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( open post | november 2013 )
  PICK YOUR POISON. leave me an image/word/lyrical prompt with the character of your choice, and i'll reply accordingly! or don't leave a prompt at all! just drop me a character, and i'll make some magic happen. nsfw prompts are v okay, as always. |
jaime lannister, for robb stark
bucky barnes, for steve rogers
erik lensherr, for bucky barnes
It was a bit of a risk, coming here, offering his services as a trainer, but in all of his planning and quiet research he hadn't heard of anyone else nearly as promising. They called him the Winter Soldier, the most ruthless and yet efficient assassin the Soviets have ever had. They said he only wakes when he's needed, only for the most dangerous and important of missions, and yet he never fails. That had all been well and interesting enough, until he starts hearing and reading about how the man isn't even entirely human. Because of some bionic enhancements, Erik had assumed, because of his arm, but oh he found out more about how it wasn't just that. The Winter Soldier was different, even without outside aid could be so much stronger than any other man, like there's something different inside him, like he has some untapped power. Like a mutant.
And of course, that's what catches Erik's eye. That's what brings him here, that's what has him risking so much to offer his services as a trainer, hiding his true power from them and yet showing just enough to prove that he has some value as a man to teach their prized assassin to become even more powerful. They showed him their research, showed him their analysis and confirmation that he has some kind of a mutation, and they say that they think that if the Winter Soldier learns to use his own power, he truly will become unstoppable.
Erik just smiles and nods, an awful disgust churning in the pit of his gut, at seeing these lower beings attempt to use someone so much better than themselves for their own ends, for their own means. He has no intention to stay at this facility for very long -- but he has every intention of bringing the Winter Soldier with him.
Or James. That was the name he was given, when he met him, when he asked, and he'd seemed surprised to be asked at all. James was clearly just as strong as he's heard, but he relies so much on that arm on his, on what these humans gave him to use as their weapon rather than on his own innate gifts. That's what Erik is here for, to train him, to teach him, and maybe James had underestimated him in the beginning but oh he learned so terribly quickly when he'd found himself pinned to the ground by the metal of his arm, Erik standing above him almost nonchalantly.
They develop a rapport with each other, of sorts, over time. It's clear that Erik is expected to keep to himself outside of their scheduled training, but Erik's here for himself anyway, not for them, and he does what he damned well pleases. He organizes their own sessions, and speaks to him outside of training, asks him if he's really content to be here as someone else's weapon, tells him that he's better than that, and James never really gives him clear answers. Maybe that's to be expected of a man who knows nothing of himself but his own name, if James is even his real name, if it isn't just some false memory that he's clinging onto because it's the only thing he has.
Erik could help him with that, too, help him remember himself, help him know. Every time he says that, James just looks at him with the same unspoken question, why does it matter to you, why would you help me -- only since he never really asks it, well, Erik never has to answer. They just share their silence, maybe a drink, maybe a cigarette, maybe just a few moments of quiet out of James' strictly regimented life, and then they're going their separate ways.
Now they're in the training room again, the facility dark and quiet -- they may have their scheduled sessions but Erik prefers to do their real training in the night, when everything is quieter and the only eyes on them are the cameras hidden away in ceilings and walls ( but still not shielded from Erik ). The training room is empty, dark except the very few lights they need, and he's already informed James earlier today just what time they would be meeting tonight, and he knows by now just how little Erik appreciates having his time wasted.
He stands there, his arms folded behind his back, and waits. ]
( chase collins )
no subject
the energy from his own magics and caleb's combined engulfs him, pulling him into a hellish limbo, a reality where he's not aware of the passage of time — and where time doesn't matter much anyway. the portal keeps him there, in an agonizing state between existence and non-existence, and for all his power, for all his terrifying strength, none of it is enough to break him free.
so he waits, and waits, and waits, and waits.
five and a half years later, he's spit out on the opposite side of the country, into the sand dunes of death valley in eastern california. in the end, he suffers little more than a broken leg and a sprained wrist, his body littered with bruises and cuts from his short-lived (and embarrassing) battle with caleb danvers.
chase spends three weeks recovering in a motel in lone pine, california. his cuts and bruises heal, and his powers, dulled from disuse, return to him slowly but surely.
and that's where she finds him.
