#its in my turkish blood to hate him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

historia-vitae-magistras · 10 months

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Do you have any fic about the difference between how Matt is to Alfred vs Jack/Zee? That feels untapped.

Four cunts and a Kiwi walk into a trench.... Please note this is a work of historical fiction based roughly on the Kaiserschlacht of 1918, Germany's last offensive. It is not a textbook. The interactions here cannot possibly begin to represent the real motions of history. The depictions of war and empire are fictional. Everyone's a piece of shit in this, but they are fictional pieces of shit. The existing author's views do not align with that of the fictional characters or any other message you think you're gleaning from this. Everyone in the following piece is fictional and over the age of 18. Do not get your morality from fanfic. No one is happy, no one is having a good time. They are individual, fictional characters and they are miserable. If I haven't made them miserable enough its because my wrist is busted in two places and I'm not in the fucking mood. Flanders March 1918

Matt’s slicker is draped over the tent pegs, a crude shelter against the elements beating down on them. Between Matt shoved in tightly to his left and Zee wedged into his right, and the blankets still tucked in tight all around them, Jack is as warm as he’s been since he stepped foot on this bloody continent. He shifts, something uncomfortable against his back.

He mumbles something and tells Matt to roll over, but Zee says something about Matt fucking off if he was going to be an insomniac. But Zee is to his right, and Jack is on his back. She can’t possibly feel anything. He disregards it, rolls back asleep, and snuggles in tighter against her back.

There’s a rush of cold air, Matt yelling at him to get up! To get the fuck up! There’s the crack of steel on a skull. He knows the sound has driven his own shovel into enough Turkish and German heads by now to know it, as well as he knows the sound of his own voice. Matt’s grunting gets louder. Jack is on his feet, pulling Zee up with him. He may as well have not opened his eyes. It’s so fucking dark.

He snatches Zee close, and she screams at him, working something over in her hands.

“Get down,” He hisses at her.

He’s too late. She’s lit the flare. In the dark, formless under the clothes and blankets, she might have not been noticed, but in the sick light of the flare, green as gas, there’s no mistaking her form, a girl’s form even in the trousers of the men’s field uniform, permitted this near the front with the medical officers. They were supposed to be safe here, three trenches back. There’s a joyful German noise and then the swell of bodies. Not a trench raid, not a squad. This is a counter-offensive. Matt throws one into another’s bayonet, and Jack breaks another German’s neck without thinking. The world is lit in green light reflecting from the gore.

He kills three men in seconds, Matt even more. But they’re replaced. This is no trench raid. It is a punch right through the line, a blow puncturing right through the armour of the front line. Jack takes up one of the rifles, but it won’t fire. He swings it into another man’s face. Where the fuck is his gun? Where the fuck is Matt’s?

“Zee! Go!” Matt bellows. Jack spun and watched his sister’s face. There’s German blood there, splattered across her jaw and cheeks, her hand red, a knife that is not hers dripping.

“Go!” Jack says and bodily shoves her back at the ladder. “Find Dad!”

Her eyes flash with the knowledge that this is the only way to avoid the worst, but also full of loathing. She hates him, and maybe Matt, for making her go.

“Go with her,” Matt tells him. Gripping him by the sleeve and shoving him as hard as he can. “Go!”

“Matt!”

“Go!”

He’s got a German rifle to his shoulder and is already flipping back the lever and aiming. He looked up, and he was horrific in this light, face sharp, eyes narrow, lip curled back. But a flash of Matt, of peacetime. “I can slip away if they capture me. You can’t! Go!”

“He’s right!” Zee whispered. “Come on!”

“No!” Jack wrenched his arm free of Matt. They’re surrounded by his soldiers. Australians are to their left and their right flanks, awake now and fighting. Their souls come to his awareness like stars as the sun sets. Pinpricks of light he can’t leave. Too much is happening. “No! Stop!”

“Jack, Go!” Matt’s firing, and something is screaming in the distance. Five bullets, then four. “I’m right behind you.” Four bullets left, more screaming. The trenches around them are coming alive. He won’t leave them. He can’t.

But Zee’s got him by the arm and is dragging him with her.

“You know what happens if we stay!” Zee whispered. Three bullets become two. Hoarse shouts. She gripped him by the face, her own grey with terror, but her brown eyes set with certainty. She has all of Dad’s decisiveness. “What happens if I stay,”

And just like that, she’s straightened his thoughts. He won’t let Germans have her, and she won’t leave him here. So they go. They have to go.

“Okay,” He exhales his panic and shakes his entire body. “Okay.”

Matt has fired twice more. He’s out of bullets, and more are coming, more are coming now. His sister tugged him back. He snatched up his sidearm, forgotten on the floor in the mêlée.

“Be quick and be safe!” Matt tells them. It’s a benediction as hoarse as his prayers are when he thinks there is no one around to hear him. They’re just as futile, too. The time their slaughter brought them is at a standstill, and Matthew’s bullets are gone.

“Find Alfred!” Matt screams over his shoulder as if he’s on another German. The last thing Jack sees of him is the full horrific brutality of his Matt in hand to hand. The filth of his fight. Matt was a brutal bastard. He thrust his fingers into an enemy’s face, finding eyeballs for leverage and twisting heads, viscous as a wolf just before spring. Matthew gives Germans a fight the way he gave their father before Jack was born, and that’s before his fingers close around the pine of his favourite axe. Jack turns, hearing Zee say his name. Their artillery is waking now. He can hear the guns open up. They have to go.

Zee was just ahead of him, running headlong into the dark. It’s wrong. Leaving his men. But she’s ahead of him. It’s the way the world works. Zee sailed into a new day ahead of him on their spinning planet. He follows. A German must have crawled past Matt. Jack shoots.

Zee jumped, startled, and for a fucking moment, he thought his wee Kiwi-bird of a sister, flightless and round, was going to sprout wings and fly straight home to New Zealand. But she’s repeating his name, and he’s staring into the dark, eyes swimming with the gun flash, wondering if hell is a different sort of red from home, with all its bright baked clay. Zee took his hand, her bloodied fingers around his, and looked at him. He grabbed her and hauled her along, forcing her to keep up with him despite their height, as he has their entire lives, from the moment she toddled into existence and he was taller.

He can trace her in the dark as she zigzags through the bullets and is lit by the odd shell in the sky as they escape into the night. He never lets go of her, making her steps longer when her weight hasn’t completely shifted. She is not alone. He is not alone.

They slip into the night, into chaos, into darkness, and further back into the line. Jack trips when a floodlight opens on them, temporarily blind as Zee hauls him to his feet. Everywhere, everything is chaos. Horns honking on trucks they only see when their lanterns appear from nowhere upon soldiers firing up the ignitions, officers and enlisted men shouting. American rifles being broken out from their boxes, sleeping soldiers on rest, still dreaming as they take distributed weapons. The trenches give way to tents, and tents give way to the depots. Still, Zee pulls him along.

“Where—” Jack asked, panting. “Where the fuck are we going, Zee?”

“Alfred!” She huffed, breathless, like that was obvious. But he had wanted father first and figured she would, too.

“Why?”

“Father will prioritize defending the front line.”

“So?”

“So— Alfred understands defense in depth. Give up the first line easily, then they pay for driving in deep, using the salients for killing zones. The more warning he has, the more of his and ours that man those salients, the more of theirs will die.”

He swallowed. He hated it when she sounded like Dad.

“Like Ypres before Matt took the high ground. Guns on three sides,”

“Exactly,” Zee replied. She had picked up a lantern at some point, and as she raised it, her eyes, always more brown than green, glinted for a moment with father’s thrilled, satisfied cunning. “We make them pay.”

They stumble through the night, guided by the sensations of a nation so like and unlike them. They are flavours of the night jars that encircle the Pacific. They fly; they’re so much larger than their father. Matt, cold and clinging to the top of the world, his back against Alfred, with even more people. Then, Jack was warm and all alone in the Pacific in his early years. But the Tasman Sea is Zee’s hand on his elbow. He loves her so much, and he hates his father, and he hates Matt for making them go and both of them for being right and for being practical. He collapsed into the early morning grass off the road, nearly taking Zee down with him. Soldiers yelled, and more traffic roared in his ears.

“Jack?” Zee tugged him to a stop. “Jack, mate. Hey.”

He couldn’t quite seem to get his breath, and he barely avoided puking all over her as he sprawled to the side and vomited what felt like everything he’d ever eaten since stepping foot in France.

Zee made a sympathetic sort of sound, and he felt her arms around her. It’s his soldiers behind them now. He can feel hers a little, too, on the flanks and Father’s, but his own are fighting, and he is running, and he has killed again. Again. And not for the last time. What’s his count? Can he add those to his count? Matt does. Zee counts hers against the lives she saved, and now she cradles his head, gently taking him by the jaw to make him look at her. Her eyes are hers now, and it’s not her father’s words in her mouth, not his will or his brutal practicality.

“Jack,” she said, and he squeezed her, clamping his arms around her smaller body like he had when he was little, and she was all he had of home in frigid England. “Jack, Christ.”

“I’m sorry,” He said but didn’t let go. She squirmed, not escaping but looking up at him. “I’m sorry,”

“Look at me,” she said, and he finally lifted his eyes to her. “Thirty-six thousand.”

“What?”

“That’s how many you evacuated from ANZAC cove. You. Not father, not me. You and your generals planned and executed that. Your balance is still positive, do you understand me?”

“Kiwi-bird,” He said because he was trying to argue, because she could read his mind sometimes, and he didn’t want her to, not now. He wanted to get up and move again and pretend he’d thrown up his sins with his stomach’s contents. “Don’t.”

“Thirty-six thousand.” She said again.

“Those weren’t directly... that kind of number is different from the ones you put back together on the table, Zee. It’s not the same. It’s not the same and it’s blood and it’s so much blood.”

“Look at me!” She said, this time harsh and sharp. “We do these things together, right? That’s what we said. My balance is your balance. You watch my back, I cover your arse.”

“Where the fuck was that cover when I got shot in the bum at Lone Pine, eh?” Jack shot back out of spite. But then she snorted so hard he thought she might puke, too.

“It’s not my fault it’s so bloody big!” She said. “You got the birthing hips, mate.”

“You are such an arsehole.” He countered, giving his side a rub where it most certainly did not round out into berthing hips. Then he was serious. “You mean it?”

“Heart and soul, dick.” She offered him a hand up, and he let her swing him to his feet. “Your balance is my balance.”

“Except at the commissary.” Jack huffed, unsure why that was the thought that popped into his head. “They won’t let me buy oranges anymore.”

“Correct. I trust you with my life and my immortal soul, but not the money.”

They push through the busy roads of new refugees and even more soldiers towards the pull of their father and the pull of whatever Alfred is, still half a stranger. It takes Zee pulling a “Do you know who my father is?” to some Oxbridge-educated fuck she might have rubbed elbows with in her school years to get them through the guard and into the command tent, and a damn good thing she did or Jack was ready to take out British soldiers like he had German. Arthur and Alfred are together, already half aware, and Father looks relieved, openly so. Not a good sign. Alfred looks bewildered. Less empire than boy startled out of bed. Because he still tends to sleep in one of those, even now. Because he is precious and held in reserve. Zee explains what happened and what needs to happen next. Jack fills in details as they go. His soldiers are the brunt just at that moment, and his heart is banging away in his chest when Alfred rolls around on him, full of piss. Looming because he does have two inches and an empire on Jack.

“You LEFT him?” He demanded, one fist gripping Jack’s collar. “You left Matt? What the fuck is wrong with you!”

“He can get away!” Zee said, trying to wedge herself in between, struggling as much with their father’s grasp as Jack was with Alfred’s. “Matt’s been doing this for years. He’ll be fine! We had bigger things to worry about!”

“Get the fuck off me!” Jack could do nothing about Alfred’s hold. His struggle was useless.

“Like what!” Alfred practically shouted. “What’s more important than making sure Matt gets home in one piece?”

“Like the entire western front, you dumb cunt!” Zee shoves her face up at Alfred’s, willing to argue even if she is a foot shorter.

“Enough!” Arthur slammed his hands down on the map-laden table and tugged Zee away, shoving one arm between Alfred’s chest and Jack’s, curling so he was in front of her. But he couldn’t break the grip Alfred had on Jack’s collar. “Get your hands off your brother, boy!”

“Fuck you!” That was all Alfred had to say to Arthur. Zee was tugging her arm back from their father and freeing herself.

“You left him there!” Alfred rounded on Jack again, closing the distance he already commanded with the grip on his collar.

“You always do this!” Alfred tossed back at Arthur. “You always leave him to do your dirty work. No one watching Matt’s back because why would anyone watch his back! Why would anyone give a shit except about how much killing you need done! Why should anyone watch his back?”

