral.”

“Practically? I thought he was going to skin the dock manager alive when he suggested that Geralt deserved to be hung.”

“He came damn near close. If Bill Jukes hadn’t been there to hold him back...”

“There would have been two hangings,” Lambert chuckled. “Go see to your wife, Captain. We’ll take care of the ship and the watch rotation until tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Geralt nodded solemnly. “I appreciate it, lads.”

“Aye, Captain. We’re just glad you’re still here.”

“Me, too.”

---

As soon as the White Wolf closed his cabin door behind him, Jaskier appeared. The smaller man slammed Geralt up against the sturdy oak and made a low, possessive humming noise at the back of his throat. His hands were sweeping up the expanse of the Captain’s stomach and chest as he whispered roughly, "I won't lose you like that. Not to the likes of them."

"Them?" the Captain gasped. Jaskier’s unusually sharp teeth were nibbling a path along Geralt’s clothed shoulder and the Captain’s brain wasn’t quite as engaged with the conversation as it could be. His calloused sailor’s hands were scrabbling for purchase against the material of Jaskier's borrowed burgundy shirt as his wife continued to caress and mark him.

The younger man pulled away for a moment and his eyes flashed silvery-strange in the waning light through the porthole. Geralt’s heart stuttered in his chest. Every instinct in his body was urging him to flee; the Siren half of his little Jaskier was coming totally to the surface.

The half-siren’s voice had a strangely melodic quality to it when he said; "They were humans. Low, filthy, horrible humans. They tried to take you from me. They tried to kill my Geralt, my Captain, my husband. They cannot have you. Never."

Geralt couldn’t focus on the litany of angry words too closely because Jaskier's hands were touching him everywhere as he spoke. They smoothed across his shoulders and palmed at his biceps. Long, nimble fingers made quick work of his shirt, unlacing and removing it in the span of one shaky breath. Then the hands were back, touching and teasing and caressing.

The pirate was being taken apart by his eager little siren.

When Jaskier paused his effort to give Geralt's torso a greedy once-over, the Captain noticed that his blue eyes seemed feverish, his pupils heavily dilated. "Jaskier? Are you okay?"

"Yes, my love. Now that you're safe. Now that my darling mate is safe."

His hands were fluttering across Geralt's chest as he spoke, assessing him for any signs of injury. When none presented themselves, the siren latched his teeth against the skin of Geralt's neck and began to mark it in earnest.

“Mine,” Jaskier growled, biting and sucking at the same patch of skin near Geralt’s collarbone until it was deep purple and throbbing. The Captain could barely stand on his own two legs, too overcome with sensation to do much other than pant and whine.

“Jaskier,” he gasped. The siren maneuvered his captive husband to the bed and laid him on his back with exquisite tenderness. His eyes softened and his lids dropped slightly. He buried his nose against the side of Geralt’s neck and breathed in deeply.

Their torsos settled together and Jaskier sighed happily at the contact. “Mine.”

“I’ve always been yours,” Geralt said, having finally regained the ability to speak. “I am your husband and you are my wife. You are a member of the Kaer Morhen’s crew.”

“Yours,” Jaskier nodded his agreement. This side of his little nymph was different and strange; possessive and terrifying and beautifully insatiable as he began to mouth a new trail from one of side of the Captain’s chest to the other. Geralt moaned and arched up to meet his lover’s eager tongue as it swirled around one pert and sensitive nipple.

The siren made an impressive show of strength by grabbing the pirate’s wrists and pinning them to the bed at either side of this head. “Stay,” he ordered, voice still shot-through with that melodic, dangerous quality. Geralt obeyed.

Jaskier scooted down the bed and settled between the Captain’s spread thighs. He licked a slow, teasing stripe up the bottom of Geralt’s cock and smiled when his husband bucked his hips. His Voice was clear now, striking to the very center of Geralt’s body and wrapping him in pleasure. “My pretty White Wolf. My delicate, handsome husband. How sweet you are when you’re laid out like this. Only mine to look at. Only mine to touch.”

Geralt’s eyes were open but he saw very little. The combination of Jaskier’s half-spoken, half-sung words and the feeling of that warm, wet mouth lowering its way down his erection were fucking incredible. He keened, unashamed, and writhed against the mattress. He wanted desperately to move his hands but wasn’t sure how this primal version of his little wife would react to disobedience.

He didn’t last long with the way Jaskier was humming and bobbing his head, his hands moving to touch Geralt’s thighs, hips, and abdomen. The Captain came with a shout and the siren took it all without batting an eye.

Slowly, as he gasped his way back to reality, Geralt realized that the panicked look in the half-siren’s eyes was fading. The silver tinge was gone and the shiny quality had disappeared. “My love?” he croaked.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered. He curled up against the Captain’s side and reached for one of his large hands. The brunette kissed his way across the top of each of Geralt’s fingers. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

“I think I did,” the Captain chuckled. That made his little wife smile again and look up.

“You’re not angry? I should have asked for more definite consent.”

“There was plenty of consent,” Geralt said. “Trust me.”

“Hmmm. I love you,” Jaskier purred, nuzzling his way back into Geralt’s slightly sweaty neck. The pirate grinned. “I’m never letting you go again.”

“I love you too,” the White Wolf replied. “Now let me take care of you.”

“Oh, sweet husband,” the younger man winked. “If you insist.”

#geraskier smut #geraskier #geraskier pirate au #geraskier swashbuckling au #prompt fill #geraskier prompt fill #smut #siren jaskier #siren!jaskier #captain geralt #pirate geralt #possessive jaskier #feral jaskier #nonhuman jaskier #creature jaskier #biting #nuzzling #geraskier fluff #possessive geraskier

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sunshine-shitposts · 4 years ago

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Twenty Second

Sunnie takes Dio out to dinner, unusually happy for some reason, and they enjoy good food together. Pure fluff.

TW: some drankin

Nights in the suite were usually lazy, with Sunnie either gaming or watching movies with Dio. He enjoyed their time together, and watching her slowly open up was quite rewarding.

Tonight, however, she was in her room.

He didn't question it as he read a particularly interesting book Sunnie had given him: The Elegant Universe, which discussed something called string theory. It was incredibly well-written, and he was about to turn another page when he heard her hum brightly as she opened and shut her bedroom door. She began walking down the hallway, some nonsense tune she'd invariably made up floating through the air.

She sounded like she was in a good mood.

She then stood in front of him, grinning widely and twirling the blue carabiner that she had her keys on with her finger, her other hand fisted on her hip.

"I'm in a good mood!" Sunnie said happily.

Ah, so she was.

"So," she continued, bouncing on her heels, "You should get dressed. We're going to my favorite sushi place."

"We are?" He asked, an eyebrow quirked upwards.

She nodded. "We are!"

And that was how Dio, dressed in a soft black button-up shirt (the first few buttons undone, of course), black slacks, and some new shiny shoes he'd purchased, was in the shotgun seat in Sunnie's oddly spacious little blue car.

The music in the car, in contrast with the heavy rock music he'd heard her playing in her room from time to time, was bright—some infectious dance tune that had her head bobbing and body swaying in time with the beat as she drove, smiling excitedly as she softly chanted "soosh, soosh, soosh" at various intervals. Dio wondered what exactly it was that had made her so happy, but chuckled amusedly as she bounced in her seat and pulled off onto a ramp heading north, and the music changed to something lower tempo, but still electronic. She hummed along with it, and a little while into the song, she began to giggle.

"Aaaaaah, here it comes, here it comes!!" She wiggled, and began singing with the music, "I promise to build a new world for us twoooo, with youuuu in the middle…"

And then the song exploded into bright, excited pulsing and drums, and she danced in her seat accordingly, grinning widely the entire time. He was impressed with her apparent skill at seat dancing while driving, he had to admit, but seeing her express her happiness so openly and so genuinely brought a smile to his face as well.

Fifteen minutes later or so, she'd pulled off the highway and onto a street that led them to what appeared to be a group of stores that were predominantly Asian, with a large grocery store that seemed Asian in nature as well. There were at least two dim sum restaurants that he could see, what looked like a small Korean bank, among other things like salons and cell phone stores. Sunnie took a left and drove to the outer section of the shops and neatly parked the car.

"We're here!" She chirped, shutting the car off and unbuckling herself, getting out of the car.

"A nice and easy drive," Dio remarked, exiting the car as well.

"Ever been to a revolving sushi place before?" She asked, shutting her car door.

Dio followed her as she trotted excitedly across the parking lot and through the light autumn rain to a door beneath a lit sign that said 'Kitsune' with a cute brushstroke fox next to it. "I have not, little bird," he hummed, "What's the occasion, if I may ask?"

"Oh, I got the courage to shut Vinh out of my bank account today," she laughed, face absolutely beaming, "so the meal's on me!"

He looked at her with a sly smile on his face. Good for her.

They reached the door, which Sunnie pushed open and they walked through, but not before Dio caught various people who were milling about in front of the stores and restaurants gawking at him–good, he always did love a little ego boost. The young man in all black at the front welcomed them and Sunnie happily gave her name ("Green, party of two, booth reservation!") and an employee came up to receive them and guide them through the restaurant.

It was dimly, yet warmly lit, the wood stained beautifully and the seats padded with dark leather, and, to his mild surprise, a winding conveyor belt throughout the main room. On the belt, plates with sushi covered by clear domes snaked their way around the room at a casual pace. Most of the seats were bar-style, but Dio saw, as they walked, several booth tables tucked away towards what seemed to be the beginning of the conveyor line.

The waitress sat them down at one of the booths and placed two drink menus on the table.

"Hi there, m'names Marissa, and I'll be helpin' you tonight!" She said in a sugary sweet voice, "Have y'all been here before?"

"I have," Sunnie smiled back as Dio inspected the moving plates with interest, "I'll explain it to him."

The waitress nodded. "I'll be back in a second for your drink orders!"

As she turned and left, Sunnie patted the table happily, turning his attention from the plates making their way past them to the small woman across from him. "So! Figure out what you wanna drink–"

"I already know what I want, my dear. Explain to me how this," he pointed his clawed finger up and twirled it around in a few circles, "works."

"Oh! Well, here's the revolving part of 'revolving sushi'," she said, gesturing to the moving sushi plates, "They're under these domes, see, but all you gotta do is grab the plate right here, under this little spot–" she reached up and grabbed a plate with her thumb under a semi-circle cutout on the dome, and the dome easily lifted up and she pulled the plate away and to the table, sliding it to Dio. "When we're done with it, we slide it into this spot down here," she pointed at a slot at the base of where the table met the wall, "and it tallies up the cost based on the number of plates. Simple?"

"Delightfully so," he responded, taking a pair of chopsticks out of their paper packaging, "Do you want one of these…" he looked down at the sushi in front of him and tilted his head.

"Kappamaki," Sunnie told him, getting her own chopsticks as well, "It's just a cucumber roll, nice and refreshing. But you can have those, I have a little ritual to carry out first…" she sat up on her knees and looked at a touch screen, scrolling through options and making a selection, "I always start out with niku udon. You make the selection on here and it comes to you on the linear conveyor belt above the sushi one. They have things like karaage, ramen, and you can also order specific sushi if they keep vanishing by the time they get to you, but since we're near the front of the line, that won't be a problem."

Dio picked up his first piece of kappamaki and popped it in his mouth, the bright crunch of the cucumber just as refreshing as Sunnie had said it would be.

"Is it good?" She asked, eyes sparkling, and he nodded.

"It is indeed," he responded, reaching for a shallow dish and pouring some soy sauce for himself, "If all of the choices are of this quality, tonight will surely be a feast."

Sunnie laughed. "No worries there, big guy, they're all really good, from what I know."

Marissa came back around and took their drink orders—Sunnie ordered a lemonade, and Dio opted for 'an entire bottle of your most expensive sake', and when Sunnie shot him a glare, he added sweetly, 'to celebrate'—and by the time their drinks arrived, Sunnie's niku udon had zoomed towards them on the linear conveyor belt. It was in a smallish stoneware bowl with handles and a second bowl on top, which she unclipped and removed to reveal a savory-looking broth filled with thick noodles, thinly sliced beef, scallions, and what Sunnie said was a 'kamaboko slice'. Dio smiled as she said an excited, "jaa, itadakima～su!" and immediately began digging into her dish, and he poured himself his first glass.

"So," Dio asked, sipping the sake, "Is this a date?"

She choked a bit on her udon, and he laughed as she swallowed, her face red and brows furrowed.

"Asshole!!!" She gestured accusingly at him with her chopsticks, "That noodle nearly went up my nose! Fuck you!!"

"You can take your time answering, dear, I don't mind."

"It's not that!! It's—you say things that throw me off!!"

He grinned smugly. "I do?"

She slammed her elbow on the table and pointed right at him, rising on her knees to stare him down closer. "Don't be a little shit. You know you do," she growled, narrowing her eyes at him.

His grin only widened, and his canines glinted in the low light.

"See??" She slapped the table, pointing again with eyes burning just as bright as her blush, "See??? You DO know!!!"

Dio laughed again, eating the second piece of kappamaki. "I do."

Sunnie sat back in her seat, leveling him with an intense glare before slurping down more udon and tearing almost viciously into a piece of beef, grumbling to herself.

"...So, is it a date or not?"

"No!!"

"If you say so."

"It's just to celebrate, and you're my friend. So I brought you," she stated, slurping up more noodles.

"Why not ask your other friends? You've said that you miss them," he asked, not taking his eyes off her as he pulled another plate of sushi without even glancing at the type.

Sunnie paused, brows furrowing in thought. "It's… I mean, it's just that you're basically the first person I can really share my whole life with." He raised an eyebrow, smirking, and she flushed again. "Not like that, Dio. Like… you know what's going on in my life. A lot of them don't, because I don't want to involve them. I don't have to hide that from you."

"You don't have to hide anything from me, Sunshine. Not your scars, not your bruises, not your Stand," he said softly, "Though at this point, I feel like it's in your nature to hide."

She stared at him blankly, tapping the end of her chopsticks on the table for a few seconds before breathing in, looking at her bowl, and slowly breathing out. "...You're not wrong." She slurped up the last noodles in her bowl, picking it up and draining the broth. "I've had to hide parts of myself my entire life. You know, 'don't tell people about what you can do, Sunnie. They wouldn't understand. People might try to hurt you'—remember, we're in the south. I'm not sure how much you know about things down here, but we've got an oddly high number of megachurches, especially in this area. There are plenty of people out there who, if they knew, would probably want to try to exorcise me. Not to mention, my parents worked for years to be able to adopt me. I overheard them a few times; they were scared I'd be taken by like, the government or something. I couldn't put them through something like that."

Dio watched her like a hawk as she reached up and grabbed a plate of three pieces of sushi before they passed by. "I didn't grow up with a Stand, actually," he said, pouring a little more sake into his cup, "I've never considered the implications of having such abilities from birth. It must have been hard to navigate, as a child."

Sunnie shifted in her seat, popping a piece of nigiri in her mouth and chewing for a moment before swallowing. "I mean, yeah, sort of. When you're a kid, imaginary friends aren't that weird, and the shit you say gets written off as you being over-imaginative. I only started understanding Windy's power and that no one else could actually see her when I was like, four, and by the time I was five, I knew to keep her hush-hush. I felt like a freak. Like in some way, I could never truly get to know anybody." After taking a long sip of lemonade, she sighed. "It's kind of alienating, y'know. There was always something that I would know but I couldn't say. I couldn't really be honest with my classmates."

"Was keeping such a big secret from them difficult for you?"

She shrugged. "I read a lot of comic books as a kid. Superheroes and stuff, y'know? And a lot of them had to keep secrets too. I always thought Superman's design was a bit basic, but I figured that if a country bumpkin journalist nerd could grow up without people knowing he could fly and shoot lasers from his eyes, I could do it too, so to speak."

He figured that made sense. As they took a few minutes to eat, he found himself looking back up at her over and over, before another question made its way out of his mouth before he could stop it.

"So," he broke the silence, an interested twinkle in his eye, "Tell me, aside from your spectacular secret keeping, how did you handle being a child with superhuman abilities?"

Sunnie, who was sipping her lemonade from a straw, nearly choked on her drink with snorting laughter. "Fuck, dude are you kidding? I was a menace!!" She grinned widely, snickering to herself. "So I have these family members, right? They call themselves Catholic, but they're this… like, really extreme…? I don't know how to describe it, but fuck I hate them. Except for one, she's kinda crazy in a good way. Anyways, so like," she settled back in her seat, absolutely beaming as she recalled the past events, "Carrie Anne, who's like my dad's cousin or something, she likes to pinch your cheeks and baby talk you and be weird and shit, so one time when we were staying over at their place when I was, like, six, I had Windy start to move things here and there. Small but noticeable, you know? A picture frame turned backwards, some flowers on the other side of the table. It drove her nuts. She rushed us out and cut the reunion short so she could try to get an exorcism or something."

Dio let loose a deep laugh. "Was it just them that you bothered?"

"Fuck no! Imagine, you're a wild child with the ability to not only control wind, but to also pull the sickest pranks of all time. That's exactly what you gotta do!" Her eyes sparkled mischievously. "At that point, it's an obligation. Rolling pencils off desks, tripping people I didn't like, just small little ways to make things fun and amusing for myself."

He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and resting his chin on the top of his interlocked fingers. "Just small?"

"I mean, I did lose control a couple of times. Once when I was in second grade, some third graders made fun of one of my friends, so I climbed on top of the giant cement tube on the playground and waited to ambush them when they walked through it. We got into a fight, three guys against me, and after scrapping a bit with them, I blew them all off of me when the teachers ran up to separate us. It wasn't that bad, but it just sort of… happened."

"Heat of the moment?"

"Yeah." She ate another piece of sushi, chewing it thoughtfully before swallowing. "No one got hurt. Well, besides their pride. A girl a whole year younger than them took them all on. It was the talk of our grades for like a week. They didn't talk shit after that, though." She looked at him curiously, her head tilting to the side. "I know you're like, evil vampire man and all, but have you ever done anything dumb with The World?"

He hummed, eyes narrowing mirthfully as he took another sip of sake. "I once scared a French man shitless by repeatedly moving him down the stairs in stopped time when he'd try to ascend."

She barked out a laugh. "No one should hold that against you. He was French."

Dio chuckled, shaking his head.

The rest of the dinner was spent with good food and good company. Finally feeling full, Sunnie chose plain cheesecake as a dessert, and Dio indulged in some as well, at his companion's insistence. After the bill was paid (Sunnie's eyes bugging when she saw the price of the sake, then sighing and telling him 'You're lucky my job pays well, asshole'), they left the restaurant and drove back, the remaining sake in a brown paper bag that Dio happily carried. The return trip was spent conversing as well, music playing in the background and the occasional bout of Sunnie spitting frustrated curses towards particularly poor drivers.

When she crossed the threshold into their shared suite, Sunnie happily kicked off her shoes and took off her hoodie. "That was a fucking good meal," she hummed, satisfied.

"Indeed it was," he agreed, taking his shoes off as well and mussing his hair, "Here, little bird," he added, holding the bag with the sake out towards her. She looked at him and then the bag, surprised.

"Oh?"

"A gift," he continued, "A celebration of your new slice of freedom."

Her eyes met his again and her expression was blank for a moment before her face soured comically. "So you had me buy my own gift, basically."

"Yes," he chuckled as she took the bag from him, rolling her eyes.

"Welp. It's the thought, I guess. I'm gonna drink some of it, then." Placing her backpack on the hook she'd installed, she swept off to the bar. "You want a glass, big guy?"

"No thank you, dear," he responded, sitting by his favorite arm of the sofa and grabbing The Elegant Universe back up, opening to his bookmark, "I've had my fill for tonight."

"Right-o," she signaled, getting a small cup and heading towards the sofa as well, "How d'ya like that book, by the way?"

"It's quite fascinating, if I'm to be honest," he said, shooting her a dazzling smile, "Greene has a fantastic way with words."

"He does!! He's a lot like Carl Sagan, in that sense," Sunnie grinned back, pouring herself a bit of the sake and downing it easily, eyebrows raising. "Wow, smooth. But like, Greene is able to speak about complex scientific concepts in a very accessible way. It's something I strive for, especially when I was a STEM teacher. You can't introduce people to the wonders of science if they can't understand what the fuck you're saying."

"I suppose not," Dio nodded, "Is there any reason why you chose this book in particular for me, though?"

She shrugged, a sheepish look on her face. "I mean, you are from an alternate dimension. I thought it might interest you."

He considered her explanation for a moment, then tilted his head, amber eyes glittering with appreciation. "You thought correctly."

The next hour and a half was spent discussing various scientific topics as Sunnie made her way through some of the sake, relaxing more and more as time progressed. Her cheeks were beginning to become rosy, the tip of her nose a cute pink, and her words were blurring slightly into each other—but only a bit.