to her credit, chase doesn't realize he's being followed and watched until well after she's set her sights on him. he waits for her one night in a quiet park in the middle of the city, seated at a bench with his ankle crossed over his knee as he idly twiddles his thumbs. ]
no subject
gretel was looking for hansel, but the world she had stumbled upon was nothing like the place she was used to. there was light from large boxes with moving images, things ringing and people talking to the voices that came from inside the device. everything was foreign but the language. at least, however, the arsenal she was able to gather was insane. none of this mattered, however, with her brother still gone.
to return, she needed an equally powerful witch to send her back to wherever hansel was. and so the witch hunt never quite stopped even though she had to go solo - hansel and gretel were stronger together, but they were both excellent on their own as well. of course, her surprise was tenfold when she discovered not witches but warlords. men with the power of witches and they were not easy to discover, unless, of course, you were an expert. researching old papers, figuring crimes out of place without an explanation and no science behind it, she ended up coming across an accident in a barn that was strange and so she ended up getting a lead on a particular man called chase collins.
she stalked him for a long while, devised a plan for the hunt, like a proper predator would. she was not supposed to be found, but a slip up was enough to make him suspicious. so when he was in the park, she had the complete notion he was waiting for her. nevertheless, she refuses to back down from the hunt and so she lets him wait for a while longer before she walks out from her hiding spot, crossbow in hand. not pointing at him but very ready to do so. gretel cocks her head to the side and squints slightly at him, unapparent worried. ]
Not a good night to walk alone, is it?
50 shades of greyjoy
It's not easy being a politician's wife. You're expected to turn a blind eye to your husband's philandering while staying loyal to him. When he crawls into your bed, you're expected to please him as best you can since it's your duty to produce children for lovely little photo ops. If his allies see fit to be inappropriate with you (No, please don't. Please. You've had too much to drink. Don't...), you're expected to just take it to keep his reputation clean. After all, who are the constituents going to stone? The corporate titan with a huge family and several charities to his name or the senator's wife framed in the media as a "frigid bitch?" She already knows how the narrative's going to play.
Sounds like she needed a good lay.
She probably seduced him since her husband's not going to get re-elected.
Just look at her. This has mental breakdown written all over it.
Hypothetical news reports play in her head and she can't seem to silence them. Desperate, she seeks a way to escape her lot in life even for a little while. When it comes to her body, everything has been dictated to her for far too long. She's never truly been able to decide what to wear (that's what stylists are for), what to eat (that's what nutritionists are for), or who gets to bury themselves between her thighs (that's what family is for). In a fit of pique, she's checked herself into a hotel suite to lock herself away from the world for just a little while. It's time she took control of something. For once, she'll be able to share her bed with someone of her own choosing. Just this once. I'll pay for it just this one time.
And so she waits for the knock, letting the seconds tick away as she anticipates the lover she's chosen to rent for the night.]
no subject
he's fucked timid women and timid men, mouthy redheads and nervous blondes, and every encounter ends the same, with his client spread across soiled hotel bedsheets or cracked leather chairs. sometimes a client calls back and asks for him again, and he fucks them with his hands closed around their throat until they come for him, sputtering and red-faced, and he rolls off with a biting get the fuck out.
no one ever asks him for more than twice. and the ones who do get a door slammed in their fucking face.
still, he makes a decent wage, despite his shortage of repeats.
his client for the night never gives him her name, and theon never bothers to ask. he gets lost twice on his way to the hotel, somehow passing right by the building entirely before he realizes he's going in the wrong direction and swerves his car around at the next left. by the time he finds his way to elle's door, he's slightly out of breath and a little irritated, pinching at the bud of his cigarette before flicking the stub into a nearby trash.
he knocks just once, leaning an arm against the wall and looking down as he kicks the toe of his boot against polished stone floors. whoever this woman is, she's got fine tastes — and a fuckload of cash. ]
he should say cocktopussy :>
Just let it happen.
Memories of her assault echo in her head; the way she was pinned down as he pawed and slobbered like some animal while he moved over her. She needs to silence those recollections. She needs to take her life back. This is the first step.
Without further preamble, she opens the door to the stranger who will grant her release. Though she's clad only in her bathrobe, her hair is nicely combed and make-up lends life to her pale face. It wouldn't do any good to make his job harder than it already is. The least she can do is offer a decent first impression.]