“I was!” Jack was on his toes, the angle of Alfred’s fist the only thing keeping him from using his jacket as a hangman’s rope. He didn’t care. “I was here, watching his back while you were home turning a fucking profit! We were here when it was all for nothing! You only showed up for what? For what? To take credit? Aunt Bridgie always said you were brave, that you were brilliant. She forgot to mention what a bastard you are!

“You shut your mouth. I’m not the one who just abandonded Mattie.”

“Ah, my dear boy, but you did that first.”

One sentence. One sentence, and that’s all it took. Father looked unbothered. Alfred’s hand dropped like he’d been slapped. Jack fell back, and Zee was there, throwing off Dad’s grip and under his arm in a moment. The room was silent. Jack breathed hard. He would have probably swayed if Zee wasn’t so close, half shielding her body from Alfred, half shielding his sanity from the shouting.

“Want another first?” Alfred wasn’t facing them now. This was an argument older than both of them, conducted in shouts muffled from the other end of the house. “I took his head off his shoulders at Yorktown. I shot our dear lord father’s jaw from his fucking skull and his skull from his shoulders and the lobsterbacks surrendered. And then they left. And when the gutters overflowed, you were born.”

Zee’s hand tightened on his, squeezing, squeezing like when the hospital ship she’d been on went down, torpedoed by that kraut bastard, and he’d dragged her corpse off a beach, and the only sign of life she could give him was the vice of her hand on his. I love you. It’s not true. I love you. It’s not true. I love you. It’s not true.

Arthur exhaled a laugh. “Goodness, I read you lot too much Shakespeare. Such a flare for drama, children.”

Alfred’s face twisted. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Who’s us?” Zee countered. Jack wanted to throw up again. “What’s wrong with you? You two are the kraut fuckers, not us!” Father looked almost as shocked as Alfred. “Matt wouldn’t even be out there if someone hadn’t made mess! And it wasn’t us!”

The conversation had meandered, shot right from under them, from under Matt. Fuck.

“All right!” Dad intervened like he’d had the same thought. Hard and sharp like the furious fifties that marked the sea voyage home when Jack was small, he cut through the tension. “As flattered as your brother would be to see you defending what little of his honour he hasn’t left in a brothel, I rather think we should get to the task of finding him first, no? And perhaps, if you lot can manage more than one task at a time with the single wit I seem to have left you to inherit, we could perhaps even turn back what looks to be an entire German offensive that’s just caught us with our cocks out.” He paused and glanced at Zee. “Barring you, dear girl.”

Jack snorted so hard they almost toppled over. Alfred sighed like a martyr. A sigh to make him sound like Matt, if there ever was one, and leaned over the table. “Where’d you put your favourite knife this time, you old bastard?”

“Excuse you,” A note of laughter in a gravelly voice, still half-ruined by gas. “I am Father’s best knife. Only the finest for when the Krauts come for dinner, eh Dad?”

It was a pile-on, everyone rushing to get an arm around him. If Zee was his rock, the rest of them needed fucking mortar to stick together. Jack nearly elbowed Dad in the face as Arthur tried to look at a particularly large blood stain oozing from Matt’s shoulder but had to settle for turning his cheek and looking him in the eye a moment before he and Zee nearly got bowled over entirely by Alfred rocketing through. He practically picked Matt up.

“Let me down, for Christ’s sake.” Matt laughed. “I’ve got Gilbert brains on my shirt, bud, fuck.” But Alfred would do nothing but grip him and shake his head. He might have muttered idiot. Jack didn’t hear. Matt was looking over the Yank’s overly broad shoulders, nodding at them both with a wan sort of smile that said as much of pride as it did blood loss. Zee’s hand was on his shoulder, and he glanced at her.

“You want me to slip some arsenic his coffee?” Zee whispered, not doing half as good a job suppressing her grin as she thought she was. “They burn it so bad. It could be proper strong. Nice and quick like the cholera.” Her sense of humour was morbid like that, even if he wasn’t entirely sure it was humour.

“Naw,” Jack drawled. “Reckon I’d’ve taken it some kind of personal too if someone had left you out for the Krauts.”

He got an affectionate punch in the kidneys and a squeeze for his trouble.

“There’s nothing about you that came from a gutter.” She said, drawn tight to his shoulder. “Not a bloody thing.”

#the ask box || probis pateo #my writing || cacoethes scribendi #jack || a land of summer skies #zee || ahakoa he iti he pounamu #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies #arthur || stone set in the silver sea

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faintingheroine · 4 months

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If u don't answer those 20 questions.

Okay I am answering after a long while

Questions:

(Link)

My answers for Magnificent Century:

1. I don’t remember. I thought throughout Season 1 that I would hate Nibrahim but when it finally started happening I fell in love. Maybe it was the taking-Leo’s-letter scene from Episode 23.

2. 1) Nigar:

2) Ibrahim:

Complex. Unintentionally funny. Always fun to analyze. Plus I find him sexy.

3) Hürrem:

One of the most brilliant characters ever in any Turkish show. Never has a boring scene. Always human and complex and brilliantly written.

3. Erase the scene in Episode 57 with Ibrahim monologuing about how he actually loves Hatice and is only with Nigar because he is angry at Hatice and how his relationship with Nigar is “a sea of lies” yada yada. Erase it!

4. 1) One gif showcasing Nibrahim (gif by @serraseastar )

2) One gif showcasing Hürrem and Ibrahim’s banter:

3) Hürrem’s victory (gif by @hurremhasckis )

5. Ibrahim taking Leo’s letter from Nigar at the end of Episode 23 (also see the first question).

6. My current underrated fave is Sokollu and Selim’s relationship. AllyOTP.

7. I am not likely to follow them at all. Not making the same mistake again.

8. “Don’t forget this face Ibrahim. Don’t forget these almond-shaped eyes, this shapely nose, these silken hands. She is yours, she is of your blood. She only belongs to you. She is not the daughter of the Ottoman dynasty, nor the daughter of the Grand Vizier Ibrahim Pasha, but the daughter of the son of the fisherman Manolis, the convert from Parga Theodoris. Look after her Ibrahim, protect her even in exchange of your life. Because she is the only thing that belongs to you in this wide world. She is your fate Ibrahim”.

9. I would like to see more of Şah and Nigar’s relationship.

10. A lot. A lot.

11. All three mains in the first three seasons (Süleyman, Hürrem, Ibrahim) are great and complex and deserve their status as the mains. Mustafa, not so much.

12. All the fun segments I watched on YouTube of women scheming against each other.

13. Hatice/Ibrahim of course.

14. Something between fix-its and pining fics for my OTP.

15. Eh, almost everyone dies in the canon anyway so no one.

16. I think I could have rage-quitted if Yılmaz Şahin wrote Esmanur too dying.

17. It is a historical show but I really admire them for ignoring history and just making men and women freely interact. Good storytelling trumped historical accuracy in this case.

18. I think four seasons was right for this show. Now, the show didn’t always spend that time in the right way, especially in early Season 2, but the amount of time was right even if the way it was used wasn’t.

19. I can’t think of anything in particular right now but I like the commentary on the female characters in the second episode of the documentary series.

20. As you can see from my blog, it nearly possessed me and ruined my life.

#magnificent century #muhteşem yüzyıl #20 fandom questions #nigar x ibrahim

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thoughtsonyaoi · 1 year

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del4

jujutsu nonsense where i take "six eyes" literally. i had three working copies of this and (1) why (2) they were all bad

“Do you notice that they tend to have a lot of eyes?” asked Shoko.

“What?”

“The curses,” Shoko explained. “They have a lot of eyes. I think that’s the most eyes I’ve seen on one yet.”

That much was true. The one in front of them appeared to have upwards of fifty. The eyes covered the entirety of its obscene, bulbous body, big and small alike, darting in every direction with barely concealed furiousness. Every other second a few of them would look in Suguru and Shoko’s direction and fix them with a hateful glare. The whites of its eyes were laced with visibly swollen vessels. Suguru wondered what this one did. Maybe if someone looked at it too long, it would stare them to death.

Suguru knelt down and placed a hand against the curse’s body. It made a gurgling noise in response, like a muddy, bubbling marsh, and Suguru quickly squeezed all of it down into the black orb that was the form in which he ingested all the curses he controlled. He observed the gleam upon its surface for a second, bracing himself for the taste, then swallowed it whole in one well-practiced gesture – mouth open, insertion, down the gullet. He considered this attempt at absorption a resounding success; not all of them were this painless.

“That was fast, even more than usual,” Shoko commented, her eyebrows raised.

“I’ve been getting a lot of practice lately,” Suguru shrugged. There was still a faint aftertaste. He rummaged in his pockets for a stick of gum, and they left to look for Satoru shortly thereafter.

They met with him outside the building. He emerged from the other wing, with a rather large cut on the bottom of his left jaw. It was bleeding so badly they could see the wound from far away, bright red and running down the side of his neck.

“Heeeaaal meeeee,” he whined at Shoko as soon as he caught sight of her, waving his long arms to get her attention. “Hurry up! Do you want my beautiful face to be disfigured?”

“You’re so vain,” scowled Shoko. He stood still as she gingerly held her hands to his face, careful not to touch him at all. Suguru pulled out his handkerchief and placed it into Satoru’s outstretched palm. The blood wasn’t visible against the pitch blackness of his school uniform, but Suguru could smell it, warm and metallic.

“It’s not like you to get careless,” remarked Suguru.

“I wasn’t careless,” said Satoru, rolling his eyes. “Just got caught off guard, that’s all.”

“That,” said Suguru, “is the definition of careless.”

He suggested that they return to school so Satoru could get cleaned up, but Satoru protested, saying that he was hungry. He mopped up his wound with Suguru’s handkerchief and tossed the bloodied thing back at Suguru, who looked at it silently, contemplating for a good few moments whether to throw it away before sighing and stuffing it into his other, empty, pocket. They then took a cab back downtown, flagging one down from the pavement. Shoko kept the receipt so they could pass it off as mission expenses afterwards, and they had an early dinner at a Turkish restaurant before going shopping and then taking a cab again back to school, all of the receipts for which Shoko kept as well.

“You should still get that checked out,” Suguru told Satoru when they finally got back to the dorms. “There might be some cursed energy still lingering around the wounded area.”

“Forget that,” Satoru scoffed. “Come in.”

He pulled Suguru towards him as soon as they entered the room. No matter how many times he did it, Suguru’s fingers always trembled slightly whenever he undressed Satoru; the nerve of Satoru, really, to sit there on the edge of his days-unmade bed and watch idly as Suguru fiddled with the buttons on his shirt. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Suguru’s mouth, only to pull away and laugh softly when Suguru tried to return the favour. Annoyed, Suguru tugged sharply at the collar of Satoru’s jacket and pulled it away to show his displeasure, his fingers coming off tacky with dried blood. He concentrated on the buttons anew. Satoru seemed to take some pleasure in watching him struggle, and it wasn’t until Suguru finally did away with the top few buttons that he closed a hand over Suguru’s left wrist, scraping gently at the skin with his nails. He followed Suguru’s gaze to the open patch of skin that had been exposed.

There was something that Suguru had imagined often enough that he thought it would escape the confines of his mind and eventually become reality someday. His shaking hands holding Satoru’s shirt open, and there, in the middle of his chest, a sliver would be carved vertically into it, just barely visible and roughly an inch long. In Suguru’s delusions, the skin pulled in on itself a few times in quick succession, as if it were a creature that had suddenly become aware that it was being observed. It expanded along the crease, parting to reveal an eyeball that was just like the real thing, if not actually the real thing, looking right back at Suguru in lazy recognition, the iris a pale, luminescent blue like Satoru’s own eyes. In this faux state of mesmirisation, Suguru imagined himself reaching out an involuntary hand and running a finger along the side of the organ. Again the folds of skin surrounding it contracted slightly. In Suguru’s mind, it looked like it was recoiling – with disgust or annoyance or discomfort or some other emotion – Suguru did not know why he thought what he thought.

The hand that Satoru had closed around Suguru’s wrist tightened, his thumb now moving in lazy but firm strokes against Suguru’s wristbones, forwards and backwards. Suguru blinked. There was no eye lodged in Satoru’s chest, only skin that was so pale Suguru thought he could see the blue veins beneath it.

Shoko had only been partially right, about the eyes. Maybe it was her lack of practical experience with curses – she did most of her work in the labs, after all – but Suguru, who had amassed hundreds of curses and nursed them inside his own body since before he understood what his talent was for, knew otherwise. Curses were hostile, all of them, and similarly all had a number of irregularities in appearance that indicated that they were distinctly inhuman, and which served to make them seem more frightening, but the link between physiology and demeanour was tenuous at best. No, it wasn’t about the eyes themselves, but rather, about the intensity of such a watchful hostility.

