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yshai-tia · 5 years

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LFRP: Y’shai Tia ☀️🌙

LFRP – Y’shai Tia (Crystal, Balmung)

The Basics ––– –

Age: 27

Birthday: 28th day of the 1st Umbral Moon

Race: Miqo’te, Seeker/Keeper mutt.

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Homosexual

Physical Appearance ––––

Hair: Black as pitch, feathery cut with oft adornments of small braids tied off with beads, a style from his young Tribal years that he continues to maintain to this day. Lazy days will have the braids undone and free flying.

Eyes: Blue on the left, green on the right. Pupils a touch wider than the average Seeker's though it's hardly noticeable at a distance.

Height: 5 fulms, 9 ilms. (5'9")

Build: Built and toned, compacted muscle that's common among his race. Broad shoulders and noticeably sculpted arms and thighs. Much like their totem, Miqo'te of the Y tend to build strong physiques through years of swimming and tree climbing that mark their hunting ways.

Distinguishing Marks: A scar of his jawline, dark coloured traditional tribal tattoo on his nose. His torso is covered in angry scars that healed poorly, along with distinct lightning scarring (lichtenberg scars) up along his arms and various spots of healed burns on his hands and fingers. However he's rarely seen in revealing dress so these are usually covered up.

Common Accessories: Gloves, more often that not fingerless. Silver hoops in his ears. When in casual, work dress; a toolbelt around his waist adorned with various pouches, holds a number of things; pliers, flint stones, needle and threads, at least one marginally clean rag, magnifying glasses, gil pouch, adhesive, a balm or two for soothing burns, just to name a few. When dressed for fieldwork rarely is he seen not sporting a pair of scarlet goggles.

Personal ––––

Profession: Hunter, tradesman, jack of all trades for hire. Not exactly picky with the work he picks up as long as it pays and isn't abhorrently morally askew. Naturally he'll jump at any chance to work with tech, however. Most of the gil he pockets comes from repair and commission work.

Skills: Former huntsman of the Y turned engineer, skills lie in archery, tracking, marksmanship and machina work. Things he would consider more hobbies than skills of his own are botany, fishing, swimming, weaving, leatherworking, carpentry and cooking, as these were basic skills taught to all tribespeople of the Y.

Languages: Eorzean Common, Huntspeak.

Residence: Previously the Raincatcher Gully in Eastern La Noscea, currently frequenting various inn rooms depending on where he last picked up a job. Most often spotted in Gridania and Ishgard.

Birthplace: Raincatcher Gully.

Religion: Though not as fervently as when he was at home, he still personally follows the teachings of Azeyma. He has a desire to learn the teachings of Menphina as well.

Patron Deity: Azeyma the Warden, Goddess of Inquiry.

Fears: Tight, closed-off spaces, caves deep underground, cages, etc. Freezing to death. Being bound and imprisoned.

Relationships ––––

Children: None.

Parents: Y'sharai Vanoh, high priestess of the Y (Mother, Status unknown), unknown Keeper (Father)

Siblings: He considers those he grew up with around his age group as his siblings regardless of blood relation

Other Relatives: In reality, blood relations matter little and, though he left, he still considers all of the Y of the tribe he grew up with his family. However strained.

Pets: Not that he would consider him a pet in those exact words, but his Chocobo, Omelette. Don't ask about the name, or do if you fancy seeing Y'shai embarrassed.

Traits ––––

* Bold your character’s answer.