What should I call you?
for theon
this is REALLY REALLY LONG also reincarnation/twist of a bbc merlin au i am so sorry for the length
he's born with a purpose, a duty passed down to him not by his family but by the magic that courses through his veins and gives his life a nobler meaning. that nobler meaning begins with the greyjoy rebellion and with eddard stark sweeping him into his arms, whisking him away from the only home he's ever known to bring him to the bristling, unfriendly lands of the north.
and to robb stark.
in the day, theon grips robb's small hand and tells him stories of pyke, of his father and brothers and the horrors they wrought, and at night, he dreams of the horrors yet to come. he dreams of the death of king robert baratheon, of ned stark kneeling before a crowd with a blade to his neck, of jon snow in black and the white walkers beyond the wall. he dreams of robb crowned king in the north, his furs tucked tight around his neck as he looks to the men and women who stand before him, chanting words not spoken for hundreds of years.
when he's sixteen, he dreams of his own betrayal, and then of a sword through robb's heart, warm blood speckled on his lips as he chokes on a dying sob. he wakes, drenched in sweat, and swears to never ever ever let his dreams come to pass.
three years later, robert baratheon dies, old ned loses his head, jon snow takes the black, and theon greyjoy betrays robb stark anyway.
fate is cruel, theon's learned, and inescapable.
theon dies in a cell beneath the dreadfort, a ghost of the man he used to be. he dies in shackles and with robb's name seared on his lips and tongue.
and he is born again, over and over, for centuries and centuries, as the world shifts and changes and grows. he's born in china, and then england, and sweden, and brazil, and switzerland, waiting for a man who never comes. sometimes he dies of old age, with his grandchildren gathered around his bed, and other times he dies alone, quietly, or loudly and violently, screaming for robb or laughing until his last breath passes through him.
fate is cruel, theon's learned, and sometimes long and miserable.
the years — and his many lives — begin to line up, and each one theon remembers with a perfect clarity, though he remembers none of them as well (or as painfully) as he remembers his first life. theon watches kingdoms grow and collapse as quickly as they'd been built; he fights alongside men and women in the streets of france during the french revolution, and then in the trenches of germany in world war i. he learns many languages, speaks in tongues that have been dead for years. he learns how to wield a rifle. he learns how to love a woman right. he learns how to smile again, and how to survive when the odds are stacked against him.
he never learns how to forget.
and then, in the eastern united states in the year 1987, so many years after he'd failed to protect the man he'd been destined to serve, theon greyjoy is born for the last time.
he grows up in a loving family, with a mother and father who nurture and coddle him as a baby and suffocate him with their affections as a teenager. he attends columbia university and graduates with a degree in biochemistry, before he packs his bags and says goodbye to the parents who aren't really his parents, leaving new york — and the united states — for toronto.
at twenty-six, he finds robb stark in a cafe just outside his apartment building, seated alone with his fingers flying over the keys of a laptop keyboard. he's engrossed in whatever he's doing, and looking at him now — theon is a ward of the starks' all over again, loving robb as fiercely as he always has.
the barista slides his latte over the counter, but theon's already lost interest. despite her protests, he turns and weaves through the tables scattered throughout the cafe, dropping into a chair opposite robb.
hundreds and hundreds of years he's waited for this moment, and when robb looks up to him (christ, his eyes are as blue as theon remembers), the only word he can say is: ]
Hey.
SCREAMS
But an overactive imagination doesn't account for feeling like he doesn't belong in his own family, nor does it account for his heart pounding through his chest on nights when he dreams of dying (and when he dies, most of the time, he dies too young, a bayonet to the heart or a guillotine blade cutting through his neck or a round of bullets in his body). It doesn't account for the fact that sometimes he stops in his tracks while walking through streets that he's walked through since graduating from high school a few years ago, feeling like he's found himself far, far away from home.
And it certainly doesn't account for the man in his dreams, someone whose face he knows by heart by now. The man doesn't always show up--there are quite a few weeks when all Robb dreams of are trenches and bodies and the rotting stench of death--but when he does, Robb feels...well, not safer, but more grounded, he supposes. A little more real, which is strange since these are dreams, but somehow the man's presence makes him forget that, for a little while.
He never talks about his dream life. He's made that mistake once, when he was a little boy--woke up screaming and sped to his mother's room and told her mommy, I dreamed I was dying, and he saw the fear and uncertainty in his mother's eyes and knew it was a mistake. Never again.
Instead he writes stories, writes them all through his childhood and through his teenage years and into college, where he submits one of them--only slightly related to his dreams, in that there's a soldier in the midst of war looking for someone he doesn't quite know--to the campus newspaper on a dare and ends up staring at his name in print and thinking, Holy shit, I think I'm on to something here.