Back in the countryside where he lived out most of his childhood, curses commonly took the form of wild animals and pests that would often infringe on the houses and farms in the neighbourhood, ruining the crops. Sometimes they were deformed bastardisations of the original creature in question. Other than that, there were the few shapeless things that would lurk in the shadows. Curses, after all, reflected the fears of those who conjured them, and limits on imagination were limits on presentation. When he moved to Tokyo, however, he was taken aback by the number of curses that looked nothing like any living creature in particular. Humanoid some of these city curses were, with the ability to walk on two legs, and others looked like they walked out of an illustrated volume of otherworldly oddities, but what astonished Suguru most was the fact that they were always shrewdly watching. Back in the village, some of the curses were downright daft, caught unawares whenever Suguru got close to them; in the city, no matter where he managed to find curses, they’d spot him first, though he’d learnt to sniff out their presence over time.

Suguru eventually concluded that the prevalence of this sort of behaviour in curses that inundated the city had to do with the increase in the population density. The negativity that emanated from humans took shape depending on the subject of and rationale behind their hatred. In the city, Suguru had found when he first moved there, there was nothing but an abundance of people, rubbing up against one another like sardines in a can. There were no inconveniences, unlike in the countryside where everything was too far apart and far too low in quantity, but the downside was that people were constantly getting in each other’s way, their hopes and desires chafing up against one another, resulting in an unceasing friction.

Hence the paranoia. All that irrational, negative energy from the city’s millions of inhabitants solidified into being, and adopted a malevolent sense of purpose that most people would not usually – consciously – act on. “There’s something watching me,” said many a client who had previously come knocking on the academy’s door, requesting what they thought were religious services, “I just know it. I can’t see it, I just know.”

Having researched curses and other mythological beings as part of the work he did at the academy, he found that humans, regardless of their geographical, historical, or cultural origin, were preoccupied with the idea of an existence that was more powerful than they were. Suguru’s own real-life experience of curses notwithstanding, similar sightings were recorded throughout history, whether real or imagined – ghosts or demons that were larger in size and more powerful in strength, or had multiple eyes or faces that combined with the property of having multiple appendages that had the effect of allowing them to perceive and torment with greater ease. In some civilisations, benign gods were described in the same way, performing the same functions for a benign purpose. And then there were the curses that were the result of negativity directed towards gods themselves. Suguru had a few under his command – they were not easy to control. It made Suguru wonder what the difference between good and evil was, if higher beings that represented both these extremes were equally feared.

Suguru had always been partial to absorbing curses that he felt had the disposition of a pet or a familiar as opposed to those that were humanoid in appearance, even if that was not quite the attitude to be taking with any curse in general. Maybe he was the only one who felt this way because he was the only sorcerer he knew with his particular set of powers. Curses harnessed so much negativity and fear within them, but even so, Suguru had little choice; being the first person he knew to possess the ability to manipulate them, there was no instruction manual for him when it came to picking and choosing which ones to utilise, let alone judging whether different types of curses would have any kind of impact on him at all in the long run.

Over a long period of trial and error, this pattern emerged. He couldn’t explain why; it was just a gut feeling, he supposed, an intuition that the ones modelled after animals or other existing creatures seemed easier to manipulate, and with some dangerous implication, easier to like, or that the purpose behind their existence was deemed more easily forgivable, that they did not resemble him, that they reminded him of home, or that when he absorbed them the taste was milder and afterwards he did not feel like his insides were being rent through a shredder, eviscerated.

#fic graveyard

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dirtychocolatechai · 3 years

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meet-cute | b.b.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Warning(s): fluff, awkward Bucky, vet appointment stuff, Alpine Request: Babes if you're lowkey taking requests can I lowkey make one? 👉🏼👈🏼🥺💕 something flirty and cute and maybe a lil spicy with Bucky and vet!reader where something's going on with Alpine? Not self indulgent at all 😻💖 Notes: This was the first thing I’ve written in months and it felt damn good. Funny story, I actually almost went to school to be a vet tech + shadowed a vet for two weeks and got to see some wickedly cool things.

This was a bit self-indulgent on my part because I had a cat who passed away some years ago because of struvite stones and I wished he had a happier ending like Alpine so I thought why not 🤷‍♀️💖

Taglist is open

(gif from google)

There’s nothing Bucky hates more than the stringent smell of industrial cleaners and clinical white walls - too many associations and shades of memory long laid to rest - except for when something’s going on with Alpine. The Turkish Angora was fine up until a few days ago when he started to hide away and sleep all day.

That wasn’t too concerning at first...

But then came the pained little noises, the frantic running back and forth from the litter box, the excessive grooming. The pit that started forming low in his belly grew, his instincts screaming at him that something was wrong, very wrong, with his little buddy.

Bucky wasn’t about to fuck around and set up an appointment with the first vet office he could find that had a same-day opening. And now he’s trying not to fall apart at the seams while he waits for the docs to do their magic and tell him what the hell’s going on with his cat and what he has to do to fix it.

The vet tech collected Alpine a bit ago and every minute stretches into years, the cat’s pitiful meow echoing in his ears and those betrayed eyes burned onto the backs of his eyelids.

I know, Bub, I’m sorry but they gotta figure out what’s going on. It’ll be okay, they’ll take care of you.

His ass went numb from the plastic chair ages ago, his leg jiggling up and down at a rapid pace as he chews on his thumbnail and waits.

And waits.

God, he knows these things take time but he’d rather be back at home, curled up on the couch with Alpine pigging out on breakfast food and watching space documentaries.

How much longer-

“Alright, Mr. Barnes?”

The heavy door swings open with a click, a kind, professional voice preceding a pair of sensible shoes as the vet steps into the room with a clipboard cradled against her chest. His eyes snap up, skipping over her completely to look at the tech holding his cat who looks absolutely miserable.

She introduces herself but he’s not paying attention. He’s not meaning to be rude but all his focus narrows in on that white little face, the knot in his chest unfurling at the little mew.

He smiles, his eyes crinkling around the edges as he breathes, “Hey there, Little Buddy.”

The vet doesn’t push, in fact, she seems a little enamored with how much he melts at the sight of his pet. Her own lips quirk up into a soft smile while she stands off to the side patiently as Alpine’s set down on the metal table.

Bucky gets in a few good scritches under his chin, the beginnings of a purr just starting to vibrate his hand when the vet clears her throat delicately.

He clears his throat, heat burrowing into the apples of his cheeks. “Shi - uh, ‘m sorry.” A hand scrubs over the back of his neck. “I’m just - uh - y’know...”

Her laugh trickles down his spine like warm rain, the sound effectively drawing his attention away from the cat rubbing up against his side. He gets his first look at her and oh.

A bare face and a no-nonsense hairstyle greet him, her scrubs and white coat adding to the overall doctor vibe but she’s still breathtaking. The natural beauty in the curves of her face, the slant of her brows, the sparkle of her eyes.

He feels like he got sucker-punched in the chest, his heart giving a sudden throb that has him coughing like an idiot as he scrambles to not look like such a jackass.

“So,” he clears his throat, scratching at the stubble along his jaw, “What’s - what’s wrong with him?”

Glancing down at Alpine’s chart, she hums and writes a note before glancing back up with a reassuring smile. “Nothing that can’t be managed with a special diet and watching his water intake.”

It’s like the weight of the world disappears from his shoulders, his broad frame practically heaving with his sigh of relief. “Oh thank fucking- ahem, ‘scuse me - thank god.”

Her chuckle and sly smile have him blushing from the roots of his hair to the collar of his shirt, his stomach squirming in discomfort. Old habits are hard to break, especially ones his momma taught him with a box to the ear.

“You’re allowed to swear, Mr. Barnes,” she says, reaching down to run her fingers through snow-white fur. “We’re all adults here.”

“No, no, I know...”

“Hm, anyway, his blood work came back and everything looks fine which is a good thing.”

And it’s back to business like that, any hint of personality hidden behind cool professionalism that Bucky thinks even Tasha would admire. Except for the playful gleam in her eyes as she sneaks peeks at him while going over everything they did and what they found.

“Struvite crystals are quite common in cats at low levels, especially males because their tract is longer and narrower.” She pauses, flipping to a new page. “Depending on the severity, they can clump together in the urinary tract and actually form stones. That’s where the true problem lies because get one large enough, and it can cause a blockage.”

He’s listening with rapt attention, soaking in the knowledge she��s imparting to him all the while, petting Alpine who keeps nuzzling him and making little sounds. Honestly, he could listen to her talk for hours even if he didn’t understand a goddamn thing.

She’s so animated when she speaks, holds eye contact and makes sure he understands everything without making him feel like an idiot. He’s had so many doctors who talked at him rather than with him, staring through him without seeing, more interested in the paycheck rather than their patients.

But not her, she cares.

Deeply.

He can see it all over her face and it’s utterly enchanting. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little enamored, charmed.

Turning the tablet towards him, she shifts closer and a waft of whatever perfume she’s wearing tickles his nose as she explains what the x-ray of Alpine’s abdomen found.

“These are the stones but thankfully they’re relatively small,” she points to several hazy white ovals starkly visible on the radiograph, “We caught them in time before they became a really big problem.”

Shit, she smells so good...

“Now, we’ll send you home with a special diet and see how he does. Also, make sure to up his fluid intake as much as you can. The food can take several months to start dissolving the crystals so we’ll have to do everything we can to help. Sound good?”

Bucky hasn’t pulled his eyes away from her face once this entire time, and how fucking creepy is that?

Quickly looking down at Alpine, embarrassment gnawing at his belly, he nods and wishes for the first time since he cut his hair that he hadn’t so he’d at least have a passing chance at hiding the blush burning its way across his face.

“Yeah,” he says, picking up the ball of white fluff to hold against his chest, a makeshift shield. “Is there anything else I should do?”

“No.” She smiles, writing another note and tapping away at the tablet next to her. “I do want to see him again in about a month for a check-up.”

Fuck, he doesn’t want to leave so soon.

The irony isn’t lost on him either.

How does he make this last longer? What can he do? If Sam was here right now, he’d be kicking him in the ass and bitching at him to ask for her number already, Ice Pick.

The clack of the chart being set down rings through the room, bouncing off the walls and sounding so fucking final that he starts to panic.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

She’s already halfway to the door when she asks, “Do you have any questions?”

The word vomit spring from him, unbidden and sudden without any thought, more forward than he’s been with a woman in years.

“Can I have your number?”

As soon as the question leaves his lips, he curses, cringes and wishes he could snatch the very words from the air itself.

Great, I just hit on my vet.

No amount of backpedaling can salvage this but goddamn it if Bucky doesn’t try, stuttering out some half-assed excuse about wanting it just in case he thinks of something later.

When he glances up, he wishes he hadn’t. The vet tech is in near tears in the corner, biting her lips so hard he wouldn’t be surprised if they started to bleed.

But it’s the absolute surprised bafflement on the woman he just inappropriately hit on that does him in, makes him about ready to burn all forms of identification and run for the hills.

Her brows nearly reach her hairline, her mouth slack, eyes startled. She gets ahold of herself before he does, and he barely stops himself from slapping a hand over his face.

Right when he’s thinking there’s no way he’s going to be able to show his face in the office again, her expression softens with gentle amusement and her lips twitch.

Struck dumb, he can only watch as she writes something down on a slip of paper before handing it over to him. He barely believes the string of numbers and the cheeky little call me anytime :).

The wink she sends his way is there and gone, so fast he almost believes he imagined it.

“For emergencies only,” she says, slyly. “Of course.”

“Of course,” he agrees, almost tripping over the cat carrier as he hurries to stuff Alpine back in. “Of course, thank you. I...appreciate it.”

“Anytime, Mr. Barnes.”