"See, so that's like, what I've always wanted to do," she stated matter-of-factly, chomping down on another sea salt and vinegar chip. "It's dumb but I wanna do it."

Dio shook his head as he looked up, shoulders shaking lightly with laughter. "Navel bacterial cultures," he said, amused, and she immediately puffed up to defend herself.

"It's interesting!! Everyone's belly button microflora is different!!" She thought for a second, and her eyes lit up. "Probably their ass cracks, too!!!"

Dio let out a deep and resounding belly laugh. "Darling," he said once he caught his breath, "I don't know how many willing volunteers you would get for a swab of their ass crack."

"I could do it if I paid 'em," she said indignantly, a smile on her face nonetheless, "Money. S'the great motivator."

"That's true," he hummed, laying back against the corner of the sofa. There was a comfortable silence for a minute between them before Sunnie spoke again.

"Happy fuckin' birthday to me," she mumbled happily as she took another long swig of the sake, finishing her cup, and Dio's eyes shot up to her, surprised.

Birthday? Did he hear correctly?

"It's been an insane journey around the sun this round, but I'm in a better place now, I think," she continued, eyes unfocused, "Better job, I'm away from that shitbag… Yeah, I'd say I'm doin' pretty well."

"Why didn't you say it was your birthday before, Sunshine?" Dio asked, confused. She just laughed warmly and waved her hand dismissively.

"Naaaw, well it isn't much of a big deal, is it," she responded, getting up to pour herself a glass of chilled vanilla rum. "Just another rotation around our closest star, another year on this complicated ball of rock… time passes. I get older. That's just how it is."

She walked back over to the sofa and took a drink of her rum before plopping back down.

"Hey, Dio," she looked at him expectantly, "Can we watch a movie?"

He regarded her for a quick moment before nodding. "Of course, darling."

"A horror movie?"

"Anything you wish."

She grinned and turned the TV on, pulling out her phone and switching to one of her apps. "Good, 'cause I have a good one. It's called Coherence. I mean, it's not horror horror, but it's a thriller. Horror themes. Sci-fi, too. It's an excellent low budget film." Her phone connected to the casting device, and Windy popped out, switching the lights off before returning into Sunnie. Dio was mildly surprised, however, when Sunnie scooted right up against him, snuggling into his side as she took another few gulps of rum. The movie began to load, and she looked up at him, cheeks flush from drink and contentedness. "Thanks, man. Tonight's been great."

Strange woman.

"It's always my pleasure, Sunshine," he replied, smiling. She hummed and turned to the TV, settling comfortably against Dio, who huffed a small laugh and brought his arm around her as the movie began to play.

The Twenty Second of October.

He'd make note of it.

#ANOTHER ONE UP HOLY SHIIIIIIIIIIIT #JESUS FUCKING CHRIST I'M ON A ROLL #AHAHAHAHAHAJAJBGKDHSHF #SunnieD #my writing #sunnie writes

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imaginedcreaderinsert · 5 years ago

Text

Shivering gold — Jason Todd x Reader (S!)

SUMMARY: Camera turns on. It’s been some time, but the couple is back - and they are as explicit as ever, together. There’s clearly a connection, passion between the two. What is that pink vibrating thing he is carrying, by the way?

WORD COUNT: 2204

TW: Explicit smut/lemon scenes. No one is underaged. Webcam live show/webcam use. IDK, it’s what in AO3 the connosseurs would call “PLOT WHAT PLOT/PORN WITHOUT PLOT” but that’s just me I guess. I, uh, had to do a bit of research on some +18 websites. ENJOY I GUESS.

Camera turns on. It’s only been three seconds, and the first visible shot is her core. She is clearly open and well-lubricated. Both of her legs are open – this time she doesn’t wear any binds, she is completely free. It is rare; not unwelcomed, just rare. She is only covered by two thigh high pieces of lingerie, black, that make her legs sexier. Though she naturally has a sexy essence involving her.

The couple does this casually. No one really knows when they really started; the videos were quite homemade at its start, not of very good quality, but there was passion and clearly a connection. He roughly got her by her throat the first time they uploaded a video; it was hot, to say the least. He fucked her against the walls of the bathroom, and her legs trembled and were done for by the time he finished. She adored him. Anyone could see that just by looking at the desperation she searched his lips with.

They never showed their faces, but that was fine; he had a body sculpted by the gods, and she was just like every dream wet anyone has ever had once in their life. Her skin is slightly dark, which perfectly contrasts with his, the whiteness and scars of it. She’s rounder in comparison: thick thigs but a small and tight waist. Perky nipples that could drive anyone crazy. But her butt is the best: is not small, by any means, and that’s perfect. Every time she bounces on him, every time he slaps her: it makes the public go wild.

Lives are not very common, but they’ve been some months without publishing anything, so it seems they thought it appropriate. The thing is that they are not doing it for money; entrance prices for the live are pretty low, and that’s why the manage to have such a strong fanbase and public, so many tips in the show.

The camera is static, and the shot is focusing on her gleaming pussy. They have been at it for a while, people presume; it’s quite obvious by the trembling of her thighs, and she’s moaning from time to time: it’s soft, needy. Hers are like little meowls, but not childlike; it is entrancing, charming, to have her submitted in bed like that, without anything to keep her from moving. Pure obedience.

“She is close, can you see her?” He starts. He laughs, almost cruelly; there’s a lot of emojis that corroborate that in the live chat. Everyone is greeting them for being back as well. Some people have specially miss them. “(Y/N) said she’s so close she only needs what, baby? Ten seconds?”. He asks, again with a smirk, the most he’s shown in a long time. Like knowing she’s been asked, her legs tremble, she tries to reincorporate herself a bit, which he doesn’t let her do.

“Not much more”. Her voice is soft, submissive and trembles at the end. She seems out of breath. It makes everyone wonder what have they’ve been playing at before.

“Not much more than ten seconds. You must be extremely close”. His hand caresses the interior of her thigh, but it’s too far from her core, doesn’t even get close to her labia, glistening and slightly moving, asking for something to enter. It’s tempting. She cries as he touches her finally, spreads some more lube on her core, but after retracts. There’s a laugh.

“Well, we got this new toy that I’d like to try out. It’s vibrator, sent to us”. He shows; his hand carries a pink toy, in the form of a half moon. A lot of people have never seen it, from the comments on the chat, but it has a button in the middle of the center, and the two rounded extremes seem to be the most interesting part. “Should we try it?”

“Yes”. She begs, moving her butt on the sheets a tiny bit. You can almost feel the frown in his voice:

“Yes…?”

“Yes please!”. She finally says, like realizing it after a few seconds in silence, maybe too out of it. People find her cute, her thigs trembling for wanting it so badly, as the toy gets closer to her core.

“Yes please. That’s a good girl.”. He praises her, both arms caressing the interior of her thighs, moving closer. It’s like he’s warming her up. “Oh, that’s very quiet. I wonder if it has more settings”.

He tries it in front of the camera, close enough so that it can focus on it and see the little vibrations of it. They’ve invested in new material and you can tell: everyone can see the small motions of the toy as it vibrates, imperceptible as they may seem. He finally, with a laugh, takes the toy and places it on the left side of one of her thighs, making a path to her core; her stomach tremble in anticipation, her legs attempting to close: and just when he’s grazing the clitoris, he pushes again the button: it stills.

“It’s pulsing isn’t it? Oh, no, wait. That’s nothing”. The pulsing had been done before, on her thighs. The frustration is clear on her voice, as she attempts to say something but she’s shushed by him. “Should we go for this setting?”

“No! No, I don’t want the nothing setting!”. It’s a bit of a tantrum, really, with some cute giggles mixed. Giving in a bit, he pushes the button again: and this time, the two extremes touch her clitoris, making her melt into profanities and shivers in her voice.

“Like that? Let’s see”. It’s like an experiment – the results are instant, but he’s attempting to see what makes her shout. “Is that good, baby?”

She can’t answer. Not verbally at least. She moans something, maybe his name, before she gets shushed: it’s the closest she’s been to say something coherent, and the public is expectant, as her stomach begins to tremble. Her moans are shushed, probably by his hand – she fights back and attempts to get him off. It’s always entertaining the way she tries to gets rid off him and she always loses in the end. His tone does really get serious:

“That’s more than ten seconds. Want to try another-?”

“No! No! Please!”. She begs, one of her hands appearing on camera, attempting to take his hand and stop him.

“No hands, baby.” He says, and she immediately knows to retract, not attempt, as wet as she is and probably desperate.

Her moans get higher, every gasp shorter than the last one; she is breathless and trembling. Thighs are still apart, but it seems like it’s taking her the effort to do so. Is she close? Her right thigh always moves a bit more than the other one before finally cumming. And well, he always knows best. There are a lot of tips followed by suggestions of things he could do But he always knows bests.

“Oh! Oh I’m-!”

“Are you cumming?”

“Y-Yes, oh my G-!”

“Then come for me, baby”.

It’s taken her less than usual, but her shouts are real as they start to increase. She changes from that cute and small voice to a deeper one, filling the room with inevitable sex sounds, a really high gasping as she closes her legs and what’s more, some squirting – she attempts to close her legs, make it stop, but his hands forcefully keep her open. And that’s the thing always when she wears no binds to stop her legs from closing. They discovered it by accident, apparently; on another one of her lives, and the toy seems to do wonderfully stimulating her to the brink and a little bit more. A gasp no one has ever heard before, gets out of her mouth, like she’s been killed, and she moves against the bed, trying to hide, almost. She has cummed, and it’s wonderful to see: the ending of the bed, where she bas been lying is covered in some of her fluids, and it can be heard in the back he touching himself, as the toy makes wonder sitting on her clitoris, almost attached there as she fights it, overstimulated at some point, given her shouts and movement in the bed.

He makes it stop, but she doesn’t stop trembling – maybe cumming? Her stomach rises up and down quickly. She is breathless, done for; and still he demands a bit more, his hand caressing her wet lips and open entrance: anything could enter her as of now. She’s completely open and fully lubricated, drenching the sheets. It hurts as she caresses her clit over, and she moves her hips, like he burns: but he does so anyways, and she gasps, thighs slowly opening and letting him do as he pleases.

“God, you are beautiful when you are all sensitive like this. I could blow your little cute pussy, and you would cum all over my mouth, like a little fountain.”

Dirty talk gets her. Always. She’s weak for praises, and anyone can tell by the way her legs are more lenient on opening for him, slowly, bit by bit. It’s like a flower: the more care one gives her, the easier it is to give her love after. Viewers can only see the back of his head as he gets into the shot, kneeling down into her pussy. He kisses her thighs and slowly enters her core, asking for permission as she trembles, asking him to wait with her hand before he dives in. It’s torturous, but it’s loving – he waits as she comes down from her high and is slowly prepared to accept something else into her.

“All wet down here, baby girl. I could slide three fingers in, you know? You can only take two, but you could take three now. So sexy, so open, so good for me. Can I drink you in? You can squish my head if you need to as I make you cum again, baby girl. I know how sensitive you get, and I’m planning on giving you two more fantastical orgasms. The bests, only for you, (Y/N)-“. This time it’s her the one that has to lunch into his lips and cut him off before he can say more than the first letter of your name. They both shyly laugh before kissing, and laying on the bed again.

He kisses her labia, then her clit. His tongue searches for her entrance, but he thoroughly prepares her clitoris, almost assuring it that only pleasure will be received. A thumb stays near it, and she trembles in anticipation. ‘This is how you eat her out’, he seems to say as he starts, his tongue getting into her cavity and shivering almost immediately. One of her hands moves to his hair and he concedes: she doesn’t guide him out in any moment, but it gives her a sense of control she could get off on.

All of her interiors are drenched, thus making the movement easier. He drinks her in like it’s water, and gulps notoriously, as if making it clear. The laps of his tongue are like those of a dog as he cleans her so that it doesn’t drench more the sheets. It leaves an uncomfortable sensation after, she’s told him before. His thumb slowly starts to rub her off as her hips get off the cloth, her nails start to dig into the duvet.

“Oh, fuck-J. Fuck-J!”. She can’t help but say, quickly, almost babbling. He hopes the viewers really buy that, because he’s not stopping now that he has found what makes her fall. She desperately tries to dig her nails into his hair, the duvet, but nothing lasts too long. She’s too restless. “It is! I am!”. Clear indications as her right leg starts to move to the side, her hips start to try and get up. “Help me! Let me!”. She begs, chants, she’s getting closer and he doesn’t stop.

“Cum on my mouth, baby”. He is clear as he slurps her in, drinks it all as she squirts in his mouth. She trembles, shivers and shouts as she gets off her high. He feels incredibly painful, but it’s not about him at that point. It’s all about giving her pleasure, putting himself aside and making sure his girlfriend can’t coherently think.

He manages to do that as she collapses on the bed, chest going up and down. Tips and clamors of the viewers said, he really thinks that if he fucks her, she might die. Not because of his really big ego, but rather because she was a bit tired before starting. She definitively has used of all of her energy in the last rounds. She can’t even get up on the bed. And as hard as he is, he can relief that later, in private: now it’s all about getting her rested. He says goodbye, closes the show and opens the bed. Slowly gets her cleaned with a cloth, manages to take her to their “real” bed, untouched and cleaned, and tucks her in. He whispers “I love you” as she smiles against his chest and slowly drifts away into Morpheus.

#jason todd #jason todd dcu #dcu #jason todd fanfic #jason todd smut #jason todd x reader #reader insert #reader insert dcu #reader dcu #smut

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toddtakefive · 4 years ago

Text

Can I Have a Ride Home? I’m at a Party and I Don’t Know Any1

fandom(s): Gravity Falls, Over The Garden Wall

pairing(s): Pinescone , Mabcifica (mentioned)

words: 5314

rating: M (reasons listed in trigger warnings + swearing)

work type: One-shot , AU

tw(s): homophobia , use of slurs , violence and references to past violence

Also on AO3!!

Wirt wasn’t entirely sure how Sara had managed to drag him along with her to Senior Prom, hell he wasn’t even sure how she had managed to get a suit for him when he’d refused to go in for a fitting, but now he was standing in a crowded gym full of high-schoolers and he already wanted to leave. In his defense, they’d already been there an hour and that was an hour longer than he was at most parties.

If he was going to be completely honest, the party wasn’t that bad. Sure the music would cut off whenever there was a swear - everyone would still sing it anyways -, and sure the punch tasted weird, but it wasn’t necessarily a bad party as most parties go. The reason it was a bad party is because it was a party full of nothing but high-schoolers, and high-schoolers are scary. At least to Wirt.

He lost Sara twenty minutes ago -he’s honestly starting to think she’s underneath the bleachers flirting with the girl from her Chem class- and he’s getting bored so he pulls out his phone and starts typing a quick text to Dipper.

‘Bored. Wish you were here :/’.

The reply is immediate,

‘Lol r u a postcard??’ ‘Wish I wre ther too <3 drving rigt now txt you lter′.

The next text he receives is a picture taken by the person in the passenger seat, likely Mabel, with a peace sign while Dipper attempts to get his phone back without taking his eyes off the road. The caption for the photo is ‘road safety laws are bogus B)’. He laughs to himself. Yup, definitely Mabel.

He looks up at the sound of steps approaching, expecting it to be Sara but instead seeing evil incarnate. He takes in a deep breath before plastering on a fake smile.

“Hello, Trevor.” he says.

Trevor Martin. No offense to the British actor Trevor Martin, of course, but Wirt fucking hates this guy. He’s book smart, Wirt’ll give him that, but that’s his only redeeming quality. Not only is he a totally fuckwad, but he has the audacity to say he’s not and try to date Sara, a very loud and proud lesbian. Like, dude, at least Jason Funderberker had the decency to back off when she came out. Plus, never trust a guy with a first name for a last name.

Trevor, wearing his slimy little smirk like he always does, doesn’t even meet Wirt’s eyes. “So, where’s Sara? I figured she’d be with you, you know, since you’re like her fucking boyfriend or whatever.”

Wirt scrunches his nose just slightly, he doesn’t want this situation to escalate more than it has to. “I’ve told you this a thousand times, Trevor. She is not my girlfriend.”

Trevor rolls his eyes, “Sure. You get pissed off that I’m trying to date her because you aren’t her boyfriend. Got it.”

Wirt shakes his head, “I get pissed off that you’re trying to date her because she’s a lesbian. Which is literally common knowledge, by the way.” he throws away his plastic cup and walks out into the hallway. Trevor, being an idiot in everything but school subjects, follows him into the hallway.

“She’s not a lesbian, she’s just saying that to get me to leave her alone.” Trevor explains, causing Wirt to roll his eyes as he walks.

“That’s not how that fucking works, Trevor. Besides, if a girl is literally resorting to faking being a lesbian to get you to leave her alone, maybe you just don’t know how to take a hint.”

He hears Trevor scoff, “Well she’s dating you, so she isn’t a lesbian.”

“She isn’t dating me! And you do know people can be bi, right?”

“If she isn’t dating you then why are you always talking about your relationship in World Civ?”

Wirt, just wanting this idiot to leave him alone already, stops walking abruptly and turns around. Trevor runs into him and falls back a little bit, he has a look on his face that Wirt thinks is his ‘gotcha’ face, but he’s really had enough of the whole ‘Wirt and Sara are dating in secret’ thing when they’re both very out homosexuals.

“Because I have a boyfriend, Trevor.” he deadpans, and sees that smug look fall off of Trevor’s face. God he loves the look of confusion that floods his features, it’s pure poetry.

“What?” Trevor asks, with all of his genius.

“The reason you hear me talking about my relationship -in conversations that didn’t involve you, by the way- is because I have a boyfriend. He lives in California.”

Trevor looks as though his entire world view just got re-shaped. He’s between wanting to believe and wanting to think it’s a prank, but, to Trevor, Wirt isn’t cool enough to pull a prank like this with a straight face.

The long minutes of silence is starting to get awkward, but just as Wirt is about to walk away Trevor speaks up again, “Wait so,” he pauses, “you’re a faggot?”

Wirt tenses immediately. That word. God he hates that word. The first time he heard it was when he came out to his biological dad when he and Dipper started dating back in Sophomore year. It wasn’t a great conversation, and Wirt vividly remembers the bloody nose he got out of it.

“I- uhm. Y-yeah. I- yeah.” Wirt stammers out. Trevor’s entire demeanor changes.

“Wait, what the fuck?” he says, distancing himself from Wirt by a couple inches. This causes Wirt to snap out of whatever funk he was in. He raises an eyebrow.

“Me having a boyfriend isn’t new information, Trevor. You’ve heard me get teased for talking about him before.”

“Yeah, but I thought they were joking! I didn’t think you were actually. You know.” he makes a wild hand gesture in Wirt’s direction.

“Gay?” Wirt asks with a furrowed brow.

“That! That. I didn’t think you were that.” Okay, now Wirt’s getting pissed. Obviously the use of the slur pissed him off, but not even being able to say the word gay? Come on, dude.

“Is there a problem with that?” He asks, crossing his arms. He’s not entirely sure where this newfound courage is coming from, but he can think about it later.

“No it’s just, dude have you been checking me out in the locker rooms and shit this whole time!” Trevor asks, his stance becoming defensive.

Wirt flinches back a bit at the question. “No. Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re.” Another wild hand gesture. Dude, just say the word.

Wirt sighs, “Gay. Right, yeah. We’ve established that. But I don’t go around creeping on the guys in the locker room. That would be fucking weird. And, again, I have a boyfriend, and you also aren’t my type so we’re covering all the bases of ‘I’d never do that’.”

Trevor takes a step forward that causes Wirt to take a step back, “I don’t believe you.” he says, voice lined with anger.

Wirt, quickly realizing he should have just walked away while Trevor was confused, holds his hands up in defense, “Good for you, but I don’t really care.” he glances over Trevor’s shoulder to see if he could make a break for the door. That idea is quickly thrown out the window when Trevor grabs Wirt by the collar. Wirt laughs a bit to himself, “You know, this looks kinda gay.”

Trevor’s hold on the front of his shirt tightens, he brings his hands up higher to make sure he isn’t touching the other boy anywhere, “Okay! Okay, okay, okay! Okay. Look, honestly man, never watched you while you were changing! I don’t think we’ve ever even had a P.E class together, if I’m being honest. And besides, I don’t think watching sweaty teenage boys change is that appealing. Especially not you, cause no offense you’re not really anyone’s type. At least not any gay persons type I mean! I’m sure some girl at the college you attend will think you’re hot, she’ll probably have kinda low standards but a girlfriend’s a girlfriend, right? And she’ll marry you right outta college, and you’ll become a fucking accountant or something else just as soul sucking, and you’ll have two kids, and a dog, and feel free to cut me off whenever you like.”

There’s a crunch and a massive amount of pain that makes Wirt stop talking. His head is spinning faster than a tornado, but he knows the feeling of hitting the school floor well enough to know it happens somewhere within the time he gets punched in the face a second time and kicked in the stomach the first.