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized (in a chaotic way he can make sense of)

Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded

Calm / In Between / Anxious

Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between / Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader / In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between / Modern

Hard-working / In Between / Lazy

Cultured / In Between / Uncultured

Loyal / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

Additional information ––��–

Smoking Habit: Never / Sometimes / Frequently / To Excess Drugs: Never / Sometimes / Frequently / To Excess Alcohol: Never / Sometimes / Frequently / To Excess

RP Hooks ––––

★ I Can Fix That: A freelance tradesman and borderline obsessive tinkerer, Y'shai is pretty handy when it comes to most styles of craft. Clothes need mending? Chronometer on the fritz? Aetherotransformer not converting properly? Did a Big Bad blow a hole in your armor? He might be able to solve your problem for you-- for a fair price of course, guy’s gotta eat after all. Though it's said that if he's brought an interesting piece of tech his curiousity will override and he'll eagerly look at it for free. ★ Custom Built: Along with repairs Y'shai also offers a modification service on the side-- mostly for firearms, though more mechanically built bows also fall under his expertise. Looking to add a scope? Or alter the chambers so you can utilize different sorts of elemental-aspected ammunition? Or maybe you're just looking to get some fancy engraving work done. If you're looking to treat yourself and your six shooter, look no further. ★ Skysteel Frequenter: With his recent apprenticeship at Skysteel Manufactory he's currently seen in the workshop quite a bit. If you happen to also be in and out of there on a nigh daily basis chances are you've seen him around. Whether it's a mutual love for the marksman life or to geek out together over tech, there can be common ground to be struck here. ★ Putting the Cat in Catburglar: Though he doesn't exactly make it common, public knowledge, when Y'shai needs to replenish his sources of Garlean tech he'll wait until night falls and raids the nearest Castrum for parts. And to cause a general ruckus. Do you hate the empire? Do you have an interest their magitech? Love storming their bases just for the hell of it? It'd be a lot easier to carry out more parts with more hands on deck after all... ★ Ehcatl Nine Blackguard: It's not uncommon to find Y'shai around the Twelveswood, originally he sought out Gridania for multiple reasons; to improve on his archery, to learn of Keeper culture, to visit the woods his mother once spoke of so fondly. But it was among the beastribe of Ixal known as the Ehcatl Nine where his, at the time, novice experience as a craftsman was free to take wing. Literally. Though it's been some moons since he finished contributing to the development of the Dezul Qualan airship, he still enjoys visiting from time to time to see how they're coming along. He feels permanently indebted to Sezul and his crew. ★ Moon Gazing: Though not all too open about his heritage, Y'shai does have a secret desire to learn more of Keeper culture and the teachings of Menphina. Part of him feels he shouldn't care, not as if his Pops was ever a part of his life-- but on the other hand it's clearly something his mother knew of and loved enough to stay distant from home from some time. Are you a tribal Keeper? A priest/priestess of Menphina? Don't mind inelegantly asked questions? Apologies in advance. ★ Jaguar of the Rainforest: Fellow members of the Y who grew up in the Raincatcher sept would know Y'shai as family or former family considering their stance on his departure. And, though very rare, there is always a chance outsiders have happened upon the Y settlement in the past and met Y'shai long before he became who he is today. (this would take some pre-plotting together!)

★ Restoring the Firmament: Working out of Ishgard via the Manufactory means Y’shai is in prime, and eager, position to devote a good portion of his time to the recently begun restoration of the Firmament district. Are you also dedicated to seeing Ishgard flourish once more? Crafter and/or gatherer of no small renown? Maybe you’re just into watching from the sidelines and admiring the very nice view of all the hard-working men and women doing heavy lifting.

What I’m looking for ––––

Just about anything and everything in between. Friends, enemies, rivals, someone you have to work with that you can’t tolerate but secretly admire (and oh no they’re kinda hot?), a complete stranger to get drunk with under the stars and discuss the intricacies of life and why apkallu omelettes are superior to dodo omelettes-- c’mon dude they are way fluffier! I love light-hearted slice of life moments, intense, high-stakes action scenes and espionage, meaningful angst and scenes rife with emotion, falling into the dark underbelly of Eorzea and learning what grey morality really is. Chances are if you think it sounds dope and worth exploring so do I! I love writing for the sake of writing and if you feel similarly we’ll probably click.

The ultimate dream is fulfilling my favourite trope of a Found Family, but ‘course something like that would take dedication!