Bucky leaves the room in a stupor, the world sharply shifted to the left as he heads to the front desk to make the follow-up appointment, but not before hearing the whispered, “Girl, you’re lucky. He’s fine!” and the “He is, isn’t he?”.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky x you

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middlechildwhoescapedthebasement · 2 years

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Ok, here we go. The main character of my Black Dragon wins Au. Now the format may look weird, but its the only way I can make an outline like this. I've been doing it since I was 13 so I'm used to it. Now without further ado, here is Tobias Baros

Basics Name: Tobias Alaric Baros Nicknames: Toby, New Blood, Pretty Boy, Prince, Rebel, E-Boy D.O.B: May 7th, 1998 Nationality: Australian with Greek/Turkish background *was born in America but moved when he was five Gender: cis male Sexuality: Bisexual Personality type: INFJ (he's actually pretty even on being extroverted/introverted, he's just slightly more introverted) Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Neruodivergence?: ADD, Anxiety, C-PTSD Disabilities?: Deaf, he has hearing aids, knows sign language (he rarely uses it though because most don't know it), and he can read lips (very useful for intel gathering)

Biological Family Father: Castor Damon Baros *deceased Mother: Emine Baros (Arslan) Sister(s): Reagan (older), Emily (Younger) Brother(s): Caleb (Younger) Paternal Grandparents: Alistair Damon Baros *deceased, Miranda Isla Baros (Adamos) *deceased Maternal Grandparents: Devran Arslan * deceased, Aylin Arslan (Akbas) *deceased Aunt(s): Hermia Sophia Baros (twin sister of Castor) Uncle(s): Lysander Charles Baros (Castor's younger brother) Cousin(s): Daphne Marietta Baros (Daughter of Lysander)

Relationships with said family? Castor: Was horribly abusive, physically and emotionally to all of his kids except Reagan. Toby often got the brunt of it because he spoke his mind and protected his little siblings. His military status as General was everything, more important than ANYTHING else. Toby pisses on his grave whenever he gets the chance. Emine: Enabled every little thing Castor and Reagan did to Toby and his younger siblings. All she cares about is surface image and shopping. Its why she ditched her parents and roots. Just to fit in. Toby's waiting for her to die next. Reagan: Always relished in her status of being the favorite. Constantly reminded her younger siblings about how hated they were, and how loved she was. Considered Toby a threat, so she wailed on him the most. Toby acts like she never existed. Emily: A very outspoken, loving girl. Always there if you need her, loves helping others when she gets the chance. Dreams of being a vet one day. Toby misses her every single day and wants her dream to come true. Caleb: Poor boy was the neglected one from his parents. They often forgot about him, making him extremely insecure. He depends on the acceptance of others to make him feel better. He loves Emily and Toby with all his heart, he wishes that Toby would come home. Toby also misses him, and hopes that he gets the love that he deserves from Emily and his friends. Grandparents: All of them died before Toby was born, but they all only cared about image and the military too so he would've hated them as much as his parents. Hermia: The exact opposite of her twin, very loving and caring. She couldn't fight to save her life and considers the military to be over hyped, while also being a bunch of liars. Gave Toby a home while he went to college. Toby will forever be grateful for her and wants her to live her best life. Lysander: He just wants to be liked, no matter what he had to do to do it. Being liked is the most important thing to him. Its why he's in massive debt. Toby hates him and thinks he's annoying. Daphne: hasn't met her...yet

Black Dragon Role(s): Hacking, finding and "persuading" new recruits, intel gathering Works solo or on a team?: Mainly alone, but occasionally on an intel mission he'll have two sidekicks (his words not mine) with him Do they get along with the others?: Yes for the most part, and if he doesn't he just avoids them. If he can't avoid them, he'll just shut them up with a kick to the jaw Where are his tattoos located?: On his chest. Its two black dragons twisting around each other. It represents how he accepts that the clan is now completely tangled into his life and he can't escape that. Cage fight record?: 12 wins and 7 losses How old were they when they joined?: 21 Fighting style?: Hand to hand and Meele are his go to, but he's also really good with guns

Trivia * He got his degree in Marine Biology, which was his dream since he was 6 * Speaking of Marine life, its been his lifelong hyperfixiation. If you ask him about it, be prepared for a 12 hour long PowerPoint presentation on ALL of it * He's ambidextrous but prefers his left hand because it pissed his parents off * Can play the drums but he's a little rusty * He stims by chewing anything. It can be a necklace, gum, his nails, his fingers, anything. He actually has scars on his bottom lip from chewing on them so hard when he was little * Can and will turn off his hearing aids when he's annoyed with someone. Yes, that includes Kano * Wants to be a dad, but fears that he'll be like his parents * Is dating Kano's daughter, Juniper * He has Delfiniphobia, fear of dolphins. One nearly drowned him when he was 9, but his aunt and the lifeguard saved him

* Only the gen z BD call him E-boy, he loves it though because it confuses the elder BD * Loves memes and loves referencing them in front of the older BD even more because of the confused reactions * Has heterochromia. Right eye is green and left is blue. He hates them because he got them from his father * Has long black hair that he keeps in a braid * Had very tanned skin. He was born tanned, but he became even more so because of his love for the outdoors * Will never admit this, but Kano has become like a dad to him

Don't be afraid to ask questions about him because I know I explain things weirdly!

#Mk oc #Black Dragon wins AU #Toby Baros #I am hyyyyped #Love this boy and this AU #Anyway I hope you enjoy him #But please understand that I'm still working somethings out so things might change

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chews-erotically · 4 years

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Waxing Gibbous

Pairing: Ezra + femNurse! Reader

Rating: Hard M / 18+ ONLY

Warnings: Angst/violence/gore/blood/mentions of prostitution/SMUT(eventual)/veryinaccuratesurgicalprocedure

Honestly words have been fermenting in my brain for many moons. I am new to this, so please be gentle. I have written before, however never for a fandom. Special thank you to @yespolkadotkitty and @rzrcst for their support and encouragement, it truly means the world to me.

Summary: You are a nurse on the Green moon contracted to care for a group of prospectors. An act of violence forces you to flee your camp. Ezra finds you.

Words: 2376

PART ONE

The first time Ezra fell, it was with the Saters. You’d been hunched in a cordoned-off section of tent, dust motes waxing and waning against the haze of thick, dank air. At least you could breathe, a small mercy it was to remove your helmets and sit unfettered in the musty inner folds of the makeshift barracks.

The Sater stank. When he sneered at you, his grey lips parted to reveal the jagged tombstones of his teeth. When you had first sat down and dispelled with the perfunctory greetings, choking down the offering of what always reminded you of unsweetened Turkish coffee mixed with engine oil, his eyes made no attempt to hide the way they had raked over you as if you were some shiny toy. Or a bag of meat. You were under no delusions when it came to the fact that you, by nature of being female, were going to be ogled. Still, it left you no less disgusted as you fought to keep your face impassive while his eyes honed in on your chest.

Ezra sat beside you on the narrow bench, hunched forward with forearms balanced on knees that were spread to allow for his head to clear the sunken canvas ceiling. His expression was equally neutral, the only hint of tension showing in the tight bunch of muscle at his jaw. He knew as well as you that if the sater did not accept the barter, things would turn dark.

Ezra had been here longer than you. Stranded with no transport after the crew he’d arrived with turned on each other over dig locations and payload disbursement. The pod they’d arrived in had been burned, irreparably damaged and left no more than a husk in the Green due to the short-sighted fury and bullheaded ire of his hired compatriots. In the fracas, he’d sustained an injury to his right arm from a rogue thrower shot. In retrospect it could have been much worse, but the spores of mold that made the air so toxic had worked its way into his flesh the same way selfishness and suspicion had seeded the demise of his partners.

You were hired as a nurse to tend to your own hired prospecting crew, lured in with promises of adventure and treasures beyond your wildest dreams. You had known there had to be a catch, you were not so naive to believe that consequence could elude you, but you had signed the contract anyway hoping for more than the dreary clinic you’d worked in for the past five years. You were alone, you were lonely, you had no family. Your few friends had steadily drifted away from you as they met their own partners, started their own families. You were left to the ether. So you signed almost without thought when the recruiter came, signed before you had time to think it through, because you were aware that if you thought too much you’d talk yourself out of it. You knew all too well how adept you were at talking yourself out of things.

So, you’d arrived on the Green and things had proceeded as planned, uneventful for the most part. The others on the crew were respectful, if a bit distant. Nothing untoward had happened until a contractor by the name of Jorin began to take a particular interest in you. At first you’d been able to politely deflect his advances. Showing up in your tent unannounced, he feigned all manner of illness and injury to get your attention. Over time he became more aggressive, invading your space until you had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was not welcome. It was not until he’d followed you back to your cot and tried to push you down that you’d snapped. You hadn’t meant to kill him, but the scalpel you had hidden in your fist had found its way to his carotid artery nonetheless. So you left, and you were blank and in shock and covered in someone else’s blood when Ezra found you.

He’d stood, imposing and straight-backed, hand on hip while his head followed your shambling approach. Your adrenaline was waning, and you shuffled forth on trembling legs, hands held aloft in supplication. When you reached his clearing in the midst of dense vegetation you noted his mouth moving at light-speed, the hand on his hip twitching toward the thrower he had slung across his back. As you got even closer you noticed his eyes were wide. You were not on the same transmission channel so you could not hear him. Your hands gestured as if underwater, left hand tapping your transceiver while your right held up three trembling fingers. When Ezra understood he switched the channel and immediately his animated drawl was filling your helmet.

“.....cannot fathom how you are standing in my sights looking like you’ve been baptised by Lady Bathory herself, alone? Please do tell this lonely old prospector how in Kevva’s name above you’ve found yourself in such a state of affairs?”

You noticed immediately that he did not seem at all frightened or wary of your appearance, just confused, and….excited? You gazed up into the visor through a constellation of blood spatter and freed your tongue from its bone-dry cavern, swallowing thickly.

“I didn’t mean to kill him. He tried to, to…..he came after me.”

Ezra stepped forward in what seemed a conspiratory move. You froze. Taking note, he’d immediately stepped back, but his dark eyes fastened to yours with an intensity that made you feel as though he could see through you into your very essence, every shameful childhood memory, every flaw and triumph as readable as prose on paper.

“Intention rarely informs the realities of snuffing out the flame of mortality. Between intention and action there lay an endless array of variables, something I know as well as my own name. In all my time on the Green the one thing that continues to ring true is that people here take. If you have nothing to offer, they will find something to take.”

He straightened before continuing, “Given that you are appreciably female I can imagine what it is he believed himself entitled to. You have none of that to fear from me, little stranger. I am but one lost soul amongst this verdant hellscape.”

You were still processing the events of the past several hours, and it took you some time to accustom your ears to the man’s mellifluous cadence. The people in your previous company had been stilted, blunt, mostly monosyllabic. This man before you spoke as if convinced his words would alight and manifest whatever sacred force or unimagined color the universe deemed fit to spew forth. It was incongruous. You considered your next words carefully before you spoke.

“Do you have a dwelling? A tent? I hate to impose, but this is my only suit and I’d like to get as much blood out of it as I can.”

That was how you’d become acquainted with Ezra. You’d exchanged names as you walked to his tent, and all the while Ezra pontificated. The tent was modest, two cots arranged across from one another. Equipment stacked along one canvas wall, while texts and notebooks spread across a folding table toward the front entrance. Ezra explained where the water source was located as you both disconnected your helmets and stripped your suits. The blood splashed across yours had dried to a dull rust. Almost as if it could be something other than blood. Almost.

You’d set the suit to soak in cold water and truly noticed the man in front of you for the first time. He was tall and broad-shouldered, thick locks jutting chaotically from the dome of his head and curling around the lobes of his ears. A shock of blond colored the seam of his hairline. His brow was lined with years of tension and unrest. Wide, dark eyes below pronounced brows. A prominent aquiline nose. His mouth, still moving. Always moving, as if he were trying to get every thought he had out of his head before the hourglass ran out on him.

Your eyes were next drawn to a dirty bandage circling his arm. You’d been so lost in your head over the strange turn of events that you did not notice the barely perceptible wince as he inventoried what appeared to be dried ration packets.

“What happened? To your arm, I mean?”

Ezra sighed deeply before answering. “Merely a flesh wound from an errant thrower blast while my crew and I were in the midst of parting ways. It was a most unsavory affair, I’m afraid. I don’t believe the weasel wielding the staff even meant to shoot me.”

You stepped closer, eyeing the torn, worried cloth. “You have to be careful. The spores in the air will seep into everything, especially an open wound. Your bandage is filthy. Do you mind if I take a look?”

“You have experience with dressing wounds?”

“I’m a nurse.”

You were wholly unprepared for the brilliant smile that split his face. Suddenly you could see the younger, roguish man that he had undoubtedly once been. You were suddenly overwhelmed, you could not understand how the heart in your chest fluttered as desperately as a bird beating its wings against the cage of your ribs. You felt close to panic as you realized that you were reacting this way to a man you did not know.

Careful.

“Kevva above, I must have done something right in a past life as I’ve done nothing in this one to deserve such a fortuitous gift! A nurse! An angel of mercy, a dove of benevolence!”

You felt heat rush to your face, and you cursed your feeble emotions as you turned quickly away from him. Please, ignore my abject idiocy.

“Med kit?”

“Ah, of course. My apologies, Dove, I forget myself.”

You pointedly ignored the unprompted endearment as any further contemplation on this new development would lead to literal hysteria. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Ezra sat at the table near the entrance, sweeping the array of notebooks and papers to the side. You pulled up a crate once taking the med kit and unwrapped the soiled bandaging. You understood how awkward it had to be to dress a wound with one hand, and so you were able to forgive the haphazard application. He hissed and winced again as you revealed a very red, open and angry wound bed assaulting the meat of his right bicep. Black had begun to settle in around the ragged edges. It did not look good. Your gut sank as you noticed the purplish pucker of skin surrounding a crater that oozed and tunneled, purulent drainage saturating the underlying gauze.

The mold had done a spectacular job of decaying what would have normally been a straight forward traumatic thrower wound. You were shocked that Ezra was not screaming in pain.