He’s not entirely sure how long he’s on the floor, but he does know that when he finally opens his eyes Trevor is standing above him, heaving, staring at his own hands like they’re covered in blood- oh they are. That is blood. That is definitely blood. That’s a lot of blood. Wow.

Wirt pushes himself off of the ground, there’s an ache in every fiber of his being but the floor is cold and dirty and he’d rather not be down there right now. As he rises, slowly, he can see a steady drip of blood coming down from his face. That’s not good.

By the time he’s fully standing, Trevor looks ready to burst. “Wirt! Oh my god, dude. I am so fucking sorry, I didn’t. I don’t know why I. I never. Fuck I didn’t, I just, shit are you fucking okay?” the questions are rapid fire. Wirt’s a little too out of it to be able to tell if they’re genuine or not, and he doesn’t really care if they are at this point. This guy eats paste.

“Trevor.” Wirt finally says, “Shut the fuck up.” his words are slurred, and it’s obvious he’s still scared if the tremor in his voice is anything to go by, but he really just needs it to be quiet right now. To his credit, Trevor does shut up, but he just stands there.

There they are, two guys standing in a hallway, five feet apart cause one just beat the shit out of the other for being gay. Prom night is great. In his delirious state, Wirt can faintly hear ‘Lover Is a Day’ by Cuco playing from the gym. The beats pulse under his feet, and it’s just adding onto the pain right now.

After maybe five minutes, Trevor speaks up again. “Wirt I really am sorry, dude. I don’t know why I did that. I was pissed and you wouldn’t shut up and I didn’t what else to do! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!” Trevor hits the locker to his right with the side of his fist. The sound rings through the otherwise empty hall, and Wirt just stares at the first still on metal.

Wirt runs a hand through his hair, “That’s great and everything, but was the getting on top of me and repeatedly punching me in the nose necessary? Or, you know, any of it? You just fucking committed a hate crime dude, do you even realize that?” he’s talking slowly, his voice is tired and he would rather be anywhere else.

“I know! I know it was! But it honestly didn’t have anything to do with you being,” he pauses, and Wirt is about to finish for him before he continues on his own, “Gay. It didn’t have to do with you being gay, okay. I just. I have like severe anger issues. It’s some fucking long ass name, but the shortened thing is IED. It’s not really something I have any control over, and it’s been a while since I’ve had an episode that bad, and I promise it has nothing to do with you being gay or anything! That fucking chill, man! This stuff literally just happens, I swear on my motherfucking yeezys!” Wirt, who is finally coming back down to Earth and is able to process English language again, raises his brow, “ Okay, I don’t own yeezys, but you know what I mean.” He looks down to the floor, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Wirt sighs, wiping under his nose with his suit sleeve. It doesn’t help, the blood keeps flowing and now his suit is ruined. Fuck Prom night, dude. “Look, Trevor. If you actually have a genuine mental illness that does that, you get a fucking pass on the beating the shit out of me part.” Trevor flinches at that, “But you’re still kinda homophobic dude.”

Trevor looks up from the ground, “What? How?”

Wirt shrugs, crossing his arms again. “Assuming someone isn’t a lesbian when they say they are is pretty high on the list. Actually, assuming a gay guy is checking people out while they’re changing is also pretty high on the list. Both of the things you said are pretty high on the list, actually.”

This time it’s Trevor who furrows his brow, “But she isn’t a lesbian. I asked her why she thought she was a lesbian a couple weeks ago and she said it’s because she thinks girls are hot and that she wouldn’t mind kissing them, but that’s normal. Like, I know a couple guys in my classes that I wouldn’t mind kissing or like fucking or something and I’m not gay or whatever. Everyone thinks like that.”

Wirt’s mind just fucking imploded on itself. He’s joking. He has to be joking. Oh fuck he is not joking. Oh dear. Wirt cringes to himself, “Oh Jesus.” he whispers, “Trevor, you do know that isn’t a universal thing, right? Like, you know not every guy would be fine with fucking another guy, right?”

“Wait, really?” Trevor asks, his voice quiet. Wirt simply nods and watches as Trevor seems to contemplate his whole existence in front of him. “But I’m not. My mom told me that I couldn’t be gay, I just needed to find the right girl and it would be fine. I don’t like guys like that, I’m not.”

Fuck, why does Wirt have empathy. If he was a dick he could just walk away from this situation and not feel a thing, but he can’t leave this guy in a crisis. Even if he did just beat his ass.

“Trevor, why do you like Sara?”

“She’s funny, and kinda cool, I guess. I just want to hang out with her more, plus my friends kept saying I should go for it, so I figured why not.”

“Dude, you just want to be her fucking friend. That’s, what you want is a friendship. Jesus dude, you don’t even actually like her do you?”

Trevor shrugs, “I don’t know. I mean, she’s cool and everything.”

“Would you kiss her.” Wirt asks.

“What?”

“Would you kiss Sara. Or any girl for that matter.” He asks again, slower this time.

Trevor rolls his eyes, giving Wirt a look that suggest the answer should be obvious, but when he opens his mouth, no words come out. It stays open for about ten seconds before he frowns. “No I. I wouldn’t” he lets out a dry laugh void of humor. “Holy shit, I fucking wouldn’t. What the fuck.”

Wirt sighs taking a few steps over to Trevor, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Go home, Trevor. You have had more than enough action tonight.” his hand slides off and he turns around to find the nearest bathroom, he about to round a corner when he remembers something and looks over at Trevor, who hasn’t moved an inch, “Try to refrain from using the f-slur before you figure out your whole mess, maybe?” He gives the other boy a quick smile before walking away.

The nearest bathroom is way too fucking far away, in Wirt’s humble opinion. And why are half of the lights off in these hallways? God, he feels like the character about to die in a horror movie. Thankfully, the light switch in the bathroom was easy to find so he isn’t completely in the dark.

He grabs some paper towels and wets them, and then he finally looks in the mirror. Jesus fucking Christ.

Trevor did a number on him, and if it were any other situation that required less brain power he would be kinda impressed. His nose is definitely broken, if the aching and gushing blood are any indicator, he’s got a black eye, a busted lip, bruises across his face and collarbone -and if the amount of times he was kicked in the stomach is as many as it felt, he’s got them there too- and, the cherry on fucking top, his suit jacket ripped a little bit.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he finishes wiping the blood from his face, but his nose is still bleeding. Pulling his phone out of his back pocket he finds two new messages. One from Sara, saying she scored with the girl from her chem class and that she has a date next Saturday, and one from Dipper saying they��ve finally stopped driving.

Wirt texts Sara back congratulating her on her suaveness that she most definitely didn’t have (see: nearly puked on a cute girl for complimenting her shoes once) before opening up his texts with Dipper and taking a picture in the mirror holding up a peace sign. He masterfully captions the photo: ‘babys first hate crime <3′.

His phone rings immediately.

He picks up right away, and is greeted with a very frantic, “Where are you?” there’s faint music in the background, they must be at their dance right now.

“Uhm. The bathroom in hallway E, I think. Why?” Wirt asks, throwing away the bloody paper towels.

“We’re on our way.” Is all he gets in response.

“What? You’re in California how are you supposed to. Did he fucking hang up on me?” Wirt pulls his phone away from his ear, “Wow, okay.” He pockets his phone and stares at himself in the mirror for a few seconds. It’s gonna suck having to explain this to anybody, and he knows his mom will go full Godzilla mode on the school board if he tells the truth, but he can’t just out someone. Fuck, man.

The door to the bathroom swings open and two rapid sets of footsteps approach him, he’s almost expecting to be beaten up again until he’s turned around and hugged tightly. His confusion only lasts for a second when his land on Mabel, but then it flares up again because what the fuck that’s Mabel.

He pushes away from the person hugging him and is met with a person he both did and did not expect to see.

“Dipper.” He not shocked that Dipper did actually find hallway E, they broke in last summer to investigate if the place is actually haunted (it is), so he learned the layout pretty well in that instance, but he’s shocked that he’s even in the room. “Wait. Am I concussed? Is this a hallucination?”

“Er, wrong!” Mabel says, pushing Dipper out of the way and hugging Wirt tighter than a strait jacket. He lets out a sound of pain and she lets him go immediately. “Sorry! I forgot you’re like, dying right now.”

“Not dying, per se, but getting there if my nose doesn’t stop bleeding soon. I didn’t even know I had this much blood, if I’m being honest.” Mabel laughs a bit and wow did he miss that sound. He missed them, really. It’s always better when they’re around.

“What happened?” Dipper’s voice finally enters the conversation, and it makes his heart flutter but also reminds him the situation in which they’ve been reunited. Especially if the pissed off tone is anything to go by.

Wirt shrugs, “I got into a fight?”

Dipper gives him a look, “You called it a hate crime, before.”

Wirt laughs, “Yeah, I know. But it wasn’t, technically? I don’t know I’m still having trouble processing the whole ordeal. But I just got into an argument with Trevor, you know who I’m talking about, and he got really mad so he fucking beat the shit out of me and,” Dipper turns to walk out the door but Wirt pulls him back by the arm, “don’t walk away, I’m not done yet. He has a thing called IED, or something? He didn’t know the full medical name for it, but he said it had to do with like uncontrollable anger? Like it just happens or something.”

Dipper nods, “Intermittent Explosive Disorder.”

“Yeah, probably. But he felt really bad after, and I can’t blame him for having something he can’t control, dude. That would be a dick move. But yeah, we talked it out I guess. I think I just made him question the entire universe.”

Dipper sighs, still tense but loosening now, “So you called it a hate crime, because?”

“Well, I mean, okay. At first I thought he did it because I was gay, but from our little conversation we had after, it was definitely not that.”

Both twins raise eyebrow, “Are you gonna give us any more info, or?” Mabel asks and Wirt just shrugs. Dipper lets out another, deeper sigh. He’s known Wirt long enough to know that little shrug means ‘never in a million years ever’.

“What are you guys doing here, anyways? I mean, I’m happy you’re here, but I live in Arizona? It’s like an eleven hour drive.”

Dipper shrugs, taking Wirt’s hand. “Guess I missed the ‘Team Roping Capital of the World’.” he teases and Wirt groans.

“Shut up! You know I think that’s stupid as shit.” He says, and as the twins laugh at him he takes a second to admire his boyfriends face. Dipper always laughs freely, and Wirt thinks that’s one of the reasons he fell in love with the younger (”by two days!”) boy at summer camp. His hair isn’t in his usual baseball cap with a pine tree on it, and is styled just the right way to cover his birthmark. He looks happy, if not still tense about the fact that Wirt got his ass beat. An easy smile finds it’s way onto Wirt’s face as Dipper calms down.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.” Dipper says, leading him towards the door. Mabel follows quickly behind, flicking off the light. She runs ahead of them, twirling around the hallway and nearly falling over herself in the process.

“So, I know Wirt is gonna wanna bounce because he’s covered in human juice.”

“Stop calling blood human juice.”

“Don’t interrupt me, Dipper. But what are we gonna do when we skedaddle out of here?”

Both twins look to the brunette for an answer, he huffs as he tries to think of something. “We could get burgers and shakes at McDonald's? And then head home, probably. Greg’s gonna be super excited to see you guys.”

“Oh! I can’t wait to see him! We’re here for the next four days, by the way, god I can’t wait!” She pushes open the doors to the gym and the music floods over them. Jesus, was it always that loud? How long had Wirt been away from the party?”

“What time is it?” He asks Dipper, trying to ignore all of the strange looks that are being sent his way. He can’t blame them, it looks like he got mauled by a pack of wild dogs.

“It is, nine forty-eight.” The other boy responds, Wirt nods as they exit the gym into the parking lot. Dipper’s car is still as messy as it was the year before, if not more, but Wirt thinks that just adds to the charm.

Sara, who had apparently been in front of the gym the whole night, drops her punch at the sight of Wirt. “Oh my god! Wirt!” she rushes over.

“I’m fine, Sare. Really. It’s all good.” He gives her a smile, but she doesn’t stop giving him a look.

“Trevor did this, didn’t he? You know he came out here like thirty minutes ago fucking covered in blood and looked like he pissed himself when he saw me. So don’t cover for him.”

“I’m not covering for Trevor! There were circumstances that I don’t know if I’m allowed to share.” Wirt says, gesturing wildly with his hands, thankfully Dipper doesn’t seem to mind.

“Wirt, if he’s blackmailing you just tell me. I can fix it!”

“Sare, I appreciate the thought, but this is really something that should be left alone, alright? I might tell you on a different day, but right now it is confidential. No I’m not being blackmailed, if anything the information I got out of him after everything could be considered blackmail, just. Not tonight, okay?” He can tell she doesn’t want to give up but he really can’t explain all of this right now, “Please?”

She sighs, “Alright. Fine. But I expect a detailed report of what happened tomorrow morning.” Wirt nods and it’s then Sara finally notices the twins, “Oh. You found him. Cool, see you guys.” The twins giver he simultaneous ‘later’s’ and she walks back to the girl from her chem class.

Mabel moves to get in the front seat before she’s stopped by Dipper, “Ah ah ah!” he says, gaining her attention. He passes her the keys and she whines but moves to the other side anyways.

“You fucking suck, Dip-stick.”

“Sorry that I want to be able to comfort my boyfriend in the backseat of my own car and can’t do that when I’m driving.” he opens the back door and motions for Wirt to get in, and once they’re all set they drive to the nearest McDonald's.

Ordering food had thus been the easier part of Wirt’s night, but he’s hoping things will start going up from here.

The food sits in the passengers seat in the quiet car before Mabel presses play on the car stereo. Wirt immediately looks up from where his head was buried in Dipper’s shoulder, a smile crossing his face.

“Isn’t this the mixtape I made you?” He turns back to Dipper, absolutely beaming.

Dipper’s face is red, but he nods. “Yeah. I listen to it sometimes.”

“Liar! He listens to it all the fucking time. I have it memorized by now.” Mabel calls from the front. Dipper kicks the back of her seat, “Shut up! At least I don’t have an entire folder dedicated to pictures of him on my phone!”

“My Pacifica picture collection is none of your business! And you have like eight hundred Polaroids on him on your wall, don’t even try that shit with me!”

Dipper’s rebuttal is cut off when Wirt presses a kiss to his cheek. The younger boy turns and immediately presses their lips together in a kiss. It’s soft because of Wirt’s busted lip, but it’s still incredible. It’s never not incredible when it’s the two of them.

Mabel makes fake barfing noises, causing Dipper to flip her off, causing Wirt to laugh. They pull up to the drive way, walk through the front door, and are immediately greeted by Greg. He rushes into Wirt, giving him a tight hug. Even at ten years old, Greg still has as much energy as he did at six.

“Welcome home, brother o’ mine. How was, whoa what happened to your face?”

Wirt ruffles his little brothers hair, “I got into a fight with a dragon, dude. I won, obviously, but my jacket didn’t make it out alive.”

“I can fix that for you.” Mabel says taking his suit jacket, she’s almost knocked over when Greg charges into her next which makes her laugh. “Hey there, space cowboy. I missed you too!” She pulls him into a tight hug twirling him around the foyer before setting him back down. Dipper gives him a hug as well, just as tight but without all the spinning, and then Greg’s attention is back on Wirt.

“Okay. Why was this dragon mad at you?” He asks. This had become their thing ever since The Unknown. They would talk as if they were still there, or at least like they were in a fantasy world, and explain things to each other that way. Wirt thinks it helps them cope, but it’s probably just a result of being some weird kids.

“Anger issues.” Wirt says. That’s way too simple a phrase for it, and he knows that, but Greg is nine. He can explain it another day, but this is now and it’s ten o’clock.

Greg gives him a goofy grin, “Alright!” he says, skipping into the kitchen. The three teenagers follow him, Dipper once again takes Wirt’s hand.

“What were you doing in here little man?” Dipper asks, noticing that all of the chairs at the edge of the kitchen.

Greg picks up Jason Funderburker, the frog, and smiles again. “Well, Wirt was at his dance, and I wasn’t allowed to go with, so I made my own! Mom and dad are out tonight, too so I can play is as loud as I want!”

Greg being allowed to stay home alone tonight was a big decision. Not because no one trusted him but... okay yeah no one trusted him. Plus, it was dangerous! But, tonight was their mom and Johnathan's ten year anniversary and his mom didn’t want him to miss out on his Senior prom -no matter how much he assured her he could live without having gone- so it was the only option. No one was available to babysit, again prom night, and they couldn’t exactly take their nine year old to a bar. It doesn’t look like anything is on fire or broken yet, so Wirt can say it’s been a success so far.

“Alright then,space cowboy, lets get this party started!” Mabel says as she turns up the music. The song is ‘You Really Got Me’ by The Kinks, how Greg knows this song Wirt has no clue, and it bounces off the walls echoing up the stairs.

Greg does his weird jump step thing that he’s been doing since he could walk. It’s literally just jumping side to side to music, with the occasional dangerously fast spin, but it’s not a bad move. Jason Funderburker looks sick from all of the motion and Greg stops his movement just to let the frog go.

Mabel has always been a crazy dancer, just jumping around, arms flailing, hair going everywhere from her shaking her head. She’s probably going to poke someone’s eye out one of these days, but at least she’s having fun. Or, maybe she’s trying to poke someone’s eye out. Either way, she’s having a good time.

Dipper makes sure his arm movements hit every beat, spinning around for the parts where there are no hard beats to hit but smiling nonetheless. He looks like an idiot, and he knows he looks like an idiot, but what’s the point in being around all of your favorite people if you can’t look like an idiot in front of them?

Wirt, not much a dancer in normal circumstances, is going all out right now. He’s much more graceful than Mabel is being, but other than that they’ve got practically the same vibe. Except that Wirt actually did hit Dipper in the eye on accident earlier, but that’s in the past now.

The song ends and another begins and that cycle repeats for an hour until they’re all too tired for it anymore. Wirt sits down in one of the chairs, looking out over the kitchen. Greg is sitting on the floor with Jason Funderburker while the twins argue over what terrible movie to watch simply to make fun of it.

They both turn, “Wirt,” Dipper says, “What do you think?”

Wirt smiles. Maybe Prom night isn’t so bad after all.

37 notes · View notes

thisbluespirit · 4 years ago

Text

James Maxwell TV/Film List

More of a guide than a recs list, because old tv/film depends so much on availability. It’s also hard as there’s nothing surviving that’s really like SotT for him (his voice is always slightly different, too & rarely the grand one from SotT) - I found it hard to find where to start back in the day, so I hope this makes it easier. However, I have starred my favourites (rated for JM content only).

I’ve divided things into categories and @jurijurijurious (or anyone) can make up their own mind as to what to go for. (Also @jurijurijurious I have NO idea what old telly you’ve already seen, so forgive me if I’m telling you things you already know.)

Where to find it: Luckily in the UK, it’s not too bad! Network Distributing are the DVD supplier to keep an eye on (they do great online sales), you can find secondhand things cheap on Amazon Marketplace & eBay, and several Freeview channels show old TV & film, especially Talking Pictures. I’ll note if things are on YT or Daily Motion, but they come and go all the time, so it’s always worth searching.

***

Film serials (ITC mainly)

British TV made on film in the US mode with transatlantic cash, so generally pretty light, episodic (continuity is almost unheard of) etc. Some turn up on ITV3 & 4 on a regular basis (colour eps).

*** Dangerman “A Date With Doris” (ITC 1964) James Maxwell is a British spy friend of Drake’s (Patrick MacGoohan) called Peter who gets framed for murder. Drake goes to Fake Cuba to rescue him by which time JM is dying from an infected wound and faints off every available surface, including the roof. It’s great. On YT. (The boxset is v pricey if you just want 2 eps.)

“Fair Exchange” (ITC 1964) JM is a German spy friend of Drake’s called Pieter who helps him out on a case. Not as gloriously hurt/comfort-y as the other, but it does have some excellent undercover dusting. (Why Patrick MacGoohan has JM clones all called variations on Peter dotted around the globeis a mystery.) On YT.

The Saint “The Inescapable Word” (ITC 1965) This is pretty terrible, but entertaining and James Maxwell plays the world’s most hopeless former-cop-turned-security guard. With bonus collapsing. On YT.

“The Art Collectors” (1967). JM is the villain of the week. It does include a v funny bit, though, where the Saint (Roger Moore) goes for JM’s fake hair (and who can blame him? How often I have felt the same!) This one’s in colour so should pop up on ITV3 or 4.

The Champions “The Silent Enemy” (ITC 1968). Surprisingly good JM content as the villain of the week who drugs sailors and steals their clothes before realising that maybe he should have worked out if he could operate a sub before he stole it.

The Protectors “The Bridge” (ITC 1974, 30 mins.) Not worth seeking out on its own, but ITV4 seems fond of it and James Maxwell gets to do some angsting and wears purple, so it’s worth snagging if you can, but too slight otherwise.