He writes something else, just a short story with a plot that he might've taken from some old, corny mystery novel and transformed into something else entirely, scrapping the outdated slang and the overly-dramatic metaphors and cliches, stripping it down to its basic components, and striving to write something real, something true, and ends up submitting that one to a short story collection. (There are still little bits of it taken straight from his dreams, like the unnamed detective's best friend who later betrays him because of family. He's not sure how that bit ended up there, it wasn't in the novel he'd taken it from.)
It's published. He calls his mother in America in a fit of ecstatic delight, and nearly calls his father as well, his fingers hovering over the numbers before he puts the phone down. He calls his sisters (who tell him, respectively, write a romance next time, Robb and don't listen to her, write anything but romance) and even, after some debate with himself over whether the higher prices won't kill his wallet too badly, his half-brother, who's less than surprised--Robb's never had much trouble talking with him, even if Robb's in Toronto and his half-brother's all the way in Iceland.
He's twenty-five, he's found something that passes the time and gets him published in moderately-selling anthologies on occasion, and if he doesn't get this paper on L. Frank Baum's Oz series and its influences on popular culture done soon then Professor Brandt is going to kill him, dammit.
At least, finishing the paper is Robb's plan for the day. And he's focused on it, he really is, he's even forgoing his usual order for just a latte and a mini-pie, but then someone slides into the seat next to him and says, Hey, and Robb looks up.]
Uh, hey-- [to you too, I guess, he means to say, but he never gets the words out, because he knows that face. He's dreamed that face. No, not just dreamed it, he remembers that face, and suddenly it's like everything falls into place.
(--now and always, the same voice echoes from years and years and years ago, and Robb understands now, in a way he couldn't before.)]
--I know you.
no subject
theon is a liar, even now, wishing for words he'll never hear from robb's mouth.
but — christ, he's missed him, and the way his brow creases when he's confused, or way he anxiously chews at the corner of his lip. he looks exactly as theon remembers him, tall and lean with his unruly red curls pushed across his forehead and out of his eyes. theon has to stop from reaching out to him, his hands curling into trembling fists in his lap as he leans back and stares at the ghost of robb stark.
only he's not a ghost, not now. not anymore. finally. ( finally. )
still, even as relief floods through him, doubt creeps behind the shadow of his happiness. they have been separated by hundreds and hundreds of years, by centuries, by wars and revolutions, but the only knife that divides them now is the knife that theon put there. there is nothing he can say to ease the ache of the past. there is no answer he can give him that would satisfy any question that robb has. he failed him. he failed him, and now that he has him again, he is starved for words, his tongue thick and useless in his mouth.
the disbelieving smile on theon's face flickers, and then fades, his lips pressing into a tight line as he breaks robb's stare to glance down at the table. he looks up again a moment later, his hands relaxing in his lap and then twitching against his thighs, suddenly desperate for a cigarette. or a drink.
or both. ]
Once, [ is how he chooses to answer, finally, his voice tense and uncertain as he eyes robb's face. ] You look good.
no subject
I looked through the glass at the man I used to call my brother, he'd written once, in a short story with a stolen plot, only he'd stripped it down and built it back up and made it his own (in more ways than one, he realizes now), and I wondered what had happened, that the words we once spoke to each other, the words I had once believed were truer than anything, turned to lies. Or had they always been that way?
The truth is, the character hadn't even been in the first draft. Somehow, between that and the final copy, he'd snuck in, and the story had worked better with him in it than without. He hadn't known where, exactly, the character had come from, not at the time, anyway.
Robb thinks he knows now, and all too well, at that.
(Now and always, Theon had once vowed, but vows were words and wind, and Robb should know.)
He lets out a breath, glances back at his open document. Christ, at this rate Brandt is going to string him up by his feet, but Robb can't find it in himself now to write anything more about Dorothy's adventure through Oz or whatever message has been lost in the transition between the book to the more well-known film to the pop culture phenomenon it soon became. He saves the file and shuts his laptop down, and closed, then turns to look at Theon once more, looking him up and down.]
You look--[he stops, trying to search for the right words, and isn't that ironic]--well enough.
[He lets out a breath, then runs a hand through his hair. What is he supposed to say now, I wrote stories about us only I didn't know it, and by the way I've been dreaming about you among a lot of other things my entire life? Jesus, no.
Why? No, too general, and too many of his questions start with why, he'll save that for later.