You kept your face studiously blank as you set out supplies: a vial of Ancef, sterile saline, bandaging, gauze, antimicrobial foam, hydrogen peroxide, a basin, and the scalpel you’d kept clutched in your fist as you’d fled. There was an injectable narcotic preloaded, you offered this to Ezra and he shook his head, his eyes still and worried. He knew it was bad, and he was scared. A wave of melancholy slammed into you and without thinking, you reached out and laid your fingers gently on his wrist.

“Hey.” He met your eyes, and they were old. Ancient, and filled with what was akin to an existential weariness. You had to dig the toe of your boot into your calf to keep your eyes from filling with tears. You cleared your throat. It did not sound like a noise you’d make. You wondered who you were, really, before speaking.

“I’m going to do the best that I can. It won’t be pretty. Your wound is badly infected. The black bits are necrotic, and if I don’t debride your wound it will spread. I’m going to try my hardest to save your arm. This is going to hurt, so I really think you should take the injection.”

Ezra’s solemn gaze swung to fasten on yours. After a pause of internal debate, he simply nodded. You filled the basin with hydrogen peroxide and placed the scalpel in. You picked up the preloaded syringe and sterile gauze and quickly discharged the narcotic serum into Ezra’s left deltoid. His eyes soon took on a haze of detachment, pupils constricting to pinpoints.

You picked up the scalpel and got to work, and Ezra finally screamed.

He kept his arm impressively still while sweat cut rivulets down the planes of his face. His jaw clenched so tightly you feared his teeth would crack and splinter- you’d finally and wordlessly paused your work to place a length of spare leather strapping between his teeth, which he clamped onto like a feral dog.

You worked quickly and wordlessly, cutting ribbons of spoiled flesh from the blessedly granulating bed of tissue and muscle beneath. Your mind worked in circular prayer, asking forgiveness from the universe for killing, for hurting. Ezra’s flesh was a sacred scroll and you were inscribing your texts upon it, begging for deliverance. It was not lost on you that the same scalpel you’d used to snuff one life was carving death out of another.

When the deed was done, you reconstituted the Ancef and injected it into the meat of his buttock. You did it quickly, too wrung out and disturbed to feel impure. There was nothing prurient about what had just happened, nothing sexy in his agony. For all of its intimacy it was brutal and ugly and traumatic. At that moment you were inextricably bound to one another.

#Ezra Ezra Prospect

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teaenthusiast65 · 3 years

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Dolunay Crossover

At this point, I’m pretty sure everyone has watched everything on netflix.

From foreign cinema to porn from the cinema. And I thought, why not combine the two together?

My favourite finds during this quarantine have been the Turkish series Dolunay, hello Ferit Aslan!

Hello to Can Yaman in general really. Erkenci Kus and Bay Yanlis have also been some enjoyable viewing, I highly recommend.

Then there was the Turkish series Ramo. Only the first season! Thirty minutes into the second season I called it quits, I couldn’t do it. But the first season is about two rival families; high class mobsters vs lower class gangsters. To stop the blood-shed between their families, they go old school and make the respective heirs of each family get married.

Surprise, surprise, they hate each other but that hatred soon turns into respect... then admiration... then love.

Arranged/Fake marriage, hatred to love... you guys see where I’m going with this? Dolunay meets Ramo.

Then there was the soft porn that was 365 Dni / 365. Days. A polish-italian-english smut fantasy that was made into a movie!

Basically, the story is about an Italian gangster who had a near death experience, where he saw this woman, who made him want to live; don’t walk towards the light and all that jazz.

He becomes obsessed with finding this woman and when he does, he kidnaps her! He tells her that he will keep her for one year (hence the name of the movie) and if after that time she doesn’t fall in love with him, he’ll let her go. His way of trying to get her to love him, is buying everything she wants, whisking her away on trips around the world and having a bunch of hot/crazy sex. The sex being consensual and when she’s ready.

So romantic... at least by Tumblr and fanfic standards.

But the main character, Massimo, played by Michele Morrone, is some serious eye-candy; Italian class mixed with American bad-boy.

Side Note: already coming up with a 365 Dni / 365 Days crossover fanfic with the Turkish show Ramo.

But as someone so controlling, business orientated, arrogant and cold demeanour, it reminded me so much of Ferit Aslan in Dolunay that of course, a crossover story formed in my mind.

I mean, given how controlling Ferit is, I don't think it’s TOO MUCH of a stretch to think he could kidnap someone in an attempt to make them love him. I mean, the whole employment contract with Nazli and then buying her restaurant, its all in the same crazy-controlling-love.

So I thought I would throw this idea out into the universe, or at least Tumblr, of a crossover fanfic between Dolunay and 365 Dni/365 Days, to see if this is something anyone would read or like to read.

Quarantine has put my brain into overdrive and I dont know which of my ideas are good anymore! I’m hoping you Can Yaman/Dolunay fans will tell me.

Feel free to like, comment or message me to let me know your thoughts.

--Tea Enthusiast

#fanfiction #fanfic #Dolunay #365 days #365 dni #can yaman #ferit aslan #michele morrone #massimo torricelli #ramo #erkenci kuş #bay yanlış #story writing #new story #netflix #qaurantine #CrossOver #Crossover fanfiction

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artificiallyimplantedmemories · 3 years

Text

[ ooc: ep 4 liveblog & opinions under the cut! this one got long winded because I had a lot that I was thinking about (and it took me twice the length of the episode to actually watch through it because I kept pausing to type oops) ]

yeeeesh that’s one way to start. thank you for letting bucky cry.

but also the look of pride on her face when she says “you are free” they’ve been working so hard and she’s so happy with the progress bucky has made ;_;

and now she’s so betrayed :(

but I’m also so glad Bucky learned xhosa that’s super important! <3 part of decolonization of the past involves respecting and learning and propagating languages and cultures that have been trodden over. Wakanda has been something of a safe place in that regard, and are now doing the outreach to help their continent and the world, but it takes the world of people within the majority putting in the effort and learning and embracing those cultures and languages (without appropriation, which I know is a fine line to walk sometimes) in order to really make progress. once it is no longer alien, it is also no longer scary, and can be held in proper esteem.

“sweet of you” shut your mouth Zemo xD

“she’s just a kid” thank you for your compassion Sam. and while she’s an extremist, I’m not sure whether Karli counts as a supremacist or just a terrorist? maybe she counts as genocidal if she’s truly trying to restore things to Blip conditions but it’s kind of unclear.

“the serum never corrupted Steve” “touché” YO EVEN HE ADMITS IT

Sam’s understanding of cultural habits (and there are many overlaps between various cultures and the ways they mourn) is such an asset here, and I’m glad that they’re pulling a contrast between the tech-driven, cold, calculating predictions made by certain people and organizations in other parts of Marvel and the general sort of soulful and instinctive approach here

Turkish delight. Excuse me but Narnia cemented the idea in so many people’s heads that it is this magical thing but it’s like superglue in your mouth. It is not irresistible, Zemo.

Legislation and social change as a result of violent action is nothing new. Every peaceful protest has been backed up by some kind of harm, whether it be economic, like a boycott, or physical, either damage to property or lives. I think instinctively people understand this, but it’s good to see it put in the spotlight.

Sam is “stranger danger” to these kids :/

“I know what happens when people say they’re going to help out... nothing.” Ouch.

The way Sam’s gaze falls at that too, because he knows theoretically that a lot of these injustices are happening and can empathize, but practically hearing it hurts. He doesn’t like not being trusted either, but I think he can probably understand why.

Zemo playing that psychology game! Kids love food and the idea that he must be a good person just for having a kid is dumb as hell but something that kids would gravitate towards. Smart man. Doubly smart for not telling them, Nat would approve if she didn’t hate him :P

Sam de-escalating is gonna be a trend I can just see it.

Cherry blossom tea? Interesting choice.

SHARON HI

Nat vc: gosh it’s nice to see someone competent around here.

ooooh they’re really reinforcing the idea of Captain America being a figurehead that inspires people

“heroes these days don’t have the luxury of keeping their hands clean” yeah well it’s because Steve had people like Bucky and Nat do do his dirty work, but sure

“all the people history just left out” OW

okay first of all Sam being the one who is insisting on reasoning with them because he knows what it’s like to come from an oppressed people !!! he knows grief and trauma !!! he can do this !!!!! I just know Walker is gonna fuck it up for them :P

second, Walker trying to emotionally manipulate Bucky? it’s a testament to how far he’s come that he doesn’t punch the guy immediately lol

Hoskins being the voice of reason as a foil for Walker again what?! this version of Lamar isn’t nearly as terrible as I expected.

Zemo calling that itty bitty girl his associate xD He really does understand the people here though... aaaand he’s getting handcuffed. Totally didn’t see that coming (he’ll probably break free anyway)

The conversation between Karli & Sam ;_;

“you’re either brilliant or hopelessly optimistic” “por quo no los dos.gif”

Walker trying to guilt Bucky again god he’s so dumb. I appreciate the fact that he’s ruthless but he’s so narrow minded in how he approaches problems. oh no I have an issue let’s punch it until it dies! come on man.

Karli is so heartbreakingly naive and that’s becoming more and more obvious. I love Sam opening her up like this wow.

WALKER FUCKING IT UP AS ALWAYS

and the cuffs empty WHAT DID I TELL YOU

god we were getting somewhere ;____;

oh good just what we need, serum in Walker’s hands. he was already awful he doesn’t need to be more awful gdi

“we separate them and then we kill Captain America” ...yes, we’re listening xD

I know crazy because I am crazy... oh boy we got some internalized stuff, but let’s play it off

still a little blame game going in terms of where the shield ended up I see

THE DORA MILAJE ARE HERE -swoon-

pOINTY STICKS I cackled oh boy he gonna get his ass WHOOPED

Sam is enjoying the hell out of this

Zemo watching and drinking

“Looking strong, John!” “Bucky”

oooh dear they tangling and Zemo’s getting away.

your arm’s off! no it’s not

WAIT WHAT DID AYO SAY BEFORE SHE SAID JAMES

they all got their asses kicked ah well. also the look on Walker’s face says he gonna serum himself up, the lil fucker. oh no someone’s better than you how will your ego ever survive.

a lil Battlestar logo!!! shut up that’s cute. they’re really making him halfway likeable here.

“power just makes a person more of themselves”

ohhhh okay time to unlock Walker’s traumatic backstory. at least he feels bad about the things he did. at least he knows that those medals of honor are covered in blood. people are at least partly made by their circumstances, and I wonder what he was like before the war. the only indication we have of it is him being a football star, and while I may not have had the best track record with those in my youth, that doesn’t mean there aren’t decent ones out there...

Sarah’s “my world doesn’t matter to America, so why should I care about its mascot?” Oh, we’re speaking to the disenfranchisement of marginalized people hardcore today okay. if anyone’s gotten this far in my overly long commentary I want you to know that this is the realest alright? it’s hard to be proud of a country and its symbols when it doesn’t do right by you, when the majority doesn’t do right by you. am I glad I was born here? sure. are there worse places to be? sure. am I proud to be an american? oof, man, don’t ask me that.

Karli is not pulling her punches, she’s threatening the whole fam. Sam isn’t gonna like that... He sounds like he’s trying to suppress panic instead of being angry on the phone call with Sarah. I think he understands what Karli is trying to do, even though he hates how. And he’s worried, because he’s always gonna be worried. Poor guy. And there’s the confrontation.

Sharon got their backs!

Oof, seeing the gun with the shield.

Gunshot, run, oh, listening, he’s already got the serum, maybe? Given how deeply that shield is embedded in the wall I’m gonna say yes. YUP I WAS RIGHT.

Something about the water dripping and Lemar’s face makes me think he may have been waterboarded at some point :( but maybe he’s just in a lot of pain.

THE KNIFE CATCH. YES YES YES. THE KNIFE FLIP. Nat is so hearteyes.

Ooh, we gotta upgrade that wingpack with Stark repulsors pls go Sam go

oh no. Lemar. fuck. FUCK.

oh good now you’ve done it. killing a guy as Captain America. fuck.

the blood on the shield as the last shot! ~cinematography~

hoooo I’m chilled. I knew something along these lines was coming but oof.

#onyx watches fatws #out of the red;#fatws spoilers #cw: death #cw: blood #cw: racism #cw: ptsd #cw: torture

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doppelnatur · 3 years

Text

Cinematic Parallels

Moby Dick Chapter 42

When the entire ship’s company were assembled, and with curious and not wholly unapprehensive faces, were eyeing him, for he looked not unlike the weather horizon when a storm is coming up, Ahab, after rapidly glancing over the bulwarks, and then darting his eyes among the crew, started from his standpoint[...]. Vehemently pausing, he cried:-

“What do ye do when ye see a whale, men?”

“Sing out for him!” was the impulsive rejoinder from a score of clubbed voices.

“Good!” cried Ahab, with a wild approval in his tones; observing the hearty animation into which his unexpected question had so magnetically thrown them.

“And what do ye next, men?”