*** Thriller “Good Salary, Prospects, Free Coffin” (ITC 1975; 1hr 10mins, I think). James Maxwell moves in with Julian Glover and runs an overcomplicated murdery spy ring where they bicker a lot in between killing girls by advertisement and burying them in the back garden. What could possibly go wrong?? Anyway, it’s solid gold cheese, has bonus Julian Glover and a lot of natty knitwear. What more does an old telly fan want? (tw: Keith Barron being inexplicably the very meanest Thriller boyfriend.) On YT but tends to get taken down fast.

***

Films

Design for Loving (1962; comedy). Can be rented from the BFI online for £3.50. Isn’t that great or that bad (or that funny either), but does have JM as a dim layabout beatnik, which is atypical.

***The Traitors (1962). This is a low-key little 1hr long spy B-movie, but it’s also thoughtful and ambiguous with a nice 60s soundtrack and location work (it’s a bit New Wave-ish) and the central duo of JM and Patrick Allen are sweet and it all winds up with James Maxwell going in the swimming pool. One of the things where JM is actually American. (Talking Pictures show this occasionally & it is out on DVD as an extra on The Wind of Change.) The quality of the surviving film is not great, though.

***Girl on Approval (1962). A Rachel Roberts kitchen sink drama about a couple fostering a difficult teenager. It’s dated, but it’s also really interesting for a 1950s/60s slice of life (and very female-centric) & probably the only time on this list JM played an ordinary person.

***Otley (1969). Comedy that’s generally dated surprisingly well & is good fun, starring Tom Courtenay +cameos from what seems like the whole of British TV. JM is an incompetent red herring & there are more cardies and glasses as well as a random barometer.

Old Vic/Royal Exchange group productions

(Surviving works made by the group that JM was involved in from drama school to his death, made by Michael Elliott or Casper Wrede. I like them a lot mostly, but they are all slow and weird and earnest & not everybody’s cup of tea.)

Brand (BBC 1959). The BBC recording of the 59 Company’s (the name they were then using) landmark production, starring Patrick MacGoohan. This was a big deal in British theatre & launched the careers of everybody involved. It’s very relentless and weird but interesting & I’m glad they decided it was important enough to save. First fake beard alert of this post. It won’t be the last. On YT & there is a DVD, which is sometimes affordable and sometimes £500, depending on the time of day.

***Private Potter (1962). The original TV play is lost and this film has an extraneous storyline, but otherwise has most of the TV cast & gives a pretty good idea of why as a claustrophobic talky TV piece it made such an impact. Tom Courtenay is Private Potter, a soldier who claims to have had a vision of God during a mission & James Maxwell his CO who needs to decide what to do about this strange excuse for disobeying orders. Tw: fake eyebrows (!) and moustaches. Only available on YT.

[???]One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovitch (1970). Again, no DVD release (no idea why), but it is on YT. I haven’t seen this yet, but it’s another Casper Wrede effort starring Tom Courtenay and apparently JM is especially good in it. (I’m just not good at watching long things on YT and keep hoping for a DVD or TV showing.)

Ransom (1974). A more commercial effort starring Sean Connery & Ian McShane; it gets slated as not being a good action movie, but is clearly meant to be more thinky and political with the edge of a thriller. JM’s part isn’t large but Casper Wrede shoots his friend beautifully, & it’s a pretty decent film with nice cinematography, shot in Norway, as was One Day. I liked it.

[I think this post might be the longest in the world, whoops. Sorry!]

Cardboard TV (the best bit, obv)

One-off plays etc./mini-series

Out of the Unknown “The Dead Planet” Adaptation of an Asimov short story; this is very good for JM, but hard to get hold of unless you want the boxset. I think someone has some of the eps on Daily Motion. (His other OotU ep is sadly burninated.)

The Portrait of a Lady (BBC 1968). Adaptation of the novel; JM is Gilbert Osmond, so it is great for JM in quantity and his performance, but depends how you feel about him being skeevy in truly appalling facial hair. Do the bow ties and hand-holding make up for it? but he’s in 5 whole episodes, and Suzanne Neve, faced with Richard Chamberlain, Edward Fox, and Ed Bishop as suitors, chooses instead to marry the worst possible James Maxwell. Relatable. XD

***Dracula (ITV 1968, part of Mystery & Imagination). JM is Dr Seward, fainty snowflake of vampire hunters, who falls over, sobs and can’t cope for most of the 1 hr 20 mins. More facial hair, but not as offensive as last time. Suzanne Neve is back again, although now JM is nice, she’s married Corin Redgrave, who’s more into Denholm Elliott. Anyway, I love this so much because it turned out that I love Dracula as well as shaky old TV with people I like in getting to fight vampires and all be shippy. Good news - TP keep showing M&I, the DVD is out, and there are two versions of it up on YT.

The Prison (Armchair Cinema 1974). This is the one with Lincoln in it, but it’s not that great & JM isn’t in it that much, so depends how curious you are for the modern AU! (But my Euston films allergy is worse than my ITC allergy, and I watched this when very unwell, so I may have been unfair.)

Crown Court “Fitton vs. Pusey” (1973) - part of the Crown Court series, set in a town full of clones who all keep returning to court. JM is on trial for his behaviour in (the Korean war? I forget?) although he ought to be on trial for his terrible moustache. It’s not that great, but it is nice JM content. He probably did it, but for reasons, and he wibbles & panics whenever his wife leaves the courtroom. Also on YT.

*** Raffles “The Amateur Cracksman” (ITV 1975) - He is Inspector Mckenzie in the Raffles pilot & is a lot of fun. At one point when there was a Raffles fandom someone in it claimed he was too gay for Raffles, which I’m still laughing about, because Raffles. Anyway, watch out if you try to get the DVD because it is NOT included in S1, whatever lies Amazon tells. It is up somewhere online, though, I think.

Bognor “Unbecoming Habits” (1981). Some down marks for possibly the worst 80s theme & incidiental music ever, but fun & has been shown on Talking Pictures lately. JM is an Abbot running a honey-making friary that is actually a hotbed of spies, murder, gay sex and squash playing. This is the point at which he chooses to strip off on screen for the first time, because strong squash-playing abbots do that kind of thing apparently.

Guest of the week in ongoing series/serials

Since even series with a lot of continuity tended to write episodes as self-contained plays (like SotT), these are usually accessible on their own.

Manhunt “Death Wish” (1970). This is one of the most serialised shows here, but this episode is still fairly contained. WWII drama about three Resistance agents on the run across France. JM is... a Nazi agent & former academic trying to break an old friend (one of the series’ three leads, Peter Barkworth) with kindness, possibly?? (Manhunt is very angry and psychological & dark and obv. comes with major WWII warnings (& more if you want to try the whole thing), but it’s also v good.) Up on YT, I think.

Doomwatch “The Iron Doctor” (BBC S2 1971). “Doomwatch” is the nickname of a gov’t dept led by Dr Spencer Quist that investigates new scientific projects for abuse/corruption/things that might cause fish to make men infertile etc. etc. JM is a surgeon who comes to their attention because he’s a bit too in love with his computer for the comfort of one of his more junior colleagues. (I think it’s perfectly comprehensible & a nice guest turn, but it is hard to get hold of outside of the series DVD. Which, being a cult TV person, I loved a lot anyway, but YMMV!)

***Hadleigh “The Caper” (S3 1973). Hadleigh is a very middle of the road show, but watchable enough (lead is Gerald Harper, who’s always entertaining) and this is pretty self-contained as it centres around an old con-man friend (JM) of Hadleigh’s manservant causing trouble by pretending to be Gerald Harper, for reasons. JM seems to be having a ball.

Justice 2 episodes, S3 1974. He guests twice as an opposing barrister & gets to be part of some nice showdown court scenes. Again, a middle of the road drama, but stars Margaret Lockwood, who was still just as awesome in the 1970s as she was in the 1930s & 40s. On YT.

Father Brown “The Curse of the Golden Cross” (1974). JM is an American archaeologist getting death threats; stars Kenneth More as Father Brown. Just a note, though, that 1970s TV adaptations tended to be really really faithful and this is one of the stories where Chesterton comes out with an anti-semitic moment... (JM was unconscious for that bit and, frankly, I envied him.) But otherwise lots of angsting in yet another fake moustache about someone trying to kill him.

The Hanged Man “The Bridge Maker” (1975). Confession time, I have v little idea what this one was about apart from Ray Smith being an unlikely Eastern European dictator, as this whole series went over my head and was not really my thing. (Ask @mariocki they’re cleverer than me and liked it & can probably explain the plot!) I don’t know if it’s available anywhere off the DVD but on a JM scale it was v good/different as he was a coldly villainous head of security & it wouldn’t be too bad to watch alone, but there was an overarching plot going on somewhere.

Doctor Who “Underworld” (1978). This is famously one of the worst serials in the whole of classic Who, but largely because of behind-the-scenes circumstances, not the guest cast. There is some nice stuff, though, esp in Ep1 (JM is a near-immortal alien who’d like to lay down and die but still the Quest is the Quest as they say... a lot) & it’s bound to pop up on YT or Daily Motion. The DVD has extras that include v v brief bits of JM speaking in his actual real accent (which he otherwise does in NONE of these) & making jokes in character. Honestly, though, this is the only DW where the behind-the-scenes doc is genuinely the most exciting bit as they desperately invented whole new technologies & methods of working to bring us this serial, and then everybody wished they hadn’t.

*** Enemy at the Door “Treason” (LWT 1978). This is a weird episode but I love it lots - from a (v v good) series about the occupation of the Channel Islands. (So obv warnings for WWII & Nazis.) JM is a visiting German Generalmajor, but he’s come for a very unusual reason - to ask for help from his brother-in-law, a blackballed British army officer (Joss Ackland). It’s all weird and low key and JM is doomed and nevertheless probably my favourite thing of his that isn’t SotT.

* The Racing Game 2 eps (1979). Adaptation of Dick Francis’s first Sid Halley novel Odds Against (ep1) + 5 original stories for the series. This is an interesting one - JM plays Sid’s father-in-law & they have a lovely relationship that’s central to the book BUT Dick Francis loved this adaptation and Mike Gwilym who played Sid and was inspired to write a sequel Whip Hand, which he tied in with TV canon - and adopted at least three of the cast, including JM. Which means that all the Sid & Charles fanfic is also JM fic by default and it’s quite impressive. (There’s not much but it’s GOOD.) On YT.

Bergerac “Treasure Hunt” (1981). Not a major role, but pretty nice & it’s one a Christmas ep of the detective show (also set on the Channel Islands) that involved Liza Goddard’s cat burglar, which was always the best bit of Bergerac.

His guest spots in Rumpole of the Bailey (1991) “Rumpole a la Carte” and Dr Finlay (1994) are both really just cameos, but both series come round on Freeview; the Rumpole one is funny and the Dr Finlay one his last screen appearance before his death the following year.

Not worth getting just for JM: Subway in the Sky; Bill Brand and Oppenheimer.

These films only have cameos but some quite fun ones and they come around on terrestrial TV: The Damned (1962), The Evil of Frankenstein (1964) & (more briefly) Far From the Madding Crowd (1967). (I think his cameo in Connecting Doors must be at least recognisable as someone spotted him in it just based off my gifs, but it’s not come my way yet.) I’ve never been able to get hold of any of his radio performances, not even the 1990s one.

ETA: I forgot The Power Game! This is the one surviving series where he occurs as a semi-regular (at least until halfway through S1 when he went off to the BBC to be in the now-burninated Hunchback of Notre Dame). This isn’t standalone, but it’s a good series and it is on YT. See how you go with crackly old TV before you brave it but it’s the snarkiest thing ever made about people making concrete and stabbing each other in the back. JM is a civil servant who tries to run the National Export Board and is plagued by Patrick Wymark and Clifford Evans as warring businessmen.

***

[... Well, now I just feel scary. 0_o In my defence, I have been stuck home bored & ill for years, and often unable to watch modern TV while trying to cheer myself up with James Maxwell, so I didn’t watch all of this at once. It just... happened eventually after SotT. /waves hand

But if anyone feels the need to unfriend my quietly at this point, I understand. /o\]

#james maxwell #masterlist #rec list #well sort of #1950s #1960s #1970s #1980s #there are some things i haven't seen #and some things i know to be extant but unreleased #everything else is burninated or status unknown

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maggotmouth · 5 years ago

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hello, its nora again ( she/her, gmt ) n this is the ethereal but spoiled alma olive putnam (she goes by all 3 names cos she’s pretentious as fuck). ive never used anya taylor joy as her fc before but anya has a smile that looks like she knows something u dont and thats completely alma’s vibe so we’re gonna try it out. she was raised in a farmhouse in vermont, big horse girl energy. very hungry for everything life has to offer. wakes up and smells the success in her blood. luvs the smell of libraries and listening to french music from a tinny record player in knee socks. here is pinterest. bio is below the cut, like this post to be bombarded with plotting messages but i might forget or get shy tho so pls message me x

application template.

ANYA TAYLOR - JOY , CIS-FEMALE , SHE/HER → according to the school records , ALMA OLIVE PUTNAM has been attending sacred heart for the past three years . i last saw them hanging around the sacred heart cathedral ; i think they were studying the stations of the cross with a smile like a well - kept secret. at twenty - one years old , alma has been studying classics and get this , i heard that she has made a fortune on the black market by forging renaissance art to sell to collectors — figure it’s true ? everyone around here always associates them with neck scarves tied around your throat the way they do in french new wave films , running barefoot through the woods drunk on red wine and untapped power , a smile like a locked door that speaks only in riddles . in the time since these strange happenings , they have have encountered any unexplained occurrences . ( written by nora , 24 , she/her , gmt )

aesthetics.

a red beret nestled on top of bright platimum locks, neck scarves tied around your throat the way they do it in french new wave films, running barefoot through the woods in feckless hedonism, china dolls with porcelain faces lined against the walls of your room, the mona lisa smile, knee-socks tugged over the hockey grazes on your knees, a forged botticelli drying on your easel, ophelia floating in the middle of a lake.

proceed w caution, tw for death, drugs, alcohol, violence

the short form. (still long af tbh)

— studying classics cos she thinks it makes her sound smart, but actually hates fuckin latin and just loves learning about feckless hedonism and the festivals of bacchus and writing about how all women in myth are literally forgotten. was expelled from princeton in her first year so her parents basically paid her way into sacred heart and the board really liked her in her interview. i think the governors kind of expect to see her in the supreme court one day or st

— born in vermont in a big old farmhouse. her great-great-grandfather moved to america as an immigrant and worked on a plantation, made his way up cos he could speak a lot of languages and therefore win more people over. for the last two generations, putnam men have owned the farm and do little of the dirty work. big in the meat industry.

— both her parents had large personalities, so alma’s never really been shy around adults, even as a kid she’d speak to them in a forthright, confident manner, and because she was always surrounded by adults, she’s always seemed a bit wise beyond her years.

— very much a consolidation of every character in the secret history. has a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs. obsessed with w.h. auden and the beat poets. — ”aestheticism is the only thing worth pursuing and even that is pointless” — is majoring in classical civilisation. can read ancient greek and latin. also speaks french.

— studies hard and plays hard. she gets top marks but it’s because academia is literally her life, she loves the smell of libraries, the ancient smoke of learning, of feeling like old wine in a new bottle reincarnated from the bones of some old, dead witchy woman who invented a cure for cowpox or somethin.

— isn’t a foward-planner, however. alma prefers to leave her options open, play the field, live in a spontaneous manner so her study style is mostly cramming a few days before a test, or staying up all night writing an essay on a massive adrenaline boost powered by red bull or probably adderall, scribbling (or typing) furiously into the night.

— pretentious motherfucker. loves poetry, especially the romantics, loves morbid ones too, edgar allen poe, sylvia plath, allen ginsberg, she just loves them all. can’t get enough. her favourite films are like…. wanky artfilm independent european cinema. especially french new wave. “what do you think of goddard’s work??” while snorting a line off someone’s sink at 5am on a school night, but you can bet she’ll make it to that 9am class. — very intelligent and beautiful and knows both of those facts. plays devil’s advocate. humanitarian, vegan. — judgemental but takes great care not to appear so. petty and vindictive

— obsessively devours mystery and thriller novels. she herself is a gillian flynn book waiting to happen. — tries to be an enigma. wants to be mysterious and unreadable because that’s what books have taught her makes women desirable and interesting and cool. very amy dunne in the way she expertly reinvents herself to suit her audience, when she wants to impress

— an incredibly talented dancer. she was accepted to juliard to study ballet, but after an injury to her foot she had to refuse her place, something that she’s incredibly bitter about. she went to princeton instead to study classics for a semester, before being expelled.

— alma comes from a family of high-end art dealers. while her parents paid her way into the school, that was mostly due to previous expulsions, not low intelligence. she’s incredibly intelligent but will only put in effort when she deems the cause worthy. she’s frustrating to teach, because she requires evidence, truth, in order to accept something as worthwhile. she plays devil’s advocate, but academically she’s brilliant.

— she can recognise any renaissance artist just by their brush strokes. her aunt and uncle deal antiques and art, and from an internship with them after her expulsion from princeton, she learned how to market and sell art, how to recognise originals in contrast to fakes. from this, alma began to produce counterfeit art and sell it off as the original work to the contacts she had made in her internship. it’s disloyal, but it’s powerful.

— act like the flower but be the serpent under it. is a user. manipulative. leads people on. will throw another student under the bus to demonstrate her own intelligence and integrity — heavily involved in the theatre society. loves attention. — has an addictive personality. seems unable to do anything in a small dose, she has to let it utterly consume her. with sports, she’s fiercely competitive, runs track, played lacrosse at school, now is a cheerleader probably. with alcohol, it’s never a shot, it’s a whole bottle – wine or whiskey – she’ll be table dancing before the night’s up and making out with someone she’ll regret in the morning.