OOC info ––––

18+, Canadian, EST. Here to have a good time.

I have discord and all that jazz so if you want a snappier way to communicate just lemme know. I like to think I’m pretty laid-back in all regards and not too much can ruffle my feathers, so don’t be scared to hit me up, world is your oyster! yeehaw

my boy also has a carrd, you’ll find everything here on there but with Extra Lore™!

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notsobubbly · 4 years

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tagged by: @late-stagechosen

tagging: the digifool reading this

name: Osamu Ichijouji ( 一乗寺　治)

aliases: various, ever changing online pseudonyms to avoid cultivating an established identity

gender: male

age: 14 or older

date of birth: June 8th, 1988 [date of death - October 11th, 1999]

place of birth: an alien planet, clearly, just look at that hair colour

hometown: Tamachi district, Minato; Tokyo

languages spoken: Japanese, English, Korean, German

sexual orientation: biromantic asexual

occupation: daycare nanny

eye colour: purple

hair colour: lavender

height: 150cm, got their tiny mom’s genes for that one.

scars: of the self harm variety

burns: here and there, from trying to cook for Kenny at age 4

overweight: yes. this is partially, again, their mother’s genes, but also due to the fact that he both stress eats and is not exactly in a position to burn off those calories easily

underweight: no

favourite colour: he wouldn’t tell you if he was asked, but it’s pink. this was ken’s favorite colour as a child, which he wore constantly. it reminds osamu of easier times, when all his brother needed from him was bubble mix

favourite hair colour: red, like that of Kurisu

favourite eye colour: blue, see above

favourite song: he doesn’t have one. like ken at age 11, he doesn’t really understand how music works and was never encouraged to because his parents wouldn’t want him to get attached to an artform, since artists are so poor. and it never really occurred to him in adult life to pick it up.

favourite movie: Oldboy. He likes Korean movies, for as long as his dad doesn’t catch him watching them.

favourite tv show: never has enough time on a regular basis to catch up with a show every week, and thusly only really watches movies in his spare time

favourite drink: Fake Denki-Bran

favourite book: similarly to his relationship with tv, never has the kind of time to read

passed university: no, never attended

had sex: yes, if this counts rape

had sex in public: no

gotten pregnant: he’s a cis man

kissed a boy: verse-dependant

kissed a girl: yes

gotten tattoos: nope

gotten piercings: see above

been in love: Ryou

had a broken heart: when Ryou left, and then later when Ken did the same

virgin: no

cuddler: definitely, though his means of doing so are awkward with his limited waist mobility. Osamu is an extremely clingy person with those close to him and this is very apparent in how often he wants them as close to him as is physically possible

kisser: indirectly, yes. he will take every opportunity he has to cover his little brother in kisses. not so much in romantic context. he’d do it if his partner liked it, since it doesn’t make him uncomfortable, but he wouldn’t seek it out a quarter as much as he would seek out cuddles

scared easily: by one, singular thing. the thought of losing ken, either to death, or to his brother growing fed up with his personality flaws and abandoning him. nothing else can scare him, not really, but Osamu has an intense and all-consuming fear of being abandoned. in his eyes, love is something eternally conditional, that can be taken away from him at a moment’s notice. he’ll do anything to placate an angered loved one.

jealous easily: very much so. due to his aforementioned fear of abandonment, Osamu has a tendency to be possessive to the point of his own detriment, afraid to be forgotten in favor of someone “better”. like kenny was ignored in his favor all those years ago.

trustworthy: as is probably self-evident by his canonical cause of death, Osamu would die in a heartbeat for those he loves. he would lie to them to protect them, but never would he intentionally hurt them, unless he thought he was choosing the lesser of two evils that his loved one might face.