“Lower away, and after him!”

“And what tune is it ye pull to, men?”

“A dead whale or a stove boat!”

[...]

“All ye mast-headers have before now heard me give orders about a white whale. Look ye! d’ye see this Spanish ounce of gold?”- holding up a broad bright coin to the sun- “it is a sixteen dollar piece, men. D’ye see it? Mr. Starbuck, hand me yon top-maul.”

[...]

“Whosoever of ye raises me a white-headed whale with a wrinkled brow and a crooked jaw; whosoever of ye raises me that white-headed whale, with three holes punctured in his starboard fluke- look ye, whosoever of ye raises me that same white whale, he shall have this gold ounce, my boys!”

“Huzza! huzza!” cried the seamen, as with swinging tarpaulins they hailed the act of nailing the gold to the mast.

“It’s a white whale, I say,” resumed Ahab, as he threw down the topmaul: “a white whale. Skin your eyes for him, men; look sharp for white water; if ye see but a bubble, sing out.”

[...]

“Captain Ahab,” said Tashtego, “that white whale must be the same that some call Moby Dick.”

“Moby Dick?” shouted Ahab. “Do ye know the white whale then, Tash? [...] aye, the harpoons lie all twisted and wrenched in him; aye, his spout is a big one, like a whole shock of wheat, and white as a pile of our Nantucket wool after the great annual sheep-shearing; aye, Tashtego, and he fan-tails like a split jib in a squall. Death and devils! men, it is Moby Dick ye have seen- Moby Dick- Moby Dick!”

[...] “Captain Ahab, I have heard of Moby Dick- but it was not Moby Dick that took off thy leg?”

“Who told thee that?” cried Ahab; then pausing, “Aye, Starbuck; aye, my hearties all round; it was Moby Dick that dismasted me; Moby Dick that brought me to this dead stump I stand on now. Aye, aye,” he shouted with a terrific, loud, animal sob, like that of a heart-stricken moose; “Aye, aye! it was that accursed white whale that razeed me; made a poor pegging lubber of me for ever and a day!” Then tossing both arms, with measureless imprecations he shouted out: “Aye, aye! and I’ll chase him round Good Hope, and round the Horn, and round the Norway Maelstrom, and round perdition’s flames before I give him up. And this is what ye have shipped for, men! to chase that white whale on both sides of land, and over all sides of earth, till he spouts black blood and rolls fin out. What say ye, men, will ye splice hands on it, now? I think ye do look brave.”

“Aye, aye!” shouted the harpooneers and seamen, running closer to the excited old man: “A sharp eye for the white whale; a sharp lance for Moby Dick!”

[...]

“He smites his chest,” whispered Stubb, “what’s that for? methinks it rings most vast, but hollow.”

“Vengeance on a dumb brute!” cried Starbuck, “that simply smote thee from blindest instinct! Madness! To be enraged with a dumb thing, Captain Ahab, seems blasphemous.”

“Hark ye yet again- the little lower layer. All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks. But in each event- in the living act, the undoubted deed- there, some unknown but still reasoning thing puts forth the mouldings of its features from behind the unreasoning mask. If man will strike, strike though the mask! How can the prisoner reach outside except by thrusting through the wall? To me, the white whale is that wall, shoved near to me. Sometimes I think there’s naught beyond. But ‘tis enough. He tasks me; he heaps me; I see in him outrageous strength, with an inscrutable malice sinewing it. That inscrutable thing is chiefly what I hate; and be the white whale agent, or be the white whale principal, I will wreak that hate upon him. Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I’d strike the sun if it insulted me. For could the sun do that, then could I do the other; since there is ever a sort of fair play herein, jealousy presiding over all creations. But not my master, man, is even that fair play. Who’s over me? Truth hath no confines. Take off thine eye! more intolerable than fiends’ glarings is a doltish stare! So, so; thou reddenest and palest; my heat has melted thee to anger-glow. But look ye, Starbuck, what is said in heat, that thing unsays itself. There are men from whom warm words are small indignity. I meant not to incense thee. Let it go. Look! see yonder Turkish cheeks of spotted tawn- living, breathing pictures painted by the sun. The Pagan leopards- the unrecking and unworshipping things, that live; and seek, and give no reasons for the torrid life they feel! The crew, man, the crew! Are they not one and all with Ahab, in this matter of the whale? See Stubb! he laughs! See yonder Chilian! he snorts to think of it. Stand up amid the general hurricane, thy one tost sapling cannot, Starbuck! And what is it? Reckon it. ‘Tis but to help strike a fin; no wondrous feat for Starbuck. What is it more? From this one poor hunt, then, the best lance out of all Nantucket, surely he will not hang back, when every foremast-hand has clutched a whetstone. Ah! constrainings seize thee; I see! the billow lifts thee! Speak, but speak!- Aye, aye! thy silence, then, that voices thee. (Aside) Something shot from my dilated nostrils, he has inhaled it in his lungs. Starbuck now is mine; cannot oppose me now, without rebellion.”

“God keep me!- keep us all!” murmured Starbuck, lowly.

#moby Dick #beauty and the beast #disney #the Moby Dick energy podcast pointed this out and I'm obsessed #Spotify

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callioope · 4 years

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Month after month after month. For seventeen months. Seventeen months of figuring out when I’m going to ovulate. Seventeen months of timing. Of ovulation tests. Of paying way more attention to my body and its symptoms than seems sane. Seventeen times: hope, disappointment.

I thought by now I’d really figured out my body’s symptoms, but apparently not. I really thought this would be the time. I really thought I knew it, like in my bones, that this was it. You may recall last month posting how I could tell the difference between symptoms. They seemed different this month, they really did.

And we needed a win this month.

I have not talked about this yet, but last month, my father-in-law suffered a heart attack. He was driving with my husband’s stepmom, and fortunately had the ability to pull over in time. But she does not really speak good English, and she had to get out of the car and flag someone down to call 911. It took the emergency responders 8 minutes to get to him, but we have no idea how long it took to place the call in the first place. They say if it takes 10 minutes -- 10 minutes of the heart not pumping blood to the brain -- they declare a person dead upon arrival.

But it took them 8 minutes, so there was a chance. And that meant 3 weeks in a coma, monitoring brain activity that wasn’t getting better. They were able to treat his heart, and the doctor said he could have survived the heart attack. He did survive the heart attack. He did not survive the brain injury sustained because of the heart attack.

As my father-in-law is Turkish, the family agreed that he’d want to be buried in Turkey. So my husband flew with his body to Turkey last week to bury him. He had to spend a week there, I think he said that was the minimum in order to get the round trip fare at a reasonable price. And with COVID, the whole idea of him travelling that far has been especially worrying.

He came home last night, but he’s quarantining at our place while I say with my parents in New Jersey. Their home is small and there’s really not a lot of space for me to work, I’m having to sit on a recliner and it’s really hard to feel energized to work. Especially with all the cramps and heartbreak of everything. I should probably just ask for the day off, but there’s an important meeting I need to attend at 1. Maybe I’ll sign off after that, I don’t know...

I just wish I could be with my husband right now.

Our anniversary is on Tuesday, I was .... I was dreaming of calling him up and telling him we’d finally succeeded. We.... we talked about naming the kid after his dad... if we succeeded....

It feels like it’s never going to happen. It feels like I’m trying so hard for nothing. It feels like I don’t deserve it, it feels like the universe is telling me to give up, that I wouldn’t be a good mother, that I’m not worthy. It feels like something is wrong with my body and every time I talk to the doctor, they don’t seem worried, and well, in the moment, I’m like “herp derp they are a professional I should trust them” but then three -- five -- seventeen months later, I have nothing to show for that trust and a million questions. My friends got bloodwork done when they first started trying so they could address any hormonal roadblocks that could make conceiving more challenging. But my doctor said that wasn’t necessary because “when I get pregnant they’ll do the bloodwork.”

I want to scream, I feel like you can’t trust medical professionals to catch any red flags. They didn’t take my seriously until the third time I mentioned that my periods are sort of worryingly light every month, when I specifically phrased it “they’re lighter since I came off the pill,” and even then, they just went “Oh? Hmm. Weird.” And didn’t follow up. No, all they said was, “well you got pregnant within a year so you must be fine.” (Miscarried in May, if you didn’t know. And they say that it’s so easy to get pregnant after you miscarrying. That like, most women get pregnant within 3-4 months of miscarrying. Further emphasizing that something is wrong with me and my body.)

I am going to be 33 in January. They say at 35 your chances start to reduce significantly. I worry about this all the time. I worry that I have PCOS and that it’s going to take me two years just to conceive the first time. I worry that the universe wants me to give up, that something is wrong with me physically or mentally, that I just don’t deserve it. I have so many friends who get pregnant immediately after going off the pill, like it’s so easy. We’d dreamed of being parents together, of shared play dates, and their child gets older and older and...

It just feels like it’s not in the cards.

I recently (accidentally) read an untagged pregnancy fic where they had trouble conceiving -- a whole whopping 4 months. I remember when 4 months felt like forever. I feel like a fool now, of course, and it made me so angry to see that. They said in that fic that it takes 78 times of having sex to succeed, but I don’t understand that statistic because -- they say most couples conceive with one year, although most conceive within 3-4 months of trying. But they also say that you shouldn’t have sex too frequently because it doesn’t give the sperm enough time to regenerate. (You should wait two days between trying.) Also, there’s really only like 6 days per month worth trying, that’s during your fertility window. But you have to have sex every other day during that 6 day window, so that means 3 times per month for 12 months is only 36 times.

AT ANY RATE.

YOU SEE. YOU SEE THE MADNESS involved in this process? Every month I pee in a cup and I take a test to see if I’m ovulating yet. And it SUCKS. I HATE IT. I hate doing it. But if I don’t do it, I won’t know when I ovulate, which means I won’t time it right.

And sex starts to feel like a chore.... and it shouldn’t. It feels like it should just be magical. And it isn’t.

It’s so hard. It’s so demoralizing. It’s so frustrating to see babies. My mom going on about how fertile her friends are and how they’re having another kid. Hearing that the friend in HS who told me, when I said I wanted to have kids some day, that she “wanted to amount to more than a baby making machine” .... and she just.... immediately got pregnant and here I am. A dream I’ve had, to start a family, a dream that has been mocked, and I’m still waiting.

I’m so tired.

And I feel guilty because I know that some people have waited even longer.

And I feel scared because I know that some people have waited even longer.

I feel scared with the limited knowledge I have of what the fertility process looks like. I don’t want to have to go to the doctor every other day. But it looks like maybe I’ll have to? At least, eventually?

It’s just heartbreaking. I really needed a break this month, but 2020 continues to be demoralizing. Sometimes it feels like... what am I even doing trying this hard to bring a kid into this world at all. Maybe that’s what the universe is telling me. I certainly had friends in HS who said as much -- that they couldn’t fathom bringing a child into this horrible world -- and that was like, back in the 2000s, before a disaster like 2020 could even be imagined.

Well. Anyways. Thanks for reading my rant. This was cathartic, screaming into the void.

#trying to conceive #this is really sad so #you don't have to read it #i just needed to scream into the void #the latest with liz #also talks about death of a family member #just as a warning #2020 really fucking sucks y'all #feel pretty bummed and depressed #also this is long

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undead-notunreasonable · 4 years

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Happy Draco-O-Ween || Part 19 of 31 ||

"Please, you must tell me more about these airplanes you saw, I'm completely fascinated by them!" Vlad tepes called out to Dracula from his seat. A gentle snipping sound could be heard within the room, filling the silence with its slashing sounds. A hand came to the base of Vlads skull, forcing his head downward. Another snip.

Count Dracula walked toward the mirror in his living room, carrying a cup of blood as he watched his former lover having his 500 year old locks being cut off by a professional stylist. While he admired it at the time, it was much better that he adhered to the modern age of fashion & haircuts. His face were warm with admiration as he gazed at the man before him, enjoying the way he looked with his new transformation. The cut were showing of the angular jaw that Draculas fingers had once traced in the dark privacy of a bedroom. "Later, I'm sure we don't want to bore our employee with something as trivial as modern technology." He gave a half laugh, coming across as sincere.

But the hair dresser, a slim thing in torn acid wash jeans, a band tee, ginger bowl cut, and a nose ring, merely flashed a weak smile at his clients, focusing more on the task at hand. Truth was, he wasn't really ever listening to any of his clients, they were just meaningless conversations to pass the time to make customers feel more comfortable rather than sit in an awkward silence for 20 minutes to an hour. That's not to say that he wouldn't listen at all. Sometimes he would hone in on someone's conversation due to there being juicy gossip or a scandalous affair. Most of his clients were rich folks, they always had something to spread, be it money, words, or legs. This client though nothing really major, just a rich man helping a friend back on their feet. He wanted a haircut that was distinguished but young. A simple short back & sides, with a little more on the top to play with. Both vampires saw their revolting rotting corpses within the mirror, saw how old their bodies really were. That didn't matter to them right now, they could see each other just how they were when they were alive.