Did you really mean any of it? No, too specific, and too soon to ask, anyway, when the wound still feels raw and fresh, though he figures that's probably because the memories are so new, and yet so old at the same time.
You're real. The two words stick in his throat, and he swallows them down, down, down. Some things he can't bring himself to say, not right now.]
How are you even here? [There--that's the most neutral question he can think of, one that doesn't reference things that happened centuries ago. Those questions will come later, when they're out of this cafe and somewhere else, somewhere more private.]
no subject
but robb remembers everything, theon knows. there is no forgetting, no starting over, no robb laughing at his shitty jokes or theon thumbing across his cheek, tucking robb's curls from his face.
and that's how it should be. that's how it was always going to be.
theon does not deserve forgiveness, or a second chance. ( but, jesus, even if robb slugs him here and now and tells him to fuck off forever, theon can't leave him again, he won't, he won't — )
robb asks him a question, a question so fucking simple ( and so not, too ) that theon has to take a moment to process what he's saying. he stares at him in silence and rests a hand on the table to keep from habitually reaching for the cigs in his jeans pocket, fingers drumming across the polymer surface. ]
I live right outside. [ he cants his head to the apartment building across the street and somehow, somehow, manages to crack the beginnings of a smile. ] So I just walked, obviously.
no subject
Robb glances at the apartment building just across the street, and then back at Theon, and he sees the beginnings of a smile. It's a miracle he manages to smile back as well, though it's brief and little and doesn't quite reach his eyes.]
I live on-campus--I would've gone to the university cafe like I usually do, but it was closed today and I figured I'd go check this place out, since my friend seemed to like it a lot. [He leans back in his chair, and resists the urge to start chewing at his lip. Small talk--that's safe enough, and it's a welcome distraction from the memories rattling around his head now.
He runs a hand through his hair again. It's getting a little long, he's got to get himself a haircut.] So far I'd say it's kind of overrated, but then again it's my first time. What about you, do you think it's any good?
come out little niklaus
she had been standing in front of the sign for hours. hours. as if it were finally going to convince her to run back to Whitmore College and explain to Elena why she had been ignoring the texts, the calls. that was what she had always wanted, right? to continue to pretend to be a normal girl. to go to college, have those crazy experiences every girl in their early adult years were supposed to have and get a degree in something that really doesn't matter. Elena would understand her momentary lapse of judgement as long as she told her everything but the part where she ran to Louisiana to see him. to see Klaus, who nobody thought much of anymore but still would rather never see his face again.
he was Klaus. no matter how sweet he was to her, no matter how many times he declared his love-- he was Klaus. he had tormented not only her, but her friends, for quite some time. nobody else forgave him, not really. but why could she? why was she here.
that is why she could not go past that sign. all the way here and for what? to see some asshole who knew that other asshole was going to break your heart? she could just see his smug face now, hear those teasing words. but those crazy college experiences weren't enough. she was a vampire. a vampire. she wasn't a typical eighteen year old girl. she drank blood out of bags and coerced people to give her what she wanted with a quick look into their eyes.
Mystic Falls was her city. she knew her way around, she knew the people, she knew her place within it. Caroline Forbes of Mystic Falls, Caroline Forbes of Whitemore College-- those were versions of herself that she knew. Caroline Forbes with Tyler Lockwood, that was a version of herself that she thought she knew. and what if Tyler tracked her here? what if Tyler found her, with him? that was his goal, wasn't it? to kill Klaus. his hatred for Klaus shadowed his love for her enough to turn his back on her, it would only be natural for him to come to Louisiana and you know, attempt to kill him. but why did it matter? she still loved Tyler, but if he couldn't stay with her then why should he continue to plague her thoughts?
she taps her fingers against the wooden blue sign. as if it was going to tell her what to do, to tell her to go back home. because Caroline Forbes in New Orleans, Caroline Forbes trusting Klaus-- those were versions of herself that she didn't know. that clearly she wanted to know, somewhere deep down, because she made the trip from Virginia to Louisiana far too quickly for it to be okay. ]
Oh, screw it.
[ and taking one step in made her realize there were thousands of people in New Orleans. how the hell was she going to find him? he was much better at the tracking people down thing than she was. ]
for robb
for robb I'm going to use the other account for the rest of this
shhh plurk will enlighten you
❝ You're special to me. I know if I end up with you, we're going to have a baby in, like, a year and two months. ❞
steeeeeve