submissive: though clingy and possessive he may be, Osamu is very quick to buckle under pressure from those he actively wants the affection of, as I mentioned before. he’s been all but trained to think that opposing those he loves will make them berate him and call him ungrateful for their affection until he gives up and does what they want. he’s aware of this pitfall of his, though, and this is essentially why he’s such a goddamn tsundere: he’s terrified of being that vulnerable to someone he doesn’t trust at least as much as Ken.

dominant: he picks up bad habits from his parents in how he treats Ken at an early age, but as soon as he develops the vaguest amount of critical thinking skills, he spends all his mental energy trying to subvert these teachings. as such, he’s quite the pushover with those close to him any older than 12.

in love: verse-dependant

single: yes

siblings: Ken

parents: Mama and Papa Ichijouji

kids: none atm

pets: none. likes snakes.

#dash;#memes;#self harm mention #rape mention

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khruseosold · 5 years

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IN — CHARACTER : QUESTIONNAIRE.

Muse: Jace Herondale

1. What does your muse smell like?

Dust, ash, sweat, ichor and/or blood— think I’m exaggerating? Part of me wishes that I was. There’s a certain smell to Jace that encapsulates the aftermath of what he, as a Nephilim, was trained his entire life to do and excel at: demon-hunting. The remnants of all of the aforementioned taint his clothing, skin and hair alike, and they often linger easily for quite some time as a whole, as he’s never exactly in a rush to rid himself of it (taking two showers a day is not exactly a thing he’s drawn to). And as one of his habits definitely include invading personal space (especially when he becomes perfectly aware that it’s much to a person’s dismay) just enough for the act to not be of mutual annoyance, there are plenty of people who’ve likely become far more than well-acquainted with it. Sorry, Alec (even if Jace disagrees with said apology).

2. How often does your muse bathe / shower? Any habits?

Daily if it’s within his capabilities, with a very definite and strong preference to taking one towards the end of the day once he’s returned to the institute. But it’s one, and generally one alone— he’s not exempt to excessive groans if he somehow needs a second one. He is, however, not in much of a rush to take one and is perfectly capable of delaying it until much later on in the evening. On that note, his reasoning to ultimately get up and take one often isn’t even linked to the fact that he’s rather, well, let’s face it, dirty by the end of his ‘escapades’, it’s the fact that it’s a place of peace and quiet, of serenity which is something he’s very adamant about once he retreats to his room at the institute. It’s almost a ritual of cleansing, even if he, himself, wouldn’t personally reference it by any such terminology. But it is, quite literally, the act of water rinsing the weight off his shoulders, even if it never quite manages to do so. But that’s a topic for another day.

3. Does your muse have any tattoos or piercings?

Jace bears numerous runes inked across different parts of his body, these are, in essence, marks that the Nephilim are able to draw upon themselves with aid of their own stele, and these runes work as empowerment and protection of the wearer in question, or various other uses (as there are thousands). When freshly drawn, these runes will appear black, similarly to tattoos, but most fade over-time until they appear as nothing more but silvery-white scars. Jace (if unglamoured) wears two permanent runes in plain sight that retain their dark appearance on one hand and the forearm on the other, and is, at any given time, covered in scars of old-worn runes. Beyond those, there are no proper tattoos nor piercings on him. As he likes to point out, his good looks are all ‘au naturel’.

4. Any body movement quirks (ex: leg shaking)?

Funny one would ask— yes to the question, a lesser yes to the example given and yes to likely numerous other examples you could name. Jace, while not seemingly one of visible nervousness of any kind (nor is he consciously one who’s is agitated) does live up to quirks that stem from both. Though I wouldn’t exactly account either of the terms to him and his mindset, and I’d much rather opt for the terminology of being ‘restless’. He’s rather of a soul who requires physical exertion as to be most comfortable— and this comes out through numerous smaller ticks that many wouldn’t even quite notice unless they surveyed him with scrutiny (as Clary has done to some level). The primary one (and I see this as a bit of a rule of thumb) is that very often, a part of Jace is always active. If it isn’t him physically in one way or another, it’ll be his mind (which is why he’s always so incredibly quick-witted and sarcastic, he’s very quick mentally); but you’ll also find that he’s prone to keeping an object in motion, especially during moments when he’s just standing around and waiting. This can be him pulling at a loose thread in the pockets of his jeans, rotating his stele when he’s holding but not using it, the occasional shake of his leg when he’s sitting somewhere and he has his legs crossed (the foot on knee variant), running his fingers through his hair as to push it back, etc. These decrease substantially however once he meets Clary and especially, as they progress in their relationship and he’s physically around her.