The hairdresser couldn't see that though, he just saw two middle aged men who seemed to have a few feelings lingering between them. He wondered if they knew that or whether it was some weird older generation thing where they still saw it as shameful thing to feel. "Head up please." He commanded, beginning to add the final touches of product to give the longer areas more of a waves texture.

Vlad looked up into the mirror, still the same rotting corpse but with a shiny new hairstyle and a humans fingers wobbling it about in shape. Humans clearly made more effort with their appearance these days. "What do you think?" His eyes met Dracula's within the mirror.

Count Dracula walked across to the other, perching himself on the edge of a table so that he came face to face with him. Longer fingers stretched out to hold the man's chin, all eyes on him. "I see someone as beautiful as the day I met him." His eyes turned gooey as he leaned toward him, pressing a kiss to his lips.

Oh, they are lovers, thats cute thought the hairdresser. It was nice to see an older generation of gay couples, being free to be who they are. Though he half wished the man would really give criticism on the cut but he supposed kind words to a lover meant he'd done a good job.

"Let me just check the back for you." He whispered down to Vlad, rising to his feet once more to join the hair dresser at the back of the seat. "Here, hold this." He instructed for the slim man to take his now empty cup. The red haired man held the cup against his stomach, letting his client observe his work. Draculas fingers lightly tugged at the small few strands that rest on Vlads neck. He gave a little nod in recognition, then reached for the scissors that rest on hairdressers table. He snipped off the tiniest of strands, and stood straight, meeting the hairdressers gaze in the mirror. "There. My apologies, I'm ever the perfectionist." He shared a wide smile, slapping him on the shoulder, and tightened his grip so the other couldn't move. He looked a little panicked at that. "That'll be all, thank you." Scissors swung open, hanging by a single finger until another held them straight out, and blade met throat. Dracula didn't let the human fall, instead, he made him stand up & watch himself bleed to death, his blood, his life pouring seemlessely into the cup Dracula made him hold, even as it overflowed onto the floor.

(Note: if you're going to a killer, always have wood floorboards with a varnish on the top. Much easier to clean up.)

Vlad sat there, elbow resting on the arm of the chair, fingers pressed into his cheeks and a look that was completely unphased by the horrific sight before him. Dracula took the cup from the dead man's hand and finally let him sink to the floor. Vlad turned in his seat to look at the dead body "It's a shame you killed him. I quite enjoyed the silence of the man. Humans love the sound of their voices these days, that sometimes I wish I had the gift of being Deaf." He twisted in his seat to look down at the victim, letting out an unsympathetic sigh "He really did do a good job on the hair do."

Dracula wasn't even bothered by Vlads nonchalent address of the ever growing cold corpse of their hairdresser. Instead, he rest against the wall next to the mirror, one hand bloody from murder, the other holding out the now overfull cup of here "Here, drink this." He ordered as he stared out ahead of him, lost in thought. "Did you bring me back to life? After my torture and death? Was it you who created me?" It was a question he hadn't dared to ask himself in a very long time. He looked almost distraught with it.

Vlad took a long swig of his freshly drawn drink, smacked his lips as if he were trying to decipher what kind of wine he'd been handed before replying in a most assured voice. "No. I did not create you. The vampire that made me, I begged for you to join me too."

"What?" Draculas voice wavered in shock at the news, he'd begged for this to happen?

Vlads hands raised with palms up, a sign of mercy for his silence so he could explain "We were losing the war, my most trusted advisor and the love of my life had been kidnapped by the Turkish. I didn't know what my next step would be. You don't know this but I used to plot and vent my anger in a cavern in the deepest woods of Wallachia. One day, that day, the cavern spoke back. It told me to lose but that I would win everything a thousand times over, that I could ruin those who set out to ruin us and come out with even a scratch. I was desperate to get you back to me. I didn't know what I was signing up for exactly but I asked whatever was in that cavern to find you, to make you the same as myself. I couldn't be without you. You deserved that justice too." Another long swig.

"It was your decision? You decided to break my heart into shatters when I hear they have decapitated Vlad III & placed his head on a spike? You decided I should come back and let me go home to my Mother only to kill her with a need I did not understand, to go and find my wife with my child, fighting everyday this vile hunger until I just couldn't bare it & I slaughter her?! I was going to be a father and you stole that from me!" Dracula snarled at the other, funny how ones image of someone can change so swiftly.

"It wasn't your child." Vlad snapped back, tone deathly serious.

Dracula shivered as though someone had walked over his non existent grave.

"She always fell for stable boys it seemed. I'm sorry to tell you this after so long but clearly she always found something appealing about a roll in the hay. Don't bark at me." Vlad raised his finger like a man commanding a disobedient dog. "You're a smart man, Omor. Think about it. Think how long you and I were gone at war, barely a few weeks home & you could feel the small curvature of life within her as she announced she was with child?"

Dracula looked almost defeated. So many years he'd spent quietly tormenting himself for killing both wife and unborn child just to satiate his unyielding hunger. Now, he knows that his wife was never his to begin with, not even his own flesh and blood. "Why did you say nothing?"

Vlad held out the cup of blood, Dracula looked like he needed it "For selfish reasons entirely. We were winning the war at that point, you were on form with all your plans of action, I couldn't risk my advisor losing that, I couldn't risk upsetting you."

"Would you have told me? Even if we had won the war?"

Vlad looked intensely at his lover, pausing a moment before replying "A little while after the celebrations. But I would have hoped she would be honest with you, I'm not a messenger."

"You're a warlord." Dracula huffed his laugh, quoting something he'd said centuries ago.

"Could you have still loved her despite her affair? Despite the child not being yours?" Vlad took a sip from the glass, seeing that Dracula didn't partake himself.

"Of course. I would be butchered the man who slept with her but I loved her entirely. I would've loved that child as my own. People didn't need to know." Dracula looked less like the terrifying creature the world had come to know but more solemn and vulnerable with the news, so heartbroken.

Vlad hated seeing someone to strong, crumble. He threw himself out of his seat, placing their shared cup of blood onto a table, and cradled the man he adored in his arms. "I'm sorry you had to hear the news but remember, this was centuries ago. We have a future to work at together now. It's you and I." He cradled the vampires face in his hands for a moment longer before sharing a deep kiss, trying to repair the small shatters of Count Draculas heart.

Do remember, the corpse of a dead hairdresser lies on the floor during their embrace. These are not loving creatures.

#even the app doesnt have the nice layout options aaaaaaaggghh #Drac-O-Ween #Claes Bang #BBC Dracula #Netflix Dracula #Dracula 2020 #Dracula #Claes Bang Thirst Squad #GAAAAAAAY LOOOVVEEERRSSS #31 days of Halloween #31 day challenge #31 days challenge #31 days of october #31 days of horror #31 days of halloween #31 days of halloween

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mobscene-london · 4 years

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Could you explain each affiliation and their relationships with one another Such as Russian and Rutherford The turkish gangs French How each gang sees one another Etc The level of respect/hate they have with one another. If they’re affiliated what do they expect from each other etc. Level of hierarchy

There is a lot here to unpack, anon, but I will try my absolute best!

RUTHERFORD/TURKISH RELATIONSHIP:

This relationship is a prime example of one of the Rutherford family’s staple ways of dealing with business; typically, expansion. In Porto Velho, this was also shown in their relationship with the Cávado Kings–a large but disorganised gang who operated in the city long before the Rutherfords showed up. What essentially happens is that they see another gang running a thriving business and think ‘ooh, I’d like a piece of that action.’ They have the resources to demand it. With the Kings, the ultimatum was work for us, or don’t work at all. The exact same thing happened with the Turks.

So far as numbers go, the British have less members than most mobs, and this is one of the ways they deal with that. They incorporate smaller gangs into the whole, letting them run the dirtier businesses, before taking a cut of whatever profits are made as a thank you for letting them continue to operate at all. For the most part, gangs comply because they have no hope of opposing a family of the Rutherfords’ calibre, and it’s easier to take a smaller share of business and avoid a war.

It’s unlikely any of the Turks see themselves as ‘Rutherford loyalists.’ Most of them would probably consider them occupiers, and resent being ordered around.

RUTHERFORD/RUSSIAN ALLIANCE:

This one is a slightly more complicated issue than the last, and again stems from their time in Porto Velho.

The Rutherford family was the first of our main families to operate in Porto Velho. The Italian Auditores came second when they decided to try and break into the legitimate, up-and-coming hotelier scene. This then escalated, because naturally, the Auditores can’t go anywhere without dragging mafia business with them. When they realised the Rutherfords were going to be a problem so far as their expansion was concerned, they decided to call in the help of their new allies, the French Organization; a group that had already been dealing with the Rutherfords in London for decades.

As we know, the French attempted to reach out in peace, first and foremost. Aurélie didn’t want to endanger the flimsy civility in London, and would’ve much preferred sharing Porto Velho between the three than going to war over it. Johnathan Parsons had other plans and killed French men during said peace talks. Everything went downhill from there. It very much became the Rutherfords vs. the French and Italians, and no matter how well established the British were in California, that was not a fight they were going to win. Andrew is proud, but intelligent enough to know when he is outmatched.

So he called on the one family with enough history with both the French and the Italians to have some hope of competing. I genuinely think the Russians will go anywhere the Auditores are because that rivalry is so ingrained in both sides that they don’t really know what else to do at this point. It didn’t bring Andrew any pleasure to ask for help, but he knew it was a necessity, whether the rest of his family agreed with him or not. The assistance came at a price, though, and said price was a slice of London in which the Russians could operate. Giving away some of his city surely took a piece of his soul with it, but it seemed a small price to pay to keep a hold of Porto Velho, the one city which was the springboard for the mob that he has created today.

Their alliance is tentative. The Russians couldn’t exist in London without the Rutherfords, and the Rutherfords wouldn’t still operate in Porto Velho without the Russians. That doesn’t make them friends, though. It’s a marriage of convenience. Only time will tell if they stick together long enough to fend off the French Organization, or whether one will cease to be of use to the other, and initiate and entirely new war.

FRENCH/RUTHERFORD RELATIONSHIP:

Paris to London was an easy and expected jump for the French Organization. In fact, it was likely one of their first expansions outside of Launceston and the French capital when their mob was first starting out. The Rutherfords, however, had already had a presence in the city for over a century and a half, and the French were well aware that they had no hope of dislodging such a powerful family from their London throne.

I think I described it as the French ‘existed there because [the Rutherfords] allowed it’ and that’s accurate. The Organization could appreciate as much. They were bold, but they weren’t arrogant, and were content to civilly share London with its owners. I think they went into Porto Velho expecting that the same thing could happen again, and it just didn’t work out that way at all. The way the Rutherfords lashed out at them was enough to spark an all out war, and the ripples inevitably reached London not long after.

I wouldn’t say they were ever allies. They weren’t. They just operated side-by-side and stayed out of the other’s way. It worked until it didn’t.

The French have grown a lot since their initial advance in the early 90s, though, and whilst they might not have had a chance at rising up against the Rutherfords then, they certainly do now. Too much blood has been spilled to be ignored, and whilst Aurélie might have been willing to sit down and talk again–to work things out, because war is messy and neither of them need any more of it in their lives–the fact they enlisted the help of the Russians sealed the deal. There is no way in hell the French will ever allow that to slide. If there was any chance of finding peace again, that was the nail in its coffin.

THE MOST BRUTAL RIVALRIES:

For this, there are two that I want to focus on that are relevant to the dash:The French vs. Russians, and the Italians vs. Russians.

The French and Russian war is much newer than the latter. I think people have also lost sight of who started it. When Nicolas moved to the United States with his wife, Adrienne, it was to start a legitimate life together. The St. Clairs had no connection to the mob world, and he wouldn’t have even known where to start. It wasn’t until the Russians started lashing out in response to his unprecedented business successes that things started to change. If Nicolas was a monster, it was the Russians who created it.

I think aside from the Auditore/Kurylenko war, the French/Russian is the most brutal head-to-head Launceston has ever seen. Both took so much from the other side. The French killed Larissa Vorshevsky in one of the most iconic Mob deaths ever, in my opinion. The Russians murdered Emily St. Clair; mutilating her body and sending bits of it to her family. They tortured both Aurélie and Laurent extensively in their infamous ‘basement.’ It’s been a rough and personal ride and it’s definitely not over. There is so much hate between the two families that it’s hard to imagine where it can go from here. So yeah, the French hate the Russians just as much as they hate them. It goes both ways.