— her clothing style is like…. vintage thrift store but make it preppy. berets and cute hats, neck scarves, large fluffy cardigans or like those leathery jackets with big suede fringes on them, mini skirts (very 70s), and knee-high socks or boots. quite often she’ll be in sports kit, maybe a cute tennis skirt, n when she’s feeling casual she’ll wear like, a talking heads tshirt with a pair of mom jeans and converse, but otherwise, the library is her catwalk. — relates to ophelia from hamlet and sibyl vane in dorian gray. weirdly obsessed with women who commit suicide. loves jackson pollock paintings and abstract art. – likes old things. old books, old music, old houses, it reminds her of happier times like when she wasn’t alive. buys all her music on vinyl and has a gramophone because “the sound quality is better” kfdsjj.

plots.

here are some generic wanted plots but by all means message me so we can flesh them out more if any strike ur interest:

study buddies !! someone who is equally unprepared and so spends all night in the library with alma before a big deadline, maybe they even met in the library

if they’re from new england or vermont, then cousins . second cousins / extended family / family friends – probably spat volavons on your character once as children, omg childhood friends !

honestly someone who is fully in love with her or crushing on her that she can just break would be sweet :/ or on the other hand someone she unexpectedly gets feelings for and actually wants to guage her own eyeballs out bc of it

frinds !! unlikely friends !! toxic friends !! former best friends separated by sporting or academic rivalries !

hockey / cheer friends who are on other teams but who she absolutely loves playin against!!!

fellow academics who like meeting up to discuss latin and greek ! gimme a secret society bonding by their love of ancient learning

i reckon she’s in a lot of societies, definitely the film club, maybe works as a projectionist at the uni cinema if they have one so give me ppl affiliated with that, give me fellow wanky pretentious art-lovers and poets and historians who will go to museums and galleries with her and listen to the velvet underground on vinyl

people she gets mortally fucked off her tits with at parties

people who think she is throwing her academic potential away by caving to hedonistic impulse

a secret society !!! honestly i would die for a slug club esque thing in which the children of notable families are invited to dinners or alma’s also an art forger, so maybe like a club of students set up to basically forge paintings and documents from the university special collections

people she has drunkenly made out with, hooked up with, or regularly sleeps with casually, maybe even a friend w benefits she is repressing feelings for, i love angst,

people she used to date or unrequitedly likes, but to them it’s just a physical thing, give me all the thirsty angst plots, and maybe some softness too, i need some religion in this girls life, she is a roman catholic after all

full biography.

alma olive putnam.

intro.

the girl is a knife. razor-sharp, double-edged, the bright shine of a two-faced, lovely thing. silver like the secrets you magpie thief from other heads. you’re a scavenger of knowledge, of tidbits, of gossip to lock away for later use and late-night re-inspection. a mind is like a clock if you get to learn the pieces. bit by bit, you dismantle the inner workings of the brains that tick around you – how easy it is to change it’s path, how words and their meanings can make a person laugh or cry in an instant. to have the power to control that is to be a god. it’s the power trip you crave wielding pom-poms in your hands; a possessive need for control that a younger you, small and weak, never had as a child. small lips, smaller smile, a doll clutched in your too-hungry fingers, hard enough to shatter the bones of a real infant. you cut your hair with your mother’s kitchen scissors before the autumn falls, rendering you out of season, unfit for the cold weather that beats against the nape of your neck, where a stick-and-poke marks the star you were born under ; the bull. “mama, when will i be a queen?” as soon as they find a crown small enough not to slip from your head.

biography.

if you get hungry enough, they say, you start eating your own heart. hands red, stained by pomegranate seeds, the empty pulp of its shell splattered on your thighs you find yourself wondering – what would it be like to want? in the beginning, you never knew hunger. twins, born under the same star, you first, him second – a nuclear family. never a sister to compete with, you were always the cherry pie of your parents’ hearts. white-haired, blue-eyed, beautiful baby of mine. the townhouse in vermont and the summer house in lyon, you wanted for nought, showered with attention, saddled with gifts - hardly a wonder you came to rely on such affection as a confirmation of your own worth.

at eight years old you first met death, blood on a gingham-print dress, a smear of it over your cheekbone and the pulp of a mangled animal at your feet murdered by the hands of a stable boy. “alma, my precious baby, you get away from that filth,” your mama would cry from the upstairs balcony – cigar in one hand and a bloody mary in the other – though whether the filth she referred to was the dead pig or the boy with a kernel of corn in his mouth, you never did find out.

your family earned their keeps in farming, great-grandfather wolfgang hildegarde a german immigrant, great-grandmother maura lisbon a prairie girl. they fell hopelessly in love between troughs and pig-shit, working for three dollars a day at a farm their descendants would later own, trade deals with the indians, vacations to calcutta, your father todd putnam in the kind of sheepskin coat his father’s father could only dream of owning. he worked hard so that you’d never have to. your mama once asked – you heard it through the window, rounding cartwheels across the picket-fenced lawn – could he not find a respectable career rather than selling shrink-wrapped pork for a dime a dozen? that blood money had no business raising a child. you look far back enough, edie, your father had said in his low, strong voice that could bring a civil war to silence, and i think you’ll find that all money is blood money.

language was never fickle on your tongue, french dinner time talk by the time you were out of your hush puppy shoes, your mama fixing the au pair a smile as she fixed herself another martini. you learned the clarinet at four and how to dance with the grace of a swansong at six, ethereal under a spotlight, an audience captive in the palm of your hand. by eight you knew that you’d always been destined to be loved. loved so hard they would want to taste you, bite into the soft plump of your cheek and eat you alive. that was how magnetic you wanted to feel. but mother hamsters eat their own young when penned in together too long, and soon you became too wild, too restless, another package on your father’s delivery invoice, box-shipped out to english boarding school.

fitting in had never been something you had to concern yourself with. you were always the shiny new toy the other girls wanted to play with, bright like a dropped coin from a magpie’s beak. wherever you went, you seemed to leave a trail of awe, pig-tailed harriet’s adoring you, imitating you, teachers forgiving your class-time chatter for the sake of your wild heart and the restless spirit you possessed. tell us what it’s like in the states, alma. they’d coo, enamoured by your hollywood drawl. does your father own a gun? you hardly knew. barely even knew the colour of his hair, for the scarce amount of times he’d stoop to kiss your cheek, though you’d tell silver-tongued tales if it’d guaranteed you an audience. when you learned how to smile at the right times, and that flattery would get you everywhere, it soon became apparent that charm would pave the yellow brick road to success even when your lack of drive couldn’t.

the road you followed – gum-snapping, roller-blading, friendship bands all up your arm – eventually led you to sacred heart. bright-eyed and gingham skirted, you’d always known you were more. there was a hunger in you to be something extraordinary, a want so adamant to be imagined and desired that it was almost savage. in leather-bound volumes and a circle of stones, you were helen of troy, the girl for whom they’d launch a thousand ships. but there’s so much rage within you, collecting like sawdust in cavernous parts. hockey helped. there was something grounding about the feeling of a stick clasped in your hands. sweat. stiff knuckles. feet pounding the earth. the smash of wood against flesh in the scram of a game, passed off as mere enthusiasm. “slipped, sorry.” hockey is the one thing you had that was yours alone – a feral instinct that motivates you to play; something primitive within you that sparks an energy like no other. on the pitch, you feel alive. you feel like a god.

#heretics:intro #heretics:ooc #my two most pretentious characters ive ever written n i bring em both here . we love to see it.

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shesgayfor · 6 years ago

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Insecurities

Summary: Sebastian and reader discuss their insecurities. Major fluff

Characters: Sebastian Stan, Reader

TW: Insecurities (?)

He’s finally home for some quality one on one time. You and him are lying side by side on your king sized bed, his tall figure spooning your slightly smaller one. He’s been stroking your hair while you play with his hands for the past hour. There was minimum chatter, just enjoying each other’s company.

“Y/N.” He lightly whispered.

“Yeah Seb?”

“We should talk about something, something strange but interesting.” You unlocked yourself from his spoon grip, to turn to the other side and face him.

“What would you like to talk about, mister.” Your tone was slightly sarcastic.

“I don’t know. We could each share something about ourselves that we don’t like, and explain why.”

Your eyebrows furrowed deeply at him. “What? Why.”

He laughed a bit, revealing his perfect teeth. “Why not. We’ve never actually discussed these things before. We’re always so busy.” He looked deeply into your eyes. “I wanna know you on a higher level, Y/N.”

The expression on your face was one of confusion and surprise. “Okay, but since you started it you go first.”

“Fair enough.” He laughed. “I’ve always struggled with my hair. I can never get it to do what I want. Whether it’s long, short, or even the rare occasion it’s a medium length. It bothers me that it doesn’t fall perfectly into place, like ever.”

“Wait Sebastian really, that’s what you’re gonna say?”

“What do you mean?” His tone defensive.

“I thought you meant like, something else nevermind.” You rolled on your back, now looking up at the ceiling.

“Did you have something else in mind?” He raised his body a bit to lock eyes. You looked over to his piercing blue ones. “I thought you meant like, insecurities. Like, deep ones. Not something silly like your hair.”

“You saying my dislike for my hair is silly?”

“Kind of. Seb, insecurities are on a whole other level. Like, sometimes it’s so hard to even talk about them because they’re that effective. They’re things to not joke about. I can joke about your long, luscious hair because you aren’t insecure about it, you just don’t like it.”

“Wai wai wait, who's to say I don’t have insecurities, LIKE my hair?”

“Are you?” Your tone was stern. His eyes looked slightly frightful, intimidated yours. “No.” He responded softly.

“Amazing.” You turned back the way you were about a minute ago, your back facing him. This conversation was making you emotional, talking about your insecurities was the hardest thing ever.

“Y/N,” he placed a hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize there was a difference.” His hand lightly rubbing your shoulder.

You felt yourself build up to a cry. It was going to come out sooner or later, and he was going to force you to deal with it. You weren’t ready. You stayed quiet while slow tears rolled down your face. You were able to keep it quiet and hidden from Sebastian, until you sniffled an obvious “I’ve been crying” sniffle.

“Y/N please, I’m sorry.” He kept trying. He didn’t actually understand what was going on, he just wanted to help. “Please talk to me. I’m so sorry if I said anything to upset you. I’m sorry.” He rested his forehead on your shoulder.

“It’s not what you said, it’s what you brought up.” Your voice shaking as it spoke.

“What do you mean, love.” You stayed quiet hoping he’d figure it out. He’s smart. He needed time. “About insecurities?” He spoke out of nowhere. You nodded. “Oh love, I am truly sorry. We can drop this topic right now. Or if you want to talk about it, I’m open ears. If not, of course that’s okay. Whatever you want to do. I’m sorry.” His constant apologizing was making you cry even more. He cared so much, and you knew you’d feel safe sharing with him, about whatever.

“What physical features of mine do you find, desirable.” You asked blankly.

“All of them.”

“But in specific.”

“Y/N, all of your features. Your hair, your eyes, your smile, your voice, your body, your hands, everything.”

“My smile? Are you sure?”

“What? Yes I’m sure. You can light up an entire room.”

“So you don’t care that my teeth are crooked and fucked up.”

“Y/N, no. How could you say such a thing.” His voice got low and sad, like this hit a soft spot with him.

“Seb, I’m highly insecure about my teeth.” You heard him sigh behind you, while he lifted his free arm and pulled you closer. “I’m sorry.” Was all he whispered.

“They’ve been crooked my entire life. Since high school, I wanted braces. Our family couldn’t afford them though. I’ve hated my smile ever since.”

Sebastian tried to roll you over so he could look into your eyes, but you weren’t budging. “Y/N please look at me. Please.” His voice was soft and sweet.

With hesitation, you rolled back on your back, head lying on the pillow. His body was directly next to yours, as he laid watching you closely.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know about any of that.”

“How could you? That’s why it’s an insecurity, it’s not something that’s just freely spoken you know.” He nodded as he continued to watch you talk.

“I think you have a beautiful smile, love.” He smiled down at you.

“I don’t think I do. Seb, I look at your teeth and just wish mine could look like that too. You have such a confident smile, something i’ll never be able to feel.”

You noticed his face turn red, as he positioned his body to be lying on his back just like yours. His hands intertwined with yours, he sighed deeply. “They weren’t always straight.” He started.

“What?” This jumped your curiosity making your upper half spring up to look at him. He gently lowered you back down to the bed, remaining at the same level.

“Yeah Y/N. I grew up with crooked teeth too. You can look on the internet and it’s all over.”

“Oh right well, I don’t actually google you so…” you trailed off.

He laughed. “Well good! No yeah, most of my acting career I had crooked teeth. It was obvious, not like a slight hidden thing, no. I was deeply upset by it, rewatching myself in movies and tv shows, looking at my teeth, I wasn’t happy. After we shot and filmed winter soldier in 2013, I just had an urge to fix them, or something. So I went to a dentist, and she fitted me for those invisible braces, invisalign.” You were intrigued by all of this, your expression showing it. “I wore it for 6 months and by the end my teeth were straight and good to go to film civil war.” He laughed at the last part.

“Shit babe, I had no idea. That makes so much sense though, because your teeth are incredible.” You emphasizes incredible.

“Thank you love. I’m really happy with my smile now. And you should be too. What crooked are you even talking about?” He shifted to the side again, bringing his hand to your lips, gently pulling them down. You weren’t letting him, as you kept your teeth clenched and lips sealed. “Come on, let me see. I really don’t know what crooked you're even talking about.” He continued to stare at your mouth.

“What are you my dentist? Come on Seb.” You swatted his hand away from your mouth. “I’m embarrassed okay, just drop it.”

“Okay, right. Sorry.” He shifted positions once again, to his back.

You both laid there silently for a few minutes, thinking over everything. His hands were still entangled in yours, as he slowly rubbed his thumb in circles around. You kind of wanted to show Sebastian your teeth, but you also felt like an idiot. It’s not that deep, you thought.

“Okay I’ll show you.” He head turned to look at you. “No laughing, no making me feel bad. Please. I’ll punch you if you do.”

“Deal.” He leaned over closer to your face.

“Dear god this is the worst thing in history but, here goes nothing.” You stuck your fingers in your mouth, lifting up both your top and bottom lip above your teeth, making them extremely visible. You released one hand to point to the crooked ones on top first. Sebastian slowly brought his finger towards your mouth. Without fighting it, he began to touch the crooked teeth with his fingers. An intrigued look came across his face. You then pointed to the lower ones, which were all crooked and out of order. He used his strong hand to carefully open your mouth a bit, as his pointer finger ran across the lower ones. He was carefully examining your teeth, running his finger along them. You clenched your teeth together, biting down, showing more of them. He just continued to study them. “Okay doctor, you done?” This snapped him out of his slight trance he was having with your teeth.

“Sorry, I hope that wasn’t too weird. It’s just, that’s how mine used to look.”

“No it’s fine. They’re bad right?”

“Not at all. All things given, you can’t really tell unless you look closely.”

“Sebastian stop. I hate them, okay? I always will.”

“Will you let me help you?”

“What? You a dentist also? On top of being an actor?” You laughed.

“Goodness no. I can take you to where I went. She can set you up with some kind of braces?” He questioned.

“Seb what? Why?” You were slightly panicky, knowing you’d never be able to afford his dentist.

“What do you mean why? Because I want to help you. She helped me. You like my teeth right?” He deeply studied you.

“Yes.” You replied softly.

“Okay, so she can help you achieve the same result.”

“Seb I don’t have money to spend on my teeth right now.”

He shrugged. “Consider it a gift.”

Your eyes widened. “No. What?” You continued to stammer on with justifiable confusion.

He cupped your face into his hands. “Y/N, we’ve been together for 3 years now. I love you more than life itself. Money doesn’t mean anything, I’m sorry I know that sounds snobby but when it comes to you, absolutely not. Let me help. It’s an expensive treatment, I can take it off your hands.”

His words slowly sank into your head. You love him so much. Tears began to fall again as you looked at him with puppy dog eyes. “Seb I-.” you were hardcore trembling, without words.

“I didn’t know you struggled with this. I went through the same thing, baby. When I finally came into enough money where I could do this for myself, I did it. And I’m so happy I did. You can do the same. Let me help you get there.”

“Seb I don’t even know what to say I-.” you we’re still trembling and crying at the same time. “I’ll pay you back. I promise, I’ll save up everything and by the time it’s all done I can pay you back.”

“No.” He said with a soft tone.

You kept looking at him with disbelief. This man loved you so much he was willing to pay for a couple grand treatment for you. You were without words. Grateful. Happy. Excited. Scared? You didn’t know what to expect.

“Oh my god.” You got up on the bed and planted yourself on top of him, holding him like a giant teddy bear. You nuzzled your head into his shoulder, getting as close to him as possible.

“Is that a yes?” He asked with a laugh.

You pushed yourself up against the bed, your face hanging directly above his, as he continued to lay down. “Are you sure?” Your voice riddled with uncertainty.

“Yes. I’m sure.” He smiled widely at you. You smiled back, and collapsed back onto his body. You wrapped your arms around his head, pulling it close to you.

“I love you so much, how can I ever thank you.”

“Just be here with me. That’s all I need.”

#dentist #dental #teeth #braces #LISTEN lmfao like i said last post #i did my research and i know he fixed his teeth!!!#no clue why so this is just my interpretation of it #i love his teeth #and him #this is so weird but kinda cute #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #imagine #fic #random

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gotatext · 5 years ago

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by this point im p sure u all know the drill.... i’m nora, 23, she/her, gmt and tonight matthew im going to be greta o’driscoll, a terrible person but a hot one which frankly makes it almost ok. here is her pinterest..... this intro is literally just copied n pasted frm the last time i played her so soz if u’ve read it like 10+ times....

「 diana silvers. cis-female. 」have you seen greta o’driscoll around yet? i hear she decided to be in POTENTAS for their SOPHOMORE year as a CRIMINAL PSYCHOLOGY major. the 20 year old SHEPHERD is known to be tenacious, magnetic, capricious and evasive. ➨ the muse is written by nora, she/her, gmt.

was adopted as an infant. had two foster moms and two older sisters so always surrounded by women. lived in a boarding house, very much like the one in 20th century women, with lodgers coming in and out all the time, mostly artsy young women because her gay moms were both high school teachers trying to set up their own arts collective. one of her moms left when she was 4, n she doesn’t really remember her.

while living with entirely women made her super into catlin moran and the guilty feminist, as a teenager she often let boys walk all over her bc she just craved male attention jst bcos she’d never really experienced it. saw it as something aspirational, like sitting in the back of chad’s second-hand truck while he drove you to macdonalds and offered you and his five friends with identical haircuts weed was the height of being cool to greta, she wanted to be their dream girl, even if it meant compromising her beliefs

was always a really sporty bitch. it started with a junior athletics squad, which turned into athletics and cheer, which then became athletics, cheer and hockey until she basically was doing a different activity every night. she came to see her body as a tool that she could make work for her if she trained it up and this attitude’s always kind of stayed with her that as long as her body is strong she is capable of anything. runs every day.

bubbly bitch but also massive snake. metaphorically and literally, always shedding her skin. loyal to few, ruled by none, out for herself, babey!! every place she goes, she becomes a new character, someone who’s a figment of her imagination, as if each city is repertory theatre and she’s a character actress, so as a result som ppl think she’s called rita, some ppl know her as margot, she just flicks through identities like nobodies business.

left school at 18 n went backpacking around the states making money in the casinos by being a shot girl (yeehaw) and trying to make it as a mysterious 1920s widow with a smoky voice, a dark secret n a heart of gold, looking for love in the big city. all she found was producers and acting agents who’d promise her stardom n actually just fuck her in a motel n then ignore her calls.

TW domestic violence, TW gun, her watershed moment came when she met luke in sioux falls while she was working at a strip club. he was a few years older and had a car, and they kind of went from seeing each other to being that super intense couple who are just necking all the time.

they got engaged like 3 months after they met n rented a flat together, much to her family’s annoyance but she was 19 so there wasn’t much they could do. their relationship was super super intense though, often really heightened and when they fought it could become quite violent, but she’d pass it off as just him being really passionate.

one of their fights got really heated and greta threatened him with the gun he kept in the glove box of his vauxhall corsa, but the safety was off and she accidentally shot him. she pleaded self defence in the trial n cos of the amount of times she’d been hospitalised for various concussions n things like ‘fallling down the stairs’ the police were like yea… pretty watertight evidence that he was a bastard who [chicago voice] had it coming…..

she’s now under witness protection, rehoused in livingstone as a sports-scholarship student, due to the amount of police involvement in the area, it would mean should one of luke’s family members try to track her down, she’d be relatively safe

massive sports fanatic. plays tennis. on the cheer team. was a track superstar in her high school. honestly just that sporty bitch, you’ll see her doing lines at a party at half four and then on your way to your 9am lecture you see her running across the park like a fresh fucking daisy who is this bitch. maybe it’s maybelline, maybe its coke.

massive feminist. low key quite scared of powerful men bcos of her ex. wants to start a female only lesbian commune bc she misses her childhood in a south dakota boarding house and has endless support for women. honestly annoyed that she is attracted to men, would so be 100% gay if it was a choice. cuffs her jeans and can’t drive. is That bisexual. skateboards. wears backwards caps. i hate her

isn’t a foward-planner, however. greta prefers to leave her options open, play the field, live in a spontaneous manners so her study style is mostly cramming a few days before a test, or staying up all night writing an essay on a massive adrenline boost powered by red bull or probably adderall, scribbling (or typing) furiously into the night.

has an addictive personality. seems unable to do anything in a small dose, she has to let it utterly consume her. with sports, she’s fiercely competitive. with alcohol, it’s never a shot, it’s a whole bottle – wine or whiskey – she’ll be table dancing before the night’s up and making out with someone she’ll regret in the morning.

not afraid to go after what she wants !! ambitious academically and romantically thirsty !! she loves the adrenaline of the chase. when someone’s easy to get, she becomes bored. very bisexual and very proud of it. feminist as fuck nd part of a queer representation in the arts group which holds fortnightly meetings to discuss lgbt representation in film, literature, art etc.

old soul in a young person’s body. all the shit that has gone on has kind of aged her. she’s quite cynical about everything now. always smoking smoking smoking. very edie sedgwick in that way. little girls skirts bought for next-to-nothing at the market because she’s skinny enough to get away with it, barely long enough to cover your bum, and then the ugliest baggy sweater you’ve ever seen thrown over it.

likes old things. old books, old music, old houses, it reminds her of happier times like when she wasn’t alive. buys all her music on vinyl and has a gramphone because “The Sound quality is Better” kfdsjj.

super into pop art and andy warhol. puts female friendships above everything but at the same time, would fuck her best friends man

her clothing style is like…. vintage thrift store but make it preppy. berets and cute hats, neck scarves, large fluffy cardigans or like those leathery jackets with big suede fringes on them, mini skirts (very 70s), and knee high socks or boots. quite often she’ll be in sports kit, maybe a cute tennis skirt, n when she’s feeling casual she’ll wear like, a talking heads tshirt with a pair of mom jeans and converse, but otherwise, the library is her catwalk.

aesthetics:

a bubble of pink gum on chapped lips, mom jeans, a beaten up pair of adidas, denim jackets, strawberry laces, knee-highs, chapped lips, peeling sticky plasters, split knuckles, bruises you try to cover with concealer, stick and poke tattoos, hot coffee, sleep caught in your eyes on a lazy afternoon, kissing girls, cigarette smoke shrouding you like a veil, alien conspiracy theories and sci-fi paperbacks, doc martens with fraying laces, the red string of a thong peaking out purposely from jeans, leonine arch of your back and that stellar smile that says ‘you have no idea who you’re dealing with’, a rucksack permanently packed for the move, a streak of red across your lips, roller blades, cut knees, not eating your greens, smiling with a mouthful of blood, and piercing your own ears with a safety pin when your mom wouldn’t take you, kate moss posters lining the walls of a teenage bedroom, his name scrawled in rage across the pages of a diary, thumb holes poked through the cuffs of your sleeves, a tennis racket you punched through in a fit of temper, feet pounding the earth until your soles bleed crimson, sleeping in a cherry lip balm and scrunchies to keep the wild locks from your eyes.

wanted plots

frinds !! unlikely friends !! toxic friends !! former best friends separated by sports rivalries ! sporting friends who are on other teams but who she absolutely loves playin against!!!

since greta literally can’t differentiate between romantic and platonic love, she’s got off with so many of her mates, so i want awkward friendships where they nearly dated, or exes that have now just turned into weird friendships

girls from the cheer team who she’s like, weirdly intimate with like the shower together but its not a Thing cos the other girls straight !!! what do u mean !! aha just fun !

and I want like, fellow criminology students who are like?? how is this bitch still passing?? i swear she goes out every night??

she works part time at a fast food restaurant, i want a mate that just goes and sits in there talking to her until her manager gets angry.

ppl she did a few modules with ie. art history, bio-med, film studies, before changing course and somehow sort of remaining in touch with

ppl who she runs track with.

someone she’s trying to make a zine with.

here’s a list of plots on her old blog if u want any of them w her.

would love plots of any type, throw them all at me please, i cnt wait to interact w all of u. like this if u want me to message you about connections / plots! xo

full biography if u can be bothered

trigger warnings: drugs, domestic abuse, gun.

you never meant for it to happen. you’d heard the stories, of girls who let their man walk all over them, and thought to yourself “i’ll never be one of those girls…” the kind that eat low-fat yoghurt and drink slim fast to shred a few extra pounds because he said she was getting round in the tummy, or the ones who spent their evenings tied to a kitchen sink drinking wine while him and the boys played poker, wishing god, if only I could get out of here. not you, not you raised by strong women, four bright shining beacons. single mother with her hard-as-nails attitude and her stony glares, elder sisters (twins) one ginger, one blonde, one doctor, one lawyer, both determined to take a bullet to the brain and a hammer to the patriarchy before they let a man touch them without asking. you were always so inferior, so insecure and small, like a bird (like a sparrow) with blonde plaits down your back sucking tropicana whilst your busom buds sucked dick, their lips permanently ripe with stories of their sexual exploits, fake tan and glittered nails whilst you sat in the unbroken egg of virginity wondering what it was like to be loved. one day you found out.

lily milligan’s parents gone and a free house for the night, bottles of ouzo and tequila swiped from your mother’s liquor cabinet thinking she wouldn’t know (she always knew) your legs, hardened from pep squad, slut dropping on a kitchen table because the boys thought it would be fun to get the quiet girl drunk. you’d never had a sip before that night. band t-shirts, denim shorts and the split soles of rotten converse that you refuse to let go of, you still clutched with both hands to your youth, but in a tube top now (borrowed from alice carmichael who had a sister in college) and a short tennis skirt, your feet not in trainers but in thigh-high boots. uncomfy as hell but lily said you needed to look sexy. you didn’t know if you wanted to be sexy. you didn’t know what kind of girl you were, if you were even a girl at all. but robbie looked at you like he knew exactly who you were, like he knew you better than you knew yourself, and his lips had the pink cupid’s bow of a movie star, and his hair was dark locks, curling like a mane. his hands were soft, and suddenly on your waist, and after three more shots his lips were on yours and his name was the only sound in your head and on your lips as you lost it in lily’s college sister’s bedroom beneath the glare of a T-Pain poster. you bled for what seemed like hours, his hand still in yours, kissing on the sofa as truth tellers and dare devils continued to spin a bottle of unprecedented youth. you thought it was love. robbie was the one. he loved you, you knew it, how else could someone be so soft? but soon he grew bored, scrunched up your paper heart and set it alight. then came the tears, the hatred, the ‘fuck robbie, in fact, fuck all boys.’ and that you did.

you were known for being easy. any boy could be yours for a night, as long as he promised to love you for those few short breaths and pants before you cried yourself to sleep. you felt poisoned, but poisonous as well, as if by ensnaring these young boys you were gaining power over them, and not the other way around. soon it started to work. they’d want more, but you’d deny them it, sick of sucking off silly schoolboys, they’d call you a tease, a vixen. maybe you were, but you couldn’t help but want older men. you got the history teacher first time, him bending you over his desk to sneak a hand up your tennis skirt as the after-school clubs carried on next door, unawares. love didn’t exist, not for you. it was nothing but a game for pretty young girls to play, bubble gum in their canines and a hand tugging at the hem of their cheer skirt.

there was so much anger inside of your small body, ‘beware of boys and their hook-like words’. hockey helped. there was something formidable about the feeling of a stick like a weapon in your hands and the thwack it made against thighs in the heat of a scrum - “slipped, sorry!” - you’d utter with a snakeskin smile, millicent quinn knowing that you’d hit her on purpose because she shagged robbie at that party last week. she couldn’t prove it, cobbled acne on her forehead turning green with disgust. ben came into your life like a car crash. two years your senior, with a baseball jacket and shoulders like a god. he became your personal hero. on the pitch, he was lethal. together, you could bring anyone to their ruin. each day after last period he’d be waiting in his car. you’d leap into his arms like a girl-half starved, love me, love me, love me, your heated kisses the envy of every junior girl. he was yours for three blissful years, utterly yours, and you were his, his star-spangled girl, and he was your knight - you were both the same, playing games, always difficult to predict. it was a shock to all when he proposed, high-school sweethearts find love in south dakota.

the engagement was a bittersweet affair; three months – you barely out of your gingham print skirts and into a graduation gown, him, a surly quarterback towering above your sisters, cigarette at his lips and a scowl like a fart in a lift. they hated him. so did you. but you were eighteen and in love, and he fitted the cookie cutter mould. everyone wanted him, and you had him. you had him and you were happy, happy, happy, and he loved you. he said he’d give you the world, anything you wanted hand-picked and given to you. instead, he gave you a jack russell terrier and a flat you couldn’t swing a cat in, wallpaper peeling like the rotten bits inside of you, the bits that only he knew. and you got tireder and tireder of the sad excuse of a life he’d picked out for you, him out doing god knows what to pay the bills, and you dancing on tables to pave your way to stardom, and this was love, this was real, until the shine wore off and your fresh-faced, dimple-cheeked cheerleader facade faded and the ugliness started to reveal itself, the whining, the petulance, the sharp-tempered cruelty, the mind games, the need to always win, win, win. he was dull, he was boring, he was nothing like the boy the girls had said he was and no chiselled six pack could hide his lack of anything remotely interesting, your patience wearing thin until it snapped like rubber, a rucksack on your back, running shoes on your feet and the joint bank account emptied into your eighth grade birthday wallet.

you built your small fortunes working the casinos of sioux falls, a crimson dress and an attitude to match. bookish archie with his little dipper freckles was fun for a month, before he became just as dull and dreary as the rest. a three hour bus and you were in minneapolis, bright eyed and bushy tailed, fresh meat ready for the pickings. a hostel here, a friendly co-worker’s sofa there as you made what you could by taking off your clothes and shaking your ass like you were back in pep squad, doing what you did best. you met your fair share of creeps, and soon it was back on the road to escape a wide-eyed stalker and a restless itch for more. milwaukee, chicago, you made the roads your own. log cabins and lodgings, and the occasional motel, a beaten up pick up truck purchased at a scrap merchants – you got a few miles out of it before it bit the dust, and when you finally set it alight after nights spent lounging across the driver’s seat, a parka tucked over you as a duvet, you were sad to see it go. you’re nomadic by fault, never attaching to place, people or things, creating a new personality in every place you go like a character actress; each town is a different repertory theatre, and you’re the star. a compulsive liar, you even fib about your own name, to some you’re ellen, nineteen, bookish, a law student who likes smoking and cosmos. to someone else you’re rita, you’re twenty five and look young for your age, like smoking, comics and fucking in public places.

in the bright lights of michigan, you found charlie, sweet charlie, too good for you, though you let him spoil you while he thought you were the small town girl of his dreams. next came abigail, who was fun until the jealously kicked in, and then luke, gorgeous luke, dangerous, exciting, who despite his temper, despite the fights, despite bruises down your spine and your teeth marks on his arms, loved you with the strength of a wild fire. there was destruction in your wishbones, a savageness from the field, from the pitch and now somehow in his arms, you were godly. he was cruel, he was careless, and he refused to fall at your feet like so many other boys had, which only you made you want him all the more. you were rage incarnate. you hated him so fiercely you thought you might kill him, so he played the only card you wouldn’t predict; proposed.

the house you shared was a backstreet flat in detroit, you making your name as a downtown singer while he footed the bill with pills. they had a drug for anything these days, to dull the senses, to pick them up, to drive you to insanity or pull you out of the madness hole. the two of you lived like criminals on the run (you never told him that you were, living out your days as the enigma he wanted you to be), you with your voice like caramel and fishnet legs. you were his and his alone until his hand was at your throat and the gun was in your hands screaming at him to stop, stop, stop, until a bullet stoppered his brain, crimson staining linoleum as you cast yourself out like lucifer. self defence was decreed the moment they saw your violet neck, black tears and headlight eyes and mind screaming red, red, red like the pom-poms you shook so willingly in school and the insides of his skull. you were gone, and “you” was born, renamed “greta”, boxed, shipped-out, and next-day delivered to livingstone where under witness protection you were a student, blank slate, fresh-faced in a place where no one knew your name, doing what you always did and starting again.

#this is soooOoOOO fuckin long cos every time i play greta i add more shit to it..... her seventh form will just be an entire fuckin novel.#anyway call me beep me if u wanna reach me #aka pls msg me either here or on discord. my discord is linday lohan's meth8664 #wshedintro

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casworan · 6 years ago

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❝ pride was fed to him from a silver spoon and now that he’s grown up, he’s grabbed the spoon and fed his ego some more. ❞ THOMAS HAYES? No, that’s actually CASWORAN ROWLE. Only EIGHTEEN years old, this SLYTHERIN alumni works as a PHILANTHROPIST and is sided with THE DEATH EATERS. HE identifies as A CIS MAN and is a PUREBLOOD who is known to be SNOBBISH, ENTITLED, and CRUEL but also DISCIPLINED, METICULOUS and CHARISMATIC.

LINKS: stats, pinboard, playlist. CHARACTER PARALLELS: schmidt (new girl), henry winter (the secret history), alistair ryle (the riot club), chad radwell (scream queens), chad charming (descendants) --- (how are two of these named chad wtf) HELLO uh just a heads up that i donut condone any of the behaviour this shithole throws into the world. yikes! also there’s some triggers in here for abuse and terminal illness, but they will be marked <3

history

let’s get one thing straight --- emrick rowle and hemera rosier did not love each other when they married each other and they knew about it. they both agreed that their marriage was a good choice, a smart move, that it would benefit both and --- well, they both had ambition streaming through their veins, so the choice was made easily. they married, for political reasons, for money, but absolutely not for love.

casworan was born a year into their marriage and was the perfect son. he wasn’t given a welsh name like so many rowles before him had, but a cornish one, celebrating hemera’s mother’s cornish ancestry.

casworan means one who is powerful in battle, which emrick liked. he wanted a soldier, a pawn, a piece in his great chess match that was the world.

cas is a cousin to genie, wes and lo, and also to seren on his mother’s side.

and casworan’s parents might not love each other, they did love him. his mother’s love was doting and smothering, but genuine and unconditional. his father’s was conditional, and based on expectations and constantly changing from hot to cold. emrick raised casworan to the perfect heir, the perfect son, the perfect pawn.

emrick rowle is a strategist, but also a coward. he uses his money and influence to pull strings behind the scenes, but is never the one to publicly call the shots. casworan is his son, but he’s also ... another piece in the game. he’s the person who’ll pick up where he left off, and emrick won’t leave everything to someone he does not trust and respect.

hemera is evan rosier’s daughter, by the way, and by no means a sweetheart, but a better parent. compared to emrick, the standard is quite low but still --- she is a better parent, and casworan is a complete momma’s boy.

so casworan grows up --- spoiled dirty and loved by both parents. he learns languages (french and kernowek from his mother, latin and english grammar and such from a tutor), learns to play the violin, learns about his family’s history and legacy and how it intertwines with the rest of the history of the wizarding world, learns about blood purity and how one day he and his parents will rise above all the unworthy members of their society. he takes it all up and questions nothing, both because he has no reason to, and because his parents are convincing.

abuse tw (verbal and physical) // that’s not to say life was perfect. there was always a certain coldness at home. the lack of love between cas’ parents was clear to him from a young age, and it’s quite a strange thing, when your parents don’t seem to love each other but dont have any issue with it. there was no room for failure at home, no room for toeing the line. his father’s words could go from praising and prideful to harsh and cruel in seconds, his hands hard and unforgiving. casworan learned to keep his back straight and work harder and to swallow whatever anger he felt. he listened to every word that came from his father’s lips and took them in as truth and never questioned the way things were. end of tw

casworan went to hogwarts at age eleven ( he’d seen the castle before, of course --- he’d visited hogsmeade plenty of times before with his mother ) and was sorted into slytherin there. it was an easy sorting --- there were not many non-slytherin qualities the hat saw, besides maybe a sense of loyalty and a hunger for learning but cas’ cunning, shrewdness and ambition outweighed everything.

hogwarts came easy to casworan. he was a good learner and knew plenty of people from his life before school -- people who ran in the same circles. to branch out wasn’t something he felt he needed to do, with a few exception here or there ( for either particularly skilled people or other purebloods he didn’t know yet ). casworan likes learning, values his education and was, well, a nerd. a hardworking student. was in a few clubs too, i’m sure --- i will get back on that when i have it figured out for plotting purposes!

terminal illness tw // in casworan’s third year, his mother fell ill. it was a genetic disease, an incurable one, one that soon left her weakened and bedbound and tired. his father’s response wasn’t to stick to her side --- they didn’t love each other after all, and in all honesty, hemera didn’t want him on her side either --- but to flee in stead. his involvement in shady dealings grew and he retreated to the city more and more for work. casworan ... well, didn’t respond very well.

abuse tw // he raged. he cried and raged and kicked against his father’s shins and demanded that he solved this because, well, the world had always given casworan exactly what he wanted, and when he got something he absolutely did not want, the one person he could blame was his father. he acted like a child because he was one, and his mother was going to die, and his father broke the news in such a cold way that he couldn’t help but rage. his tantrum was met with cold eyes and the same cruelty cas had felt before.

this was when a seed of hate for his father started to grow, something he’d never even dared to feel before. it’s still growing to this day. end of abuse tw //

a family friend moved in to help his mother, and they got a second house elf and life changed, thigns shifted. casworan learned what it was to feel out of control and well, he didn’t like it one bit. he’s entitled and spoiled and used to getting everything he wants and this situation is something he has absolutely no say in and it drives him mad. rather than give him some perspective, it just makes him act more entitled and controlling in the rest of his life. end of terminal illness tw //

so cas makes his way through hogwarts, acting like an entitled twat, hanging with his lads, having a laff here and there and earning a whole lot of NEWTs. he had no qualms sharing his world views or sharing his entitled nature, here and there showing a more violent and cruel streak. casworan is a bully, an elitist prick, someone who looks down on most people.

when the war breaks out, well --- he’s quick to sign up. he believes in the cause, of course, and there’s no other option, really. he’s been prepped for this life. this is what he was made to do. he doesn’t even consider not joining. and so he joins and feels pride and power and a thirst to proof everyone around him that he’s the motherfucking shit. what an IDIOT.

besides his death eater life, cas is mostly focused on maintaining his image. like his father, he works hard on things like charity and philanthropy, so his name appears in the newspaper linked with good news almost exclusively. he’s picky, of course, about the causes he works for ----- things related to education, he genuinely works for, but there’s also some questionable things he donates to.

and then besides that, cas is mostly focused on enjoying life. getting drunk or high out of his mind, fucking shit up with the lads, having a good old time because guess what? the world is his to own and ruin, and he won’t stop at nothing. he’s entitled and obnoxious, but he always pays and tips well and sees absolutely no issues with his behaviour. he can’t wait for the world to become even more his as the war progresses.

personality & tidbits

...... an asshole.

no literally he’s such an asshole. he’s so fucking used to the world catering to his ugly needs and getting everything he wants and he’s so entitled and such an ASSHOLE.

someone please punch him

anyway --- he likes Extra things. velvet and silk and rich fabrics and leather shoes and accessories with snake themes and polo shirts and ... he dresses like a frat boy, but then mixed with wizarding fashion

ugly.

pretentious and snobbish to a fault. wants nothing but the best and is used to the best. would often complain about the house elves and their quality of food at hogwarts, because his house elves were much better cooks, they had been trained in france after all!!!

kind of hates his name and prefers to go by cas at all times, and i dont blame him

has daddy and mommy issues lmao !!!

capitalist right wing scum, tbh. would have voted trump and brexit and all that shit if he was a real person. I HATE HIM SO MUUUUUCHHHHHHH.

“if youre poor, thats your own fault!”

he is literally the worst person

i hate-write this character its a load of fun

he loves his hair lmao

plays the violin and generally likes classical music? a snob, i told yall. also likes other music, let me figure it out pls thanks

okay let’s talk about some of his better sides because so far all ive done is drag this kid and thats reasonable, but ... he’s got some good things, i guess.

he’s a good friend. like, if you’re his mate, you’re his mate for life (or until you turn your back, which is when he will feel hurt and will hurt u back yike!). he’ll be there for u Big Time. not good at emotional support, but good at sitting with a glass of wine/whiskey and talking/listening. will finance u if u need it (he doesnt like poor ppl but makes an exception for friends i guess?). will punch someone for u.

he ... does really value education? he would just like to see hogwarts change around bc there’s so much unnecessary shit (read: muggleborn students and subjects like muggle studies and divination). but yeah, he rly thinks that learning is important and that u have to ~broaden your mind ( but not too much ofc )

he is pretty family oriented, and rn he’s of course 18 so that’s not a big thing, but he’d be a ... proper dad? i think? he rly wants a big fam eventually

still a dick

good dueller and generally a pretty skilled wizard which is a bummer :/

loves partying and getting drunk out of his mind and then breaking stuff that isnt his, very riot club like

idk what else to say but HE IS AN ASSHOLE.

#iidyintro #yikes tm

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purkinje-effect · 5 years ago

Text

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 37

Table of Contents. Second Instar, Chapter 4. Go to previous. Go to next. TWs: lascivious themes, insects, blood, coprophobia, mysophobia, decomposition. It’s not as explicit as the nosedive or the short story, but he’s revisiting the memory of those things here so.

_____________________

Now that the sun had set, little light entered the clubhouse’s lounge lobby through the high paneled windows to either side of the back wall behind the bar or the broken windows at the front. At first, ‘Choly had made his way by the sound of Bogey and Angel chatting, but they fell quiet once he exited the locker room and 'Choly instead came up to the bar by the light the two Mister Handy robots’ thruster flames emitted. He sat at one of the stools with a tired smile, and hooked his cane beside him on the edge of the countertop.

“I hope the change of attire suits you,” Bogey started, to break the silence. ‘Choly looked between the two of them and nodded. “You really must forgive my poor hosting. I was programmed as the bar and grill server, but it’s all bar and no grill as of late. Could I interest you in a drink? I regret to note we’re out of ice at the moment.”

Angel answered on his behalf before he could even consider cocktail options.

“Mister Carey, a Nuka-Cola Wild sounds to your liking, doesn’t it?”

'Choly would have rolled his eyes and objected to the euphemism for a designated driver, were it not for the irony that Angel had still not noticed that he had sampled at least three flavors of bicentennial Nuka-Cola and discovered they’d each turned alcoholic. But, he hadn’t encountered the sarsaparilla flavored variety in mention in the past few months, so although he had a suspicion it too would have fermented, he couldn’t confirm it from personal experience.

“We’re fresh out of Nuka-Cola Wild, I’m afraid,” the brass Handy apologized, believing its patron to be making up his mind as to what to order. “If you’d like something non-alcoholic, could I interest you instead in a Nuka-Cola Classic, or a Nuka-Cola Cherry?”

The chemist gave it a sloppy grin.

“You’re really too kind, Bogey. You don’t need to provide me dinner. I’ve already eaten tonight. Angel has the right idea. A Nuka-Cola Cherry sounds refreshing.”

While pouring the Nuka-Cola Cherry into a highball glass using two pincer tendrils, with the third Bogey surreptitiously flicked on the fusion cell lantern on the counter. The bar area illuminated with a warm coppery glow, and highlighted the myriad of dents in the chassis of the brass Handy. It set the glass in front of ‘Choly, as well as the bottle of what wouldn’t fit, and awaited his approval in bated posture.

“Thanks for the drink. Really hits the spot.” He sighed comfortably. “And thanks for turning on some light. My eyesight isn’t so great anymore.”

Bogey flinched, only to loosen, accepting the gratitude.

“You’ll be staying the night, then?” it fielded at a caution.

“If it’s all right with you, that is.” He took another drink. “You wouldn’t happen to have a straw, would you?”

It provided without skipping a beat, and he smiled approvingly as he fidgeted with the bending section. A straw made it so much easier.

“I suppose you could put down a bed roll behind the bar, or in the corner. Or, if it’s no trouble to you, there is a couch in the ladies’ locker room. We’ve no other patrons on the premises, and haven’t for many years, so I don’t think it would create any fuss.”

This time ‘Choly flinched, but recovered quickly enough to conceal the cause of the discomfort in Bogey’s proposition. He’d sooner admit loathing the idea of sleeping on yet another couch, than that he took exception to the furniture’s location. No, he couldn’t ask either of them to move it, either, because then they might ask why.

“Is this the only lantern?” ‘Choly asked it. “I wouldn’t ask to borrow it, if you need it.”

A little too readily, it nearly foisted the lantern upon him.

“It is! But, neither I nor Angel need it, if you’re so inclined.”

Bogey’s nervousness didn’t go unnoticed. He put a hand to the pincer holding the handle, and looked into its ocular lenses in earnest.

“You’re doing an amazing job. Really. Provided everything that’s happened, I’m still getting the same quality of service as I always have coming here.”

Bogey set down the lantern. It withdrew all its tendrils in close and turned away from him a moment, before glancing back to him by turning its lenses and not its body.

“...I’m glad to have your vote of confidence, Sir. It’s really been far too long since I’ve hosted anyone. You’re the first civil person I’ve encountered in easily a hundred years.”

“I can’t imagine there’s many people left with interest in playing golf, let alone knowledge how to play. The Commonwealth’s always had love affair with baseball, really. I always preferred fairway over diamond. Quiet. Broad. ...Cathartic. A real head space sport.”

“We shall see about arranging you with a bucket in the morning, if you so desire it, Sir. From the sound of things, you could really use a quiet commune."

“I’ve been telling Bogey about the recent series of scraps we’ve found ourselves in, Sir,” Angel elucidated, a little sheepishly. “It’s just I worry for you.”

“As long as you haven’t been exaggerating and telling Bogey I took out that deathclaw all by myself, or any of that,” ‘Choly laughed. He poured the rest of the bottle into the glass now that it had the room. “That couch already beckons. The day has already tried me.”

“It’s been trying for sure,” Angel agreed like a grammarian. “I’ll go lay out your blanket and pillow.”

“And my holotape, if you could,” ‘Choly called off to him once it was halfway to the lockers. “You know the one.”

“Ah yes. A bedtime story. Certainly, Sir!”

‘Choly left the empty glass for Bogey. He nearly reached into his pocket for a tip, but stopped short of the thought process at the realization that in lieu of human coworkers, a Mister Handy had no real use for money. His mouth became a thin line before he shot the brass Handy a huge grin and patted both hands on the counter. Even if it asked for money, he couldn’t in good conscience follow through with that habituation when he’d since learned better of the current economy of the Commonwealth. He stood and took up his cane, and picked up the lantern in the other.

“I must figure out a proper way to repay you for your hospitality before we head out, Bogey. Good night.”

“Oh, it’s quite all right, Sir. If it’s important to you, we can discuss it tomorrow. The only thing pressing at the moment is that you rest well.”

“With the two of you here, I’ll sleep easy for sure.”

“Mister Carey, I’ve arranged your bedding,” Angel reported emerging again from the lockers. “I’ll be right here in the lounge lobby, protecting you and Bogey. Just call for me if you need anything.”

At the mention of Bogey, he turned back to look at the brass Handy, to discover it had put out its pilot light to crouch on its tendrils through the night. His head fell askew as he continued on his way to bed, but he chalked it up to it reserving Handy Fuel. He snapped his fingers. Maintenance. He could provide Bogey maintenance. It’d be nothing as fancy as he’d given Angel, without the proper tools or materials, but surely Bogey had gone decades if not centuries without a re-fuel and a tune up. That would serve the Handy bounds before any currency ever could, especially one isolated in the middle of a large abandoned golfing green.

The ladies’ locker room had fewer lockers and more space. Angel had left not just the ‘Flyblown’ holotape on the coffee table, but also a canister of water, and he set down his glasses and the lantern with them. He’d leave on the light throughout the night, just for sake of it being an unfamiliar location. 'Choly toed his shoes under the faded dark blue leather couch, settled down onto it, and pulled the covers over himself. Since the couch’s arms still had most of their filling, he opted to stuff the pillow between his legs. He popped the holotape into his Pip-Boy’s cassette deck and set to reading to unwind amid the heavy low of the final Melancholia and the slurring comfort of intoxication.

The notion of scandalizing bloatfly syringe usage had rotted into an entirely different context since the conception of the work of fiction. It had been his go-to escapism off and on for months now, but he hadn’t reread it since before he’d escaped the burning pharmacy. Bloatfly syringes no longer exclusively existed in fictional parameters. He’d seen what they were capable of in reality. He found himself glazing over every few paragraphs and having to reread frequently, and ultimately closed the document and turned off the Pip-Boy screen.

‘Choly stared off into the recessed detailing of the ceiling, and how the lantern light, trapped in the crumbling edges of the peeling paint, created the illusion of a pile of dead leaves. He’d dodged death more times than he probably knew in just the last week alone. He could have burned alive in the pharmacy. Jared’s raiders could have caught him and murdered him for killing their leader. The deathclaw could have torn every last one of them apart. Radiation poisoning would have gotten him, if Angel hadn’t found him in the Red Rocket. They could have been blown to bits in that car graveyard. And if that giant mosquito had stabbed him in the chest even an inch further down, it would have pierced his heart. It seemed like just about anything in the wasteland could kill him, and a majority of it would kill him without hesitation.

Inspiration lay in wait all around him. He’d have to get more creative with his bucket list erotica, next time he penned any. Even in the slim chance that Mama Murphy hadn’t explicitly spoken the future into the present, it at least proved he could endeavor that his works act as a form of vicarious self-fulfilling prophecy. He drifted to sleep floating amid the notion that very little stood in the way of fiction becoming reality any longer. He need only apply himself...

‘Choly completed his rooftop chem break for the afternoon, and retired to his office garden to sow a fresh layer of fertilizer. The next thing he knew, he was coming up for air after having his face shoved down in the gardening planter full of brahmin manure. His head swam and swirled with kaleidoscoping hubflowers and flies. Eventually he was washing himself in the Mystic River while Angel laundered his clothing, chastising him all the while as though it believed he’d taken that nosedive on purpose. “Did you intend for that encounter to end your life?” If it’d had a tongue, it’d have clicked it in distaste. A cloud of bloodbugs swarmed him as Angel fish-eyed further and further out of reach. They jabbed him and sprayed his naked body with his own partly-digested blood. The Quincy survivors stood on the opposite bank, staring at him. He tried to cry out for his Mister Handy, but it minded the laundry. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it, Mister Kara?”

He was in the Red Rocket with Jacob again, fucking on the desk. He clawed for breath in a panic as the familiarity of acute radiation poisoning overwhelmed him. Bloatfly larvae packed into the feral ghoul’s fetid features, and they fell off and out of the ghoul and onto ‘Choly. Rather than lingering, they fell off into the floor and all over the desk, seeking to crawl back onto feral ghoul. Tears rolled down his face between the pain and rejection, and he could tell the mosquitoes had infected him with something that caused him acute, rapid swelling in his lower half. He realized the recoolant station office was crowded with other faces, all as rotten and disfigured but just as recognizable as Jacob’s. All of them teemed with those diligent lichinka, in wriggling indifference to ‘Choly. Jared. Mrs. Rosa. Heydar Jahani. Gristle, Lonnie, and Jerry. Jerry, in her power armor frame, with her Fatman perched squarely on her shoulder, ready to fire on him.

He shot awake when Jerry pulled the trigger, and gasped amid smoke. The pharmacy was on fire, and Angel was nowhere to be found. His legs had become so swollen, tight, and stiff, that he couldn’t move. He pulled his face into his shirt collar, and couldn’t stop coughing. A woman in ornate sheer lace lingerie stood before him, rubenesque and redheaded in silhouette of the flames behind her. She administered a Stimpak syringe to her hip and sneered at him with a sustained stare. He knew it was Duchesne, but he didn’t have the breath to call out to her. Stocking-foot and disinterested in the fire, she approached him out of pity. In closer proximity, he recognized she had succumbed to the same flyblown putrescence as the others. “You always wanted to know what the Stimpaks were for, didn’t you?” She administered another, and discarded the empty syringe to the floor. The fold of her thighs roiled with lichinka beneath her panties. “It’s so they don’t leave before they finish what they’re here for.” Duchesne traced a third Stimpak from ‘Choly’s jaw down to his stomach, and he stuttered. Her lip curled in revulsion. Both of them could tell the larvae would not contour to his body despite hers came in proximity. “Not even Radroaches would eat you.”

'Choly awoke hyperventilating in a fever chill. He steadied his breathing as he opened the health tab on his Pip-Boy to double-check it had not sensed blood pathogens of any kind during its diagnosis. No malaria, no filariasis. No bacteria, viruses, or parasites. His tongue stuck to his cotton mouth and he frowned, reaching for the water canister. Sitting up, he wet his throat then washed his face. The sun had risen, and filtered in through the clerestory windows which lined the top of the wall at the half of the locker room with the lavatories and showers. He turned off the lantern, then folded up his blanket.

Like the men’s locker room, the ladies’ lockers had also all been left open, with the patrons’ clothing folded neatly. He skimmed their contents, half-lucid, and realized only in contrast to the women’s garments, what had been missing from the men’s lockers. He helped himself to any socks and stockings he found, as well as a geranium red cashmere sweater. No valuables of any kind lay in either set of lockers: no money, no jewelry, no timepieces. If this place had been looted, the clothing wouldn’t have been folded so ceremoniously. Bogey must have combed it over and deposited all valuables in a safe somewhere on premises. He caught himself scheming whether he needed to sneak around Bogey to determine the safe’s location, and chastised himself for even thinking about taking advantage of such a good host. He put his hands on a pair of lacy black panties and guffawed in delight at the very thought of wearing them, only to jerk in recollection of the nightmare he’d just had, and he flung them down with a nauseated snarl.

He piled his things, old and new, atop the blanket, and carried his effects in this way across the way to the men’s room, where he’d left everything else overnight. He found Angel had slung his canvas spinal corset and Vault Suit over the locker doors to dry, and stared at the blood stains for some time. After pinching the fabrics to test their dryness, he disrobed, slipped on his orthotics, and redressed. He appreciated how tacky it was, to wear one striped sock and one argyle. One mirror in the men’s room had survived, and with it he used a few splashes of water to slick his hair and tuck it into a fresh french twist.

The chemist cursed his initial craving to start his day with a Melancholia, recalling he now had none left. He couldn’t tell if he sought the comfort of the meal replacement, or the nepenthe of the opiates. With a sigh, he opted for the cashmere sweater rather than the sweater vest, and folded the contrast cuffs over the cuffs of the sweater. He then put on his shoes, and went out into the lobby lounge with his cane.

“Good morning, Sir!” Angel sped up to him with a fresh cup of coffee for him. “You slept well, I hope?”

“I think the healing affected me in a bad way,” he murmured, taking the coffee to the closest table to sit. His face scrunched up and stared into the drink. “...This isn’t my mug.”

“...Ah, it’s one of ours,” Bogey explained, also approaching. “Angel told me this morning that, in your haste to escape that explosion yesterday afternoon, the two of you left behind the hot plate and percolator it had been using to brew your coffee. Between my appliances and dishes, and its purified water and coffee grounds, we concerted our efforts to ensure you had a fine drink to awaken to.”

‘Choly’s face journeyed through exasperation to appreciation in a matter of seconds, and he let the mug warm his hands for lack of a better reaction.

“We can easily replace the percolator and hot plate,” Angel reassured. “The hard thing to replace would have been the beans, and that’s still safely stowed in my storage.”

“You can keep the mug, if you like it. A souvenir from the Billerica Golf Course.”

“Heh. You two are just swell--”

He winced at his choice of words, still unable to distance himself from the nightmare. He thanked them both through clenched teeth, and shoved it all down by taking a testing sip of the hot black drink.

“Would you like me to whip up a box of Insta-Mash for you, Sir? Or perhaps you’d rather some more sweet rolls?”

“I’ve honey roasted peanuts, as well.” Bogey dropped five heat-sealed clear bags of peanuts onto the table, then returned to hovering just behind Angel. “If you’d like. It’s all I have.”

He smiled.

“Peanuts and a sweet roll sound superb. My appetite’s not so great when I first wake up. I’ll eat more at lunch.” Angel set the requested pastry before him, but he didn’t eat just yet. He patted his hands together, then wrung them. “In the mean time... Bogey. I’ve been giving it some thought. I have the money for the cola from last night, and for the peanuts and coffee now, and for your hospitality... But you’re the only one on premises, aren’t you? Money’s not going to do you much good if you’re out here all alone.”

“I-- I meant it last night, that you haven’t got to recompense my attentions. It’s been a delight in itself to have someone to tend to again after all these years.”

He persisted in the offer, his smile widening. His nose scrunched to push up his glasses.

“I’m sure Angel’s mentioned that I do maintenance on it, and that I’m responsible for its recent upgrades. I can take a look at you, and see what I can do about anything ailing you. Angel went a long time without upkeep, and I’m sure you need it just as much as it did. You mentioned Angel provided the water, for instance. I can get your condensators working again. And I noticed you put out your pilot light last night. You were conserving gas, weren’t you? I can refill your fuel tank.”

“Oh! that sounds just delightful,” Angel beamed. “Bogey, Mister Carey will get you right as new. You really must say yes. I swear by his care.”

“I... I’m not sure what to say.” Bogey withdrew back by a row of tables, its tendrils curled at its front. “You... you noticed I put out my pilot light. I didn’t mean to give you cause to fret.”

"Neither of you affected the quality of my sleep. I promise.” He bit into his pastry finally, his mouth suffusing with cinnamon oil. “We really can’t stay too long, Bogey. Say you’ll let me look you over before we go. I have to pay back your hospitality and kindness somehow.”

“If you really must insist, a tune up sounds... well, it sounds too good to be true.” Bogey caught itself in the reflex to dart away, and stood firm. “I... I have to admit, I thought you might be one of those... ugh, Devils, when I first caught a glimpse of Angel. I should have known better. Your work is much more sightly, and much more careful. I can certainly appreciate that you stayed within the scope of the General Atomics warranty.”

‘Choly’s brow flattened, then raised slowly from behind his coffee as he sipped.

“Devils? You’ll have to tell me all about it while I work.”

Go to Next »»»

#fallout 4 #fo4 fanfic #fallout 4 fanfic #sole survivor #mister handy #the anatomy of melancholy #melancholy #angel #bogey #the plot thiccens

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247krp · 6 years ago

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— Rejoice, little lambs! We have recovered our own Koizumi ‘Hiko’ Takehiko, spotted prancing about in the Southwest Side. I remember seeing him with The Musketeers back in high school, but I’m not here to spill yesterday’s tea. So straight to the rundown: can you say stoic and plastic? Apparently now he spends time as the director of Koizumi Glassware, and keeps skeletons buried at Geumsang Apartment Complex, A201. But those won’t stay hidden for long, if you and I have any say on it. Welcome back, Glass Prince; we missed you so.

TW: mention of death

In case you don’t remember the devil’s name, here’s to refresh your memory:

Takehiko was what you could call a perfect and well-mannered boy. Probably trained to dress and act like a modern prince; He was a traditional and rather conservative man—as to what most of his family members usually consist as. He was told to always act dignified, elegant, and graceful like the perfect gentleman. Even if it means you have to fake your ass from head to toe just to please and get along with people.

It was probably because of that reason that he got into his group of The Musketeers. He didn’t find them annoying nor did they get into trouble. They acted like gentlemen’s, people with no faults that some would even see as saints or good Samaritans. Takehiko liked that, he liked the image he and his “friends” showed to the public.

The only reason he was probably in Gossip Girl and how he got the nickname Glass Prince was because he acted like this kicked puppy that looked like he would break when bad things happened like getting a low grade or getting injured in class; perfect for his “fragile” personality and for his family’s business.

It made his family very proud… That is, until A’s scandal came out.

He felt disgusted, very much annoyed. He now saw his friends as a nuisance and taint to his image; the one thing he was protecting so his family wouldn’t be ashamed of him. As quickly as he could, he broke ties with the other two, and pretended to never know them.

He doesn’t care about anyone but, himself anyways. Gossip Girl may have given him the wrong alias after all, instead of Glass Prince, he was probably the Ice Prince after finding out how fake and cold he was underneath that entire innocent act.

Nevermind the memory lane though, the present is always the ripest fruit:

As of now, he’s acting as the Director of Koizumi Glassware. When he had reached high school their family business soared into the skies and made him into a millionaire. Etiquette and class were emphasized all the more hence why he still keeps up his act of being such a gentleman who keeps it all together. He could careless about everybody; all he cares about is his family and them living the good life.

Others still remember how he had acted before on high school, finding out about his plastic personality. But, that doesn’t mean they can’t turn a blind eye to the past when Takehiko was such a good businessman and that his own handmade glass work were so divine and of top quality.

But we are nothing if not open books – my job is to ensure you get to the best pages:

Takehiko lived most of his life in Korea, he doesn’t even remember much of his younger years living in Japan. His father was the 2nd son of the Koizumi family. When their glass making business that was started by his grandfather started to become successful, his grandfather ordered his father to move to Korea so that they can build their business in the country (and with an ulterior motive in mind).

His father, the ever obedient son that he was agreed and moved his family to Korea; it was hard at first, knowing nothing of the culture and language, even being discriminated by their own neighbours for being Japanese. Little Takehiko didn’t have that many friends; most of the kids bullied him for his weird accent and lack of knowledge of Korea. It made the young boy cry many times and that’s where he started to toughen up and close himself to people.

Being the only son with parents who were gone most of the time due to trying to build the family business, he was often left alone to himself. Takehiko had strict instructions from his parents, go home early, do your homework, do your extracurricular activities, and then be in bed before 10 o’clock.

That was his usual routine and he was never to break them unless he wanted to be punished; Takehiko the perfect son, a little angel in the eyes of his parents.

Oh how being such perfect son meant living such a lonely life. But, he hadn’t cared. As long as his family was happy, then he too could learn to be happy for them. It became less lonely when his parents got a housemaid for him. They realized they were being too hard on their son and that he needed someone to properly take care of him.

Thankfully, his housemaid had a daughter that became his playmate and very first friend.

Her name was Aerum and she was as beautiful as her name told her to be. She was his first everything, from being his playmate, first friend, first best friend, until she became his first girlfriend.

He loved her like she had put the moon and the stars in the night sky and he adored her like she was the most precious treasure in the world that needed to be protected. He pledged his undying love and loyalty to the only girl he had ever loved and even promised to marry her as soon as he would graduate from college.

His life was perfect, even when he had to suck up to some of his teachers at school, have the image of the perfect teacher’s pet and act like the gentlemen who helped other and be the bigger person when people bullied him (even when he so wanted to beat them up to a bloody pulp), but none of it mattered.

His family was happy, their family business was going well, Aerum was happy and they were together. Nothing could go wrong…

Until that happened.

In middle school, their family business had gone from small time to big time. Investors were coming in from everywhere, there was more pressure from his family, the expectations were higher, and he needed to be perfect for everything. It was all so exhausting, but at least he had Aerum by his side.

Until he hadn’t anymore.

High school came and their family had become a big shot company. He was expected to succeed, an heir to the Koizumi Glassware in Korea… It didn’t help that Aerum had become pregnant just as he was about to finish high school. It couldn’t, he can’t have all of this happening all at once. First the family pressure, then the scandal at school with A and now Aerum was pregnant? He was going to die from stress at this point.

They needed to get rid of the baby.

It didn’t matter how much Aerum had begged to keep the child, didn’t matter when she told him that it was alright if she could keep it a secret from everyone, tell her mother she cheated on him and it was some other guy’s kid, she could raise their child alone until it was the right time for him to be ready and they could become a family. She would sacrifice everything, she just begged Takehiko to please let her keep the child.

He should’ve listened to her.

They went to an abortion center, forced Aerum to get rid of the baby… All of it cost the young girl her life. The love of his life, his only friend, the one person he swore to protect and her blood was on his hands.

He became cold and stoic after that. He shut himself off. His family had wanted to disown him for doing such a thing but, he could not feel anything for he could only feel the loss of Aerum. His family paid off Aerum’s family, they had him focus into studying and solve the scandal with A as soon as possible and a few years later after he graduated, they introduced him to is fiancé.

Oh how cruel life can be, they can really give some big ass fucking lemons at times.

#247: accepted

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ibelily · 8 years ago

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Sixty-five percent

Okay so I wrote this whilst at work so sorry for any spelling errors but who can be bothered to proofread, really?

Summary: Logan’s been doing research, and Anxiety is NOT happy about it.

Pairing: platonic Analogical i suppose?

TW: none I think

Logan’s research was going well. He had a notepad filled with data, observations and calculations: just the way he liked it. He loved studying things, events, phenomena, but frequently found himself lacking in motivation to do such. Thankfully he’d recently found the perfect subject. He was finishing of some final calculations on his yellow pad, and was very happy with the result.

As he looked over at Anxiety quite literally curled up in a ball on the sofa, a peaceful look on his face, he underlined his final result twice. 65%. Anxiety was 65% cat.

He sighed happily. He loved working things like this out. All that was left was to share his new knowledge with his companions in the best way he could think of: a Powerpoint presentation.

***

“EXCUSE ME?” Anxiety gawked at the words emblazoned across the wall. They had an overhead projector that was most often used for movie nights, but right now it was being used by Logan to display his presentation to the rest of the group, who were all sat together on the one large sofa. Displayed in bold letters was the phrase “IS ANXIETY A CAT? A comprehensive study by Logan”.

“I know, I’m not happy with the title either.” Logic agreed “I was going to title it ‘A case study of catlike qualities in human beings: subject 001 a.k.a Anxiety’ but in the end I went for something more attention-grabbing and I’m kind of regretting it now. It seems too flashy”.

“You’ve been studying me?” Anxiety was enraged.

“Of course” Logan deadpanned. “I wouldn’t make such a claim if I didn’t have the research to back it up” He grabbed his USB laser pointer and clicked the button on it, changing the page of his presentation.

“I had recently noticed that some of Anxiety’s behavioural patterns were strange, not that of a normal, well-functioning human” Anxiety scoffed. Logan ignored him. “I wondered which animal had the same sort of patterns, and after a little research it came to me: his behaviour was very similar to that of a cat. I therefore took it upon myself to study these behavioural patterns, link them up with those of a cat’s, in order to put a numerical value on Anxiety’s…. felinity”

“Is that even a word?” Prince asked confusedly.

“It is now” Logan answered. The others stared at him, each with a different expression on their faces: Anxiety was growing more and more annoyed, Roman was still a little confused, and Patton was smiling widely as usual. He considered any time all four of them were in the same room as bonding time.

“My first step was simple observation” the Teacher continued “I kept a watchful eye on Anxiety and took down notes on anything that could be considered a cat-like quality”. He changed page again and up came a long list, accompanied by a few pictures that had obviously been stealthily taken, some slightly blurry and from low angles. Roman giggled at the comical faces Anxiety was pulling in the pictures, but before the dark trait could argue even more Logan launched into his speech.

“As we all already know, Anxiety spends much of his time eating or sleeping, a common way of life for cats.”

“The world is a horrible place, why would I want to get out of bed and do anything else?” Anxiety defended himself, throwing up a hand.

“Audience participation is not accepted at this time, there will be time for a Q&A at the end.” Logan countered “But be that as it may, I took it upon myself to delve deeper into the subject’s sleeping patterns. Upon glancing into his bedroom a few times, I concluded that Anxiety sleeps in the same position that cats frequently do: curled up in a ball. I also found him sleeping in various places not meant for such a thing, much like the poem by Eleanor Farjeon entitled ‘Cats sleep anywhere’. So far I have recorded him sleeping on the sofa, on the top of the back of said sofa, and even once on the dining room table” He pointed with his laser at the corresponding photos.

“Hey!” Anxiety objected “I was exhausted that day and the table looked comfy”.

“Are you going to interrupt every time?” Logan asked exasperated.

“Yes” Anxiety said defiantly to which Logic just huffed. Patton raised his hand and Logan sighed before pointing at him, signalling for him to talk.

“Can I-” Before he could finish his question Logan interrupted.

“Yes Morality, you can keep the pictures” Morality squealed in delight, making Logan smile as he turned back to his presentation. At least someone was enjoying his work.

“Carrying on! Observation number two: when Anxiety is faced with confrontation, his expresses his aggression in the same way a cat would. He hisses at people, such as during the debate he and I had, and he also is known to scratch.” He pointed at picture of Roman’s face, head turned to the left, a long red mark trailing down his right cheek.

“Oh so that’s why you wanted to take a picture of my face!” Roman exclaimed, pointing at the picture.

“Of course Roman, why else would I want a picture of your face?”

“Why wouldn’t you want a picture of this gorgeous face?” He waved his hands around his face to illustrate his point, showing off his natural confident smirk.

“He deserved that scratch, he insulted My Chemical Romance!” Anxiety was still in full defensive mode, and didn’t even bother to mock Prince for his self-centered attitude.

“Observation number three!” Logan used his sternest teacher voice to regain his audience’s attention. It seemed to work.

“For hallowe’en last year, Anxiety dressed up…” he paused to add suspense, and switched the slide to a picture of the four of them from last October “...as a cat!”

“So what? That proves nothing” Anxiety said.

“Oh really? And what was your costume the year before? And the year before that?” LOgan enquired. Anxiety said nothing, just folded his arms and suck down lower into his seat.

“I knew that these observations weren’t enough, even all tied together, so I took it upon myself to get more evidence and for that I had to perform a few… experiments.”

“What.” Anxiety was past annoyed now, heading straight into angry territory. He had stopped raising his voice and now it was low and menacing.

“They were minor experiments, I assure you. You didn’t even notice” Logan’s attempt at reassuring Anxiety was met with a hard stare. Maintaining a healthy distance from the angry trait, Logic continued.

“First of all I decided to find out what Anxiety’s opinions were on milk, as it’s common knowledge that cats enjoy the liquid immensely. So I offered Anxiety a glass of the beverage one morning in the kitchen. He quickly accepted and drank the whole thing, then proceeded to pour himself another glass. I also noted that when he drinks the milk, he has a tendency to stick out his tongue into the glass, much like a cat would lap up milk.”

Prince couldn’t help but laugh, but was quickly silenced by a glare by Anxiety.

“The next experiment” Logan continued “was a more delicate one. When Anxiety and I were alone in the kitchen the other day, I took the occasion to create a small lesion on the top his hand”

“Oh my GOD you injured me for research?!? You told me the knife slipped out of your hand!” Anxiety growled and lunged at Logan, only to be tugged back by Roman who wrapped his arms around his torso and held him down. Logan took a few steps back, but refused to run from Anxiety.

“I did what I had to do for SCIENCE! Besides, you’re fine, it didn’t even scar!” Logan snapped back. He took a moment to compose himself, and after a nod from Prince letting him know that he wouldn’t let go of Anxiety until the end, he continued.

“Upon receiving the injury, Anxiety put his mouth to the wound and started licking it clean, just as a cat would do.”

He was speaking directly to Morality now -who was still enthralled by the whole presentation- as he did not wanting to see the look on Anxiety’s face.

“The final piece of evidence that I’ve collected is that Anxiety loves having his hair played with and stroked. I managed to get close enough to him to attempt it once, and he immediately relaxed and started making a noise I can equate only to purring. All of these factors allowed me to calculate Anxiety’s feline percentage…” He switched to a slide full of complicated looking mathematics “...which as you can see, is 64,89%, which I rounded up to 65%. So we can conclude that Anxiety is 65% cat, and therefore more cat than human.” He finished, looking over to the spot that he’d been avoiding making eye contact with for the last few minutes. To his surprise, Anxiety had his eyes shut and looked far less angry than he was. Roman still had an arm around his middle, but his other hand was wound into Anxiety’s hair and he was scratching his scalp gently. A small noise erupted from Anxiety’s throat making every single one of them pause. It was definitely a purr. His eyes shot open to see them all staring at him. He coughed and shot up out of his seat.

“This is stupid, you’re stupid, I’m out” He stuttered and all but ran out of the room.

***

Hours later, Logan found himself in Anxiety’s bedroom, intending to apologize. Morality had made him see that although he hadn’t meant any harm, his actions were hurtful (both emotionally and physically in this case) towards their friend. He’d knocked on the door to Anxiety’s abode but upon receiving no answer he’d pushed the door open to see Anxiety curled up on his bed, on top of the duvet, snoring lightly. The sight made Logic smile; the boy really was a cat. He approached as silently as possible and placed on the bed the item in his hands. He’d wanted to give it to Anxiety at the end of the presentation, but the boy had run away before he had a chance. It was a pair of black headphones, which had on the head strap a pair of cat ears that glowed purple when music was playing. Logan felt they represented Anxiety perfectly, and seeing them for the first time online is what prompted the whole study in the first place. He scribbled an apology note on a scrap of paper from Anxiety’s desk and laid it with the gift before leaving the room quietly.

When Anxiety emerged from his room the next day wearing the head gear, listening undoubtedly to My Chemical Romance, no one said a thing.

#A sandersides fic #Anxiety sanders #Prince sanders #logic sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #Morality Sanders #analogical

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crimsonrevolt · 6 years ago

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Congratulations Amos you’ve been accepted to Crimson Revolt as Rabastan Lestrange

↳ please refer to our character checklist

Amos! We were so excited to see your application in our inbox, and even more to see that you were going for a character outside of your norm. For a Death Eater, especially a Lestrange, you captured Rabastan perfectly. It’s clear what drives him and how his mind works, and we can’t see where you take him moving forward in CRT. Welcome to the family!

application beneath the cut ( tw: mentions of drug and sexual assault )

OUT OF CHARACTER

Introduction: Amos, 21, he/him, GMT

Activity: Starting from February I’ll have a 9-5 job, I’m also writing a dissertation, and I would say I’m have a fairly moderate social life, so I can’t promise to be on 24/7, but I will most likely be on in the evenings, and I will most likely rp when I’m procrastinating doing actual work.

How did you find us? Just through a tumblr search for literate rps

Anything else? On Rabastan’s bio it gives his age as twenty, but looking at the current in game date and the graduation list, I think he’s 22? But I could have figured that out wrong. Either way I’m happy to move his birth year around to fit whatever.

IN CHARACTER

Desired character: Rabastan Lestrange

Birthday / star sign: 17th April 1957 - Aries

Occupation: Unemployed, and that’s the way he likes it. His family is wealthy enough that he’ll probably never have to think too much about money. He can live day to day, and do as he pleases without ever thinking about the gold he’s spending. Being the brother to Rodolphus, he’ll occasionally dress up fancy and attend formal events, shake hands with the right people, pose for the right pictures, give the right comments to the right reporters. However he much prefers pulling the strings of political figures and public opinion from the shadows. As anyone can see, he’s far too busy for an actual job.

Faceclaim: Matthew Daddario (no change, I think? It’s different on his bio, and on the directory. But I’d prefer to use Matthew)

Reason for chosen character: I have a habit of playing squeaky clean or at least morally good characters, and I’ve grown bored of it. I think Rabastan will challenge me, he’s just exciting. I’m inspired to write a morally corrupt bad boy right now, to figure out what drives him and what his motives are. It’ll be interesting to play someone who thinks very differently to how I think.

Rabastan has a lot of qualities that I would usually despise in someone. Obviously, he’s dedicated to this fascist movement. He’s aggressive and violent. He’s definitely not a feminist. Honestly if he were around today he’d probably deny global warming too. He wouldn’t hunt foxes, but only because he’s having too much fun hunting muggles. Any sane person would hate him. So, it’ll be incredibly interesting to find a way to make him likeable. He has a tender side, he has weaknesses, he has affection. He just finds it difficult to access these or admit to them. I don’t think he sees himself as a bad person. I think he can rationalise all his actions and beliefs. Maybe there’s some naivety to him. I think he finds it very hard to do anything at less than 110%. Either he’s indifferent or he’s set on fire with the passion of it all. The things he doesn’t care about fall to the wayside, the things he holds as sacred get his whole attention.

Preferred ships // Character sexuality // Gender & Pronouns: Male – He/Him, Bisexual, No preferred ships.

Sex and romance are two very separate things for Rabastan. Sex is something he does to blow off steam. He has an urge and he fulfils it. I think he’s a pretty selfish lover, especially when his partner is a women. I think he’ll take what he wants without too much of a thought for his partner. With men it’s more fun for him, perhaps because he doesn’t really see it as real. Obviously, he’s engaged to Emma at this point. I don’t think he’d see having sex with men as cheating, and no amount of reasoning could convince him otherwise. It’s just a fact that he is never going to marry a man, and he can’t get them pregnant, so having sex with them almost doesn’t count. That being said, I don’t think he’d have a problem with sleeping with other woman whilst engaged to Emma either. Emma sleeping around though, would trigger his temper in a heartbeat.

I feel like there might be some kind of trauma in his past, maybe some older relative praying on him when he was younger, and him experiencing some kind of sexual abuse. This is why he’s emotionally detached from sex, and he likes to be in control of every sexual encounter. But I think that’s very subconscious and he’s probably buried a lot of those memories and feelings.

He’s extremely sceptical of romance and romantic love. He’s never understood it, and never experienced it for himself. If it is real, it’s something that happens to other, softer people. I think one day it’s going to hit him like a train when he’s least expecting it and he’s not going to handle it very gracefully.

CREATE ONE (OR MORE!) OF THE FOLLOWING FOR YOUR CHARACTER

§ Trait expansion:

�� Charming – Rabastan likes to get what he wants, and if that means he has to draw that person in with a smile, he’ll do it. He knows how to make people feel good. And that just makes it even better when he decides to ruin them. Rabastan can hold an audience captive, can make someone feel like they’re the only person in the world that matters. He can also make them feel like they’re burning from the inside out.

✓ Spontaneous – This doesn’t mean that Rabastan doesn’t think critically and pre-determine certain actions. He’s not an idiot who jumps into situations unprepared. All the time. He’s spontaneous when he feels he can’t lose, or alternatively, when he feels he has nothing left to lose. Showing up at a friend house for an unexpected night out, doing 5 tequila shots and going home with a girl he picked up at the bar, spontaneous but relatively low risk. Dropping his pants during a press conference and declaring his loyalty to the Dark Lord just for the heck of it, fairly high risk, definitely not something he’d do in a hurry. This plays into the fun-loving side of him. He’s game until it isn’t fun anymore, and he’s not going to deliberately do something that’s going to cause him hell.

✕ Deceptive – There are very few people who know the real Rabastan inside and out. His brother is probably one of the closest. Even Rabastan himself isn’t always completely clued in. Though he acts confident, he can doubt his identity. Largely his deceptiveness is a security tactic. If people don’t know the whole truth, they can’t hurt him as efficiently. Unfortunately, this also means he can lose his sense of self.

✕ Easily bored - Rabastan is a hedonist, he gets bored easily, he seeks thrills, he’s not one to sit still and wait for what he wants, he’ll go out and chase it. This does mean he has a few unhealthy habits for dealing with the all too common boredom. Drugs, alcohol, sex, cruelty, or a combination.

§ Potential plots/connections:

The Regular – Someone Rabastan meets up with regularly to let out frustrations, usually in the form of sex, but perhaps with other pass times. Perhaps they think they know Rabastan pretty well, and maybe Rabastan feels the urge to let them in. But he keeps them at arm’s length nonetheless. The more he’s feels vulnerable with them, the more he wants to hurt them. Perhaps Rabastan harbours genuine affection for this person, or maybe they are nothing more than a plaything. Maybe this person feels the same way about him.

The Master – Someone who has power over Rabastan. Maybe they have dirt on him and use it for blackmail, maybe Rabastan owes them a debt, or perhaps Rabastan is inexplicably loyal to them for emotional reasons he’d rather not admit to himself. Whatever the reason, Rabastan is forced to do things he wouldn’t usually choose for himself.

The Rival – Someone that makes Rabastan’s blood boil every time he sees them. Perhaps the bad blood goes back a long way, or maybe the dislike is instantaneous and inexplicable. Rabastan wants nothing more to destroy this person, but they match him blow for blow everytime they go head to head. These battles may take the form of actual duels, or they maybe carefully plotted actions to tears the other’s life apart from the shadows.

The Weakness – Someone Rabastan feels genuinely close to. He may not admit it but he cares for this person deeply, and he doesn’t always know what to do with those feelings. He gets it wrong a lot of the time, he may push them away, but this person knows him better than most. Maybe this knowing is an intuitive feeling, or perhaps its long-term experience gathered over many years. Someone Rabastan would go to when he’s fucked up. Someone he would protect from harm no matter what. This person is Rabastan’s weakness.

IN CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE

§ Do you think it is more important to be feared or loved? Which would you rather be?

Fear, absolutely. Fear drives people, love just slows them down. Besides it’s much easier to cultivate fear. Love doesn’t last long if you don’t tend to it regularly, and I really don’t have the time. You can break someone once and it can infect everything they do for the rest of their lives. That’s power.

§ What is one thing you would never want said about you?

Let it never be said that Rabastan Lestrange doesn’t know how to have a good time. If you think you have a hope in hell of keeping up with me you better buck up your ideas.

§ If you were able to invent one spell, potion, or charm, what would it do, what would you use it for or how would you use it? Feel free to name it!

Merlin, just give me a potion that means I don’t have to sleep. Who has time for that shit?

§ What kinds of decisions are the most difficult for you to make?

Deciding where to eat is always a struggle. Deciding who to eat with. Deciding how much I can tell them. Deciding how to get rid of them when they let me down.

REACTION TO LAST EVENT DROP

Rabastan probably posed for a few pictures when the Daily Prophet started rebuilding. Shook a few hands, smoothed over a few wrinkles. But he probably wasn’t too involved, he’s not interested in the heavy lifting.

Rabastan likes Quidditch as much as the next man. He most likely used the world cup as an excuse to party harder than he usually does. The Aversio stunt made his blood boil. At such a public event, there was nothing he could do to counter it. He did not like feeling helpless. He probably went out to attack some muggles in the following days to vent his frustration.

WRITING SAMPLE

TW: Swearing, drugs

Rabastan padded through the house, tossing the quaffle up and catching it, creating a rhythmic thumping. There was a tenseness in his arms, a restraint, his jaw tight. Then without warning he hurled the quaffle. It smashed directly into a priceless vase, shards of china exploding across the room. He let a huff out through his nostrils as he examined the scene. Damn these insolent rebels. Mudbloods, blood traitors, mislead idiots, he’d kill them all.

The floor boards creaked behind him and when he turned around the girl was standing in the doorway.

“Come back to bed.” She gave him a sly smile but his expression didn’t change.

“Get dressed, and get out.” He said slowly, articulating every word so that even a halfwit like her could understand. Unsurprisingly she didn’t.

“What? I don’t-“

“Leave! Now!” He roared, anger getting the better of him. She flinched as if she’d been physically hit and ran back to the bedroom. He was still, listening, until he heard the front door slam behind her.

With that he took his wand from the harness that kept it strapped to his forearm, and repaired the vase. Everything else was a fucking mess, no need for his living space to reflect that. The girl had been a nice distraction the night before but she was nothing. Now he needed to focus on the bigger problems, like retrieving his fiancée. It wasn’t so much a matter of love, but pride. She belonged to him, and every hour she was withheld from him was an insult. Of course not being the Minister of Magic his problems were pushed down the priority list. But this didn’t look good for any of them. One of the most powerful wizarding families in Britain and they couldn’t even keep hold of their women.

He didn’t trust the Aurors to return her safely to him either. Half of them were probably involved in the capture, and those that weren’t were incapable fools. If he wanted her found, he’d have to do it himself. He was half tempted to leave it a little longer. It would stir up more public sympathy, a bigger story when she was miraculously saved by her doting fiancé. Besides, if she was stupid enough to get herself kidnapped she might as well suffer a little longer.

However, he was impatient. Now, he could play detective, or he could smoke out a member of aversio, using them for information or a bargaining chip. He knew which one appealed to him more.

He scribbled a quick note about his intentions to his brother and tossed his jittery bird out of the window. It didn’t go into detail, that would be careless, but Rodolphus would understand. Not that he would take it seriously. Rodolphus rarely took him seriously.

He picked out his clothes carefully, making sure his appearance was immaculate in the mirror. Appearances were everything. Then he took a small vial from a drawer and downed the potion. It burned the back of his throat, and a small involuntary gasp escaped when it hit his system, his eyes blown wide for a second before returning to normal. It wasn’t anything particularly strong, just something to sharpen his edges. There were some in the drawer that could send him into oblivion, but this was all he needed today.

His wand was now strapped back to his arm, hidden discreetly beneath his shirt, but still easily accessible. He checked it once more. Every second his intentions became clearer and his future actions more defined. With purpose, he turned on the spot and disapparated.

It was time to go hunting.

#accepted app #rabastan lestrange

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