5. What do they sleep in?

Especially before the timeline and the beginning of the Mortal Instruments, he sleeps in his full jammies, as he likes to refer to them as. But it seems it’s not a strict habit by any means, and especially as time progresses, he definitely strays from the custom. It becomes more common for him to sleep, for example, shirtless with long pyjama bottoms.

6. What’s their favourite piece of clothing?

Jace was/is immense about his leather jackets, and he did lose a heavy favourite among favourites during the timeline of City of Ashes, which he was decently/relatively dramatic about no longer having. Beyond that, the guy occasionally has a favourite shirt, but they come and go— usually ones that’re somewhat loose-fitting but not overly so at all. In truth, many of Jace’s ‘favourites’ among his attire often tend to become favourites when they’ve fallen victim to ichor (or similar) or he’s lost them in one way or another.

7. What do they do when they wake up ?

Cassandra Clare likes to point out how Jace is barefoot way more often than he’s not— so I’m going to make this an issue of equal significance. He lazes through the hallways of the Institute, all the way to the kitchen— wholly ignoring Isabelle if she’s in there already with yet another attempt at the furnace; and peeks if the refrigerator if there’s any left-overs from the previous evening/night. If not, then he resorts to candy bars he can find left and right and if one raven-haired Lightwood is, in fact, not in said kitchen, he’ll prepare himself some eggs for the protein and immense nutrients in them; his go-to. Then he’s far from exempt of lazing around some more, primarily in the library before he heads to the training room for numerous hours, if patrols aren’t yet called for. And by then, it’s usually Taki’s. Have I mentioned that despite being in tip-top shape physically, he actually has immensely horrible eating (and such) habits and I wonder how he accomplishes everything he does, with them?

8. How do they sleep? Position?

Pre-Clary or? Prior to her in his life, there is no set way or position to how he sleeps. In the midst of a room that is way too organised and clean to a point where it seems no one actually inhabits it— when he sleeps, he’s not the most orderly. He sleeps in a variety of positions, depending on his state of mind at the time, though the periods of lighter sleep are definitely spent on his back. When Clary comes into his life and they form a proper couple in the later half of the series, he tends to default to his side as to be able to wrap his arms around her waist, regardless of whether she’s facing him or not; though they commonly fall asleep facing one another.

9. What do their hands feel like?

While a warrior through and through bone and blood alike, it’s only the texture of them which live up to it. His fingertips are calloused, though not by any means severely, there are some scars on the very top of one in particular, remnants and scarring of the occasional temporary rune. Beyond that, one would not truly be able to tell; he has an artist’s hands; very slender with fingers relatively long and he’s very fluid in the movements of them— they’re described as being much more fitting as the hands of a pianist, rather than of a warrior, which tends to come as a continuous surprise to Clary.

10. If you kissed them, what would they usually taste like?

I don’t know, what does he taste like when you kiss him, Clary? (cough, cough, @freckledsnack)

Tagged by: Good question, believe both @loialte and @murroyilodel tagged me. Ily both. <3 Tagging: @loialte (listen, you can do it for Jace’s parabatai; your turn). @freckledsnack again because well, Jace’s other half, @logiclaire, @marblecarved (Obara), @diguerra (Nym), @tocxmply (come on Fil, give me a novel on Bucky), @hakune (Simon; though if you want, you can also do Steve), @lcdgerbled / @snakedhand, @trickstercaptain / @immobiliter (Pep), @empireburned (Peggy).

#[ tagged in. ] this is probably a bad idea. like a record breakingly bad idea. like a go down in history bad idea.#[ meta. ] artists use lies to tell the truth. yes i created a lie. but because you believed it. you found something true about yourself.#[ jace herondale / meta. ] not everything is about you. / possibly. but you do have to admit that the majority of things are.#[ me: gdi-- emma also tagged me to do this for ezio in the future. hey-o. ]#[ also as always-- can always retag me if you feel curious about any other of my muses! [#[ jace herondale. ] it's me. watching me play scrabble is enough to make most women swoon. imagine if i actually put in some effort.

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oodlyenough · 7 years

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fic: scars and stripes

Sasha's eyes were wide, her forehead crinkled, her mouth frozen in a small surprised ‘oh’. It was not an altogether flattering way to be looked at.

“Um…” he started, and then stopped.

“Holy shit,” said Sasha, still staring at his bare chest. “Your arm.”

–

~1.5k, Rhys/Sasha, fluff, comedy, not exactly not safe for work but probably not ideal for work either. Lots of talk about Rhys’ tattoos led to this! Also borrowed a bit from Sasha’s concept art and Rhys’ concept art.

Also on AO3.

Getting some actual privacy with Sasha was way harder than Rhys anticipated.

Between accidental Vault travel, a couple accidentally intrusive robots, one intentionally disruptive sister, and the really quite considerable amount of courage Rhys needed to make a move in the first place, it took much longer than he would have liked. By the time it finally happened, it had already played out in his head more times—and it more detail—than he’d ever admit to.

Judging by the enthusiastic way she was kissing him and the fact that her hands were wandering—well—everywhere, Sasha felt similarly.

With one hand grasping at any bare skin he could find and the other cupping the back of her neck, Rhys let her walk him backward until his legs hit the edge of the mattress. Sasha grinned against his mouth at the small jolt, and both her hands migrated to the centre of his chest before she shoved him down onto the bed.

Sasha, he was learning quickly, was a little… aggressive.

That was fine. He could work with that.

For a moment she just loomed over him at the edge of the bed, her head tilted in an unmistakable look of self-satisfaction.

Rhys raised an eyebrow, smirking back. “You planning on joining me, or…?”

“Maybe,” she teased, but the next second she was climbing onto her knees to straddle his hips, so that was a win, definitely.

He sat up to kiss her again, propping himself up on his metal arm—easily its best use so far, he thought, as his free hand snaked up under her shirt. The tips of his fingers brushed the soft underside of her breast, and Sasha leaned forward into his touch, her hum of appreciation turning to a frustrated grunt.

“You wear too many clothes,” she grumbled, pushing his jacket down over his shoulders. “Why do you have so many damn buttons?”

“It’s all about the aesthetic,” he grinned, but when the buttons on his vest strained in her haste, he grabbed her hand. “Hey, hey, easy! This was expensive, you know.”

Sasha pulled back enough to fold her arms and roll her eyes.

“Just… here, I’ll… sometimes it gets caught on the…”

He trailed off, focusing all the energy he could spare on getting his jacket, vest and shirt off as quickly as possible. It took, frankly, a little more focus than he would have liked, considering in his periphery he could see Sasha tugging off her red hoodie, and he really wanted to pay attention that, instead.

(Okay, maybe she did have a point about the buttons, in this very specific instance.)

Pulling his arm free at last, he tossed the clothes off the bed with an unceremonious thump and turned back to Sasha. Her black sweater was tantalizingly close to slipping off the only shoulder it covered, but her eyes were wide, her forehead crinkled, her mouth frozen in a small surprised ‘oh’.

It was not an altogether flattering way to be looked at.

“Um…” he started, and then stopped.

“Holy shit,” said Sasha, still staring at his bare chest. “Your arm.”

“Oh,” said Rhys dumbly in return, glancing down at his own arm like it might surprise him. “Right.”

He flexed each metal finger self-consciously, feeling a little silly and a little stunned. People were weird about the arm sometimes, particularly when they saw it up close. Something about seeing it connect right into the skin of his shoulder creeped them out, even if they were perfectly fine with it the rest of the time. The novelty of its various tricks ran out against the reality.

Naively, he hadn’t expected Sasha to be one of those people.

He cleared his throat and attempted to sound casual. “Sorry, is it too cold? I can, um…”

What he was going to offer to do, he wasn’t exactly sure, but the wrinkle on Sasha’s forehead only deepened in confusion.

“Cold?” she repeated. “Why would… oh.” She blinked and shook her head. “Not that one, I meant…” She pointed to his left arm. “You’ve got a sleeve.”

Rhys couldn’t help a quick laugh of relief. Oh, right. That.

“Uh, yeah. Surprise!”

“It’s huge,” said Sasha.

“Yep.”

“It’s blue,” said Sasha.

“Three for three, Sherlock.” But he was grinning again.

“How long have you had that?” she demanded, still transfixed, incredulous enough that he laughed.

“Well, I definitely didn’t get it done on Pandora.” The notion of letting anyone on Pandora anywhere near him with a tattoo gun was horrific, but he decided not to share that thought. He lifted that arm to flex, then regretted it when he remembered that he had no real muscle definition to speak of and Sasha could probably deadlift a horse. “You like it?”

“I can’t believe you have a sleeve,” said Sasha. She grabbed his arm, inspecting it closely, as if she was trying to make sure it wasn’t an illusion, or something he'd got from the bottom of a cereal box. “You’re not hardcore enough to have a sleeve.”

“And yet…”

Sasha climbed off his lap to kneel beside him, and Rhys pouted a little at the loss even as he took pride in the way she was poring over his arm like it was the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen. He splayed his fingers, and Sasha obliged, looping one of her hands through his.

“This must’ve cost a fortune,” she said. She looked up to meet his eyes again, one eyebrow raised. “You know, your arms combined are probably worth more money than I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Rhys pretended to consider it. “Technically you’ve seen ten million dollars, so…”

With a mock scowl, she tweaked the inside of his elbow lightly. “Smartass.”

She sat back on her heels, her expression turning pensive as she traced her finger along the outline of the pattern stretching down his arm. He wondered if she noticed the goosebumps she was creating.

“I used to want a tattoo,” she said after a minute. “Knew what I’d get and everything.” She pointed to a spot just above her hip, bare now without the red shirt to cover it. “But the money was always better spent somewhere else. Eventually I stopped thinking about it.”

Rhys frowned, looking from the patch of brown skin back up to her wistful, far away expression.

“You could get it now,” he suggested. Unable to help himself, he added, “Unless you were going to get ‘August’ in a heart, or something, then I gotta say—”

“I was thinking a portrait, actually. His face. Just right here.” She patted her side. “That'd be hot, right?”

“Oh, but you'd never find anyone to do those blue eyes justice, and then really, what’s the point?”

“Shut up,” she chided, but she was grinning as she shoved his own arm back at him. “I don’t know. Maybe I will.” She ran her fingers along the spot on her stomach for a second, then shrugged. “No tattoos yet. Plenty of scars, though.”

On instinct he reached for the spot in the middle of her abdomen where she’d once held Felix’s pocket watch. The mark left behind was barely visible, a tiny disruption in her otherwise smooth skin, but he ran his finger over it reverently anyway. It was difficult not to imagine all the other ways that might have played out, and he shivered.

Sasha’s hand ghosted over his for a second, then she lifted up the side of the black shirt still clinging valiantly to her left shoulder. “This one’s more impressive.”

Running across her bottom ribs was a long white scar, new to him. He slid his hand from her stomach to her ribcage and brushed it with his thumb.

“Gross, right?” she prompted.

Her tone was light, and he found it difficult to tell if there was real insecurity underneath. He decided to play it safe.

“Nah.” His thumb traced back and forth down the line and grinned. “Scars are totally sexy.”

Her lips twitched, but Sasha rolled her eyes, dropping her shirt back down. “Oh yeah. Nothing sexier than getting stabbed by a bandit when you’re twelve.”

Rhys felt some of the colour—of which there was, admittedly, probably too much right now—drain from his face. “Okay, well, that’s… you know what, can we maybe just, like, park the conversation about your tragic childhood while I’m half-naked, or…?”

Sasha looked at him sharply, and he panicked that he’d miscalculated. God, why did he have to be such an idiot, all the time? What was it about Sasha’s proximity that made such stupid things come out of his mouth?

He was preparing to beg forgiveness, to grovel in apology, when Sasha's expression turned to a playful glare.

“You’re such an asshole.” She shoved him back down onto the mattress and hitched her leg over him again. Balancing on her elbows, she hovered above him, her smirk a few inches above his face. “Remind me why I like you again?”

“Well…” He craned his neck to kiss her. “Probably because I’m so hardcore.”

Sasha smirked against his mouth and sank down onto his lap again, earning a moan for her troubles. He reached up with both hands, pushing her shirt higher, past the scar on her ribcage, and Sasha sat back, letting him slide her shirt as far as he could before she pulled it over her head and dropped it to the floor. As she reached to remove her bra, Rhys sat up to help, but she pushed him back with one hand, unclasping the bra with the other and letting it fall to the pile as well.

She hadn’t been lying about the scars. He could see them better now, marks of various shapes and sizes scattered here and there on her dark skin. He’d been half joking earlier, but the truth was he did like them; they were testimonies to the fact that Sasha was strong, a fighter, a survivor.

Remarkably, she was every bit as beautiful as his very generous imagination had led him to believe. Maybe even more. He shot her an encouraging smile, and for a split second when she smiled back, she looked uncharacteristically shy.

As quick as it’d come, it was gone.

“‘Because I’m so hardcore’,” she repeated, her voice pitched lower in a poor parody of his, her eyes twinkling wickedly as she grinned. “That…” she said slowly, raking her nails down his chest to reach his belt buckle, “is definitely not why.”

#rhysha #rhys the company man #sasha the kid sister #tales from the borderlands #borderlands #oodlyenough i write fic

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bloodbaptisedarchive-blog · 7 years

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REALLY LONG CHARACTER SURVEY. RULES. repost , don’t reblog ! tag 10 ! good luck ! TAGGED. @judgmentcast, holy SHIT. TAGGING. literally ANYONE who’s up for a bit of a challenge.

BASICS. FULL NAME : Harmon Mallory James. NICKNAME : James, Mr. James, Senior Advisor Harmon James. AGE : Forty-two. BIRTHDAY : October 17th, 1998. ETHNIC GROUP : Caucasian. NATIONALITY : American. LANGUAGE / S : English. SEXUAL ORIENTATION : Homosexual. ROMANTIC ORIENTATION : Homoromantic. RELATIONSHIP STATUS : In a secret, long-term relationship with Minister Edwidge Owens. CLASS : Upper class. HOME TOWN / AREA : He was born in Boston, Massachusetts. CURRENT HOME : Washington, DC. PROFESSION : Senior Advisor to the Leader of the New Founding Fathers.

PHYSICAL. HAIR : Red. Much lighter when he was younger. Wavy. EYES : Bright blue, sunken. NOSE : Long with a slight downward hook. FACE : Defined smile lines, and other various lines and freckles. LIPS : Thin, small, and chapped. COMPLEXION : Pale, sickly, with light freckles peppered along his face. BLEMISHES : Nothing noticeable. SCARS : A few on his face, a couple from various other incidents. Burn scars on his hands. TATTOOS : None. HEIGHT