The Italian and Russian war (more specifically: Auditore/Russian) started with the Kurylenkos, but eventually roped the Vorshevskys in when the two Russian families merged. It is perhaps the oldest rivalry (barring Rutherford/Hathaway) and easily the one with the biggest body count. In the wake of a failed assassination attempt on Alessia Auditore (former boss of the family) they have spent decades trying to systematically cull the Kurylenko line, with some success. They’re responsible for the death of Dmitri, Sasha and Elizabeth Kurylenko (though the latter was killed by Elena Tsvetnova, a former Russian special forces operative who sought partnership with the Italians to aid her sister.) The Russians killed Vito Auditore, Alessia Auditore, and Vinnie Auditore. They also tortured several members of the family, including Alessia’s daughter, Veronika.

I mention this because it’s important for anyone playing a Russian to know when the Auditores are allied with the French. In fact, it’s likely that their shared hatred of the Russians is one of the biggest reasons they bonded in the first place. The Auditores will always be the primary concern of the Russians, which is why I think they were so quick to jump at Porto Velho, not because of the French. That being said, without a presence in London, it’s safe to say that the Russian/French fight is going to be the one that racks up the biggest body count. God help those who get caught up in it.

#answered

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feathery-dreamer · 4 years

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the (likely) reasons i am a wreck

I keep going back and forth between considering myself the most worthless burden in human history and feeling damn proud of the extraordinary things I’ve been through.

I think the main issue is, young people are expected to have done everything and be willing to give away their own wants for society/family/money/whatevs. Anything and everything we do for someone else, is taken for granted; anything and everything we ever think of doing for outselves, is selfish and outrageous.

It was even worse in my case, with a largely autistic older sister. Almost as soon as I was able to walk and speak, I was expected to function as a “big guy” - while being treated as a “baby” in other respects. Displayed as swoon material, grabbed painfully for “affection”, shown off by my sister as “tiny baby bro”. All the while doing household chores and other legwork (parents, sister, uncle, even guests I didn’t know), entirely for free. (That’s on top of all the usual children’s troubles with adults, which you’re probably all familiar with. You know - “you need to talk about your problems” until your problem is with them, your issues are mocked as you struggle to find words to describe them...)

Later on, bitter people kept saying “everyone does this, everyone suffers that” to dismiss the rare complaints or boasts I dared make. That, and crippling memory issues, forced me to forget the most unusual things in my life.

Hence I constantly forget how special I really am, and I don’t mean that in a “we’re all special snowflakes” kind of way. There are many circumstances to my life which, looking at other people’s stories, I’m positive only a handful of people on Earth even heard of.

- No, everyone does NOT have “sibling rivalry”... certainly not one where they grow up babying an older sibling who abuses them with impunity. She’s physically assaulted me, and done other unspeakable shit, to get her frustrations off. The rest of the time, I watched her make my mother cry on a regular basis. I saw this creature get away with manipulative behavior, and took charge to keep her in line while the grownups were away. Over time, I too began making excuses for her; couldn’t even name her behavior as harassment/bullying/abuse.

- No, everyone does NOT do legwork for family... definitely not to replace the older sibling‘s lack of work. I was probably given twice the normal amount of chores to cover for my sister’s lack of interest/comprehension. If I ever said no for any reason other than my physical health, I was chided and reminded to “make myself useful”. All while being called a baby, and having my complaints laughed at, just like any other infant.

- No, everyone does NOT learn a foreign language thoroughly as I did. It’s quite rare to send your primary-school kid to a weekend course for, what, two years? It’s also rare, for a child at that age, to go to a French-speaking school for two years and then move to France. This is how I came to be (at the risk of sounding cliché) top of my class in that subject, and in English after we moved.

- No, everyone does NOT have a hard-working father. Mine is, in fact, very enterprising and hardheaded when it comes to subjects that interest him. He was purposedly called to France to work there, at one of the shiny central workplaces of the firm he worked for. I don’t know how many Turkish engineers have that kind of reputation.

- No, everyone does NOT have birthday parties. Particularly one organized by school staff, on the last year you lived in your home country. It actually made me cry in happiness, and trust me I’m rarely even happy enough to laugh. I still can’t believe I forgot one of the most beautiful days of my life, until I rediscovered the trilingual birthday cards they gave me.

- No, everyone does NOT go study abroad. I didn’t even just "go study abroad”. I literally went to live in a culture practically opposite to the one in my childhood. One where people hated my entire nation with blood-boiling passion, in a private school full of snobs.

- No, everyone does NOT “get picked on at school”, or experience the issues I’ve faced during adolescence. Being bullied and hormones are one thing; but I also had to adapt to a complete 180° cultural turn + abusive sister. Things woulda been agitated enough if I’d stayed home, and I spent it among children who hated my kind. That’s on top of all the news about corruption and terrorism and other horrors, coming together to plague my home country.

- Everyone does NOT take a theoretical aviation course in middle school, and then enter a nationwide test for it. Our teacher was a real pilot, and he actually included Cessna planes (I forgot the type) since there’d be practical training as follow-up. My group continued these lessons while the other kids had their first traineeships; that shoulda tipped me off about its importance. Thing is, the first attempt, the entire group failed; then we had catch-up lessons, and the second session’s date was approaching. My invite arrived on the exam’s day so I couldn’t notify the school in advance; the principal herself came to tell me it was okay to go, but I insisted on staying cause I was a sickler for regulation. I really hate myself for being so short-sighted, because that was something so casual to me back then, I didn’t even remember it.

- Everyone does NOT pass their bachelor’s exam, and with honours at that. Certainly not in a prestigious private high school, and definitely not with all the added cultural and familial struggles.

- Everyone does NOT go abroad to do traineeships, and find new research topics in the process. In fact, the great majority of students at my university trained either on-campus, or with one of the partners conveniently listed on the website. The few who actually left France, went to Québec to train in a French-speaking environment; and those were still partner teams. Meanwhile I landed two traineeships without any campus involvement, first in my native country (family helped me get that) and then in Ontario. During the latter I saw a conference, and from there arranged my third traineeship in Sweden. That last one, among the three, was the only compulsory traineeship I ever did; the rest was entirely my own doing.

#my thoughts #my life #irony

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monsieur-nicolas-de-lenfent · 4 years

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Pleasure and pain

Story inspired by RP. Takes place in the 1920s, Romania, after Nicolas escapes the clutches of @marcusofrome

The fresh blood he drank ran wildly through his veins, fear and excitement mingling into something dark and familiar. The establishment suited his needs and the needs of others like him, mortals and immortals. He felt ashamed and still he craved this. Craved something to ground him and help him put back the mask he wore so easily these days. Play a part. That’s all he had to do. Get back into some sort of rhythm of matters. Polish the act he had adopted.

He had been found by a band of clan-less vampires. Some knew the laws, others had heard of the Covens. Nicolas decided to play on his knowledge. He didn’t give too much but asserted quickly a place for himself because he knew the rites and what had to be done. The old laws flew from his lips as easily as he had broken them in the past and he found himself enjoying being asked about interpretations. Still, he didn’t give too much. Nicolas de Lenfent was presumed dead. For the time being, he allowed the tale to follow its course. He was Nicolas Visconti of Naples. His mother was descended of one of the noble families of Naples and his accent helped. Play the part. It became easy. Being himself was hard.

He stepped inside the dark hall and forced his mask to stay still. Don’t betray fear. Force his blood to flow slower. All the lesson taught brought him quicker to the red door and his hand settled on the door knob with ease and calm. Memories he tried to bury struggled to lay low. Memories of blood, whips and course hands inflicting pain. Memories of screams. He had screamed. He had screamed until his throat was raw. Marcus enjoyed his screams. He played his pain for more screams. For more blood. For pleasure and pain and he took them with passion.

I feel your breath I feel something deep in my chest There's something in the way you move I cannot explain I give myself To every drop of blood you've taken My heart remains the same And I'm An utter fool To give myself to you

“What do you desire?” the blood-drinker’s voice before him slithered as he was measured from head to toe. He had learned from an early age to play on his looks. He was slowly becoming vain about his physique. Dressing according to the fashion of this age but still playing it low. Fitted pants, fitted shirts, black. He didn’t feel other colors embracing him like the black fabrics. No more reds or ivory. Black. Everything baptized in the color of the night sky.The color of his soul.

“Nicolas, all you have to do is ask. Ask and you shall receive” the man was joined by another. He counted the vampires present in the room. His eyes locked with the Turkish born vampire.

“What I always want from this place and your services. Pain. Pain and pleasure” he walked past him and began unbuttoning his shirt, steadying his fingers to finish the task. Play the part of confidence although his soul was struggling with everything he felt. He deserved this. Every lash, for every death. Their death was on him. Every treachery. On him. Every drop of blood. On him. Laurent,Eleni, Felix, Eugeni, his Santiago, his beloved Santiago. Butchered, vanished and he still looked for them, forsaking the image of the burnt theater he had found when he returned from Paris.

Nicolas hissed, straining his arms against the shackles as the whip felt on his skin. Tarik knew how to handle the leather and how to the deliver the strokes. Not to strong to brutally maim but sure enough to awaken pleasure.

He moaned as the whip felt again and again against his skin.

“You deserve this, Nicolas. All you had to do was to control yourself. You coward. You would be still be with them. In the arms of Santiago. His death his upon you. All of their deaths are upon you, lad” Nicolas forced his eyes upon as the all too familiar voice found its way in his mind.

“You’re dead” he wanted to sound more confident, straining against a too well skilled whip from Tarik.

“Nicolas, I will always be with you. I made sure of it. Look at you now. Still craving the pain you so well deserve. You will never get rid of me” the mocking laughter of Marcus rang in his ears and Nicolas strained against the restrains, his body chasing the pleasure from the pain. He let himself under Tarik’s ministrations. He stopped counting and stopped caring about time. He bleed and he revealed from it. He accepted the hands gliding against his flushed skin, stirring him alive.

Half a night, step in pleasure and agony before he could put back the mask he had began to wear so easily. He stood in the bathtub, the smell of blood, his and his companions filling his senses. He stood still, watching the men before him kissing lazily. Reaching for a plump hand, Nicolas turned it to meet the wrist and sank his fangs, the warm blood doing its biding. Harden the heart. Harden the heart because he would end up driving himself crazy and he needed his wits and his strength. And maybe of these nights, Marcus voice will cease to haunt him and the cravings will stop and he will be stronger and not needing this sort of treatment. Love himself more. The fact was he hated himself and loved himself with equal passion. And right now, Nicolas was constructing the image he will project to the world. The violinist had burned long ago, the man in love had perished under the whip, the violence and the abuse of Marcus, Nicolas was putting together the man he needed to be in order to survive. All the lessons learned. From Armand, from Santino, from Marcus. Before he could resurrect the man he wanted to be, he needed the man he required for this world.

To every drop of blood you've taken My heart remains the same

#Nicolas #monsieur-nicolas-de-lenfent #Marcus #marcusofrome #Santino #immortalcovenmaster #Armand #the-immortal-armand #alt vc #Santiago #thedarktrickstersantiago

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othersworldly · 5 years

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hello, hello, its the double pisces you litcherally never asked for. i went into the tags, found this serotonin gyllenhaal and then accidentally named him after the new, popular character he plays on turkish tv after googling male names for 1 hour straight. if that doesn’t just explain who i am as a person i don’t know what else will. i’m twenty-three and legally cannot do math or i will explode. thank you for dealing with me and sorry in advanced but i can’t and won’t be tamed.

ÇAĞLAR ERTUĞRUL, MALE, HE/HIM, HELLHOUND / deep in the pacific northwest lives KEREM HAZAR. i heard they’ve been living there for a year and last saw them hanging around mount peak cemetery, i think they might’ve been tending to the forgotten grave markers. at three hundred and eleven years old, rem doesn’t look a day over thirty. everyone around here always associates them with the phantom warmth of a flickering flame, the rich timbre of an old engine roaring to life, and the icy smell of spearmint. hope they enjoy their stay ! ( naomi, pst, she/her, 23 )

B A S I C I N F O R M A T I O N

LEGAL NAME: Kerem ‘Rem’ Hazar DATE OF BIRTH: December 12th / sagittarius GENDER | SPECIES | Male / Hellhound

LIKE[S]: Winning, the smell of leather, fruit punch DISLIKE[S]: Losing, Lack of effort, Intolerance, Cheating

FEAR[S]: no fears . *taxes* .. one fear.

PERSONALITY TRAITS: + CONFIDENT, STRONG-WILLED, SELF-DISCIPLINED – RECKLESS, OVERLY COMPETITIVE.

P H Y S I C A L I N F O R M A T I O N

HAIR COLOR: Brown EYE COLOR: Blue HEIGHT: 6′2″ BUILD: Athletic, Fit,

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: he always looks well-rested. very sus

STYLE: grey henleys, grey jeans, worn docs, he’s a casual guy with casual style

TATTOOS/PIERCINGS: brand of the hunt on his left peck.

R E L A T I O N S H I P I N F O R M A T I O N

SEXUAL PREFERENCE: bisexual RELATIONSHIP STAT: legally allowed to leave if no one addresses him directly within 5 minutes of entering a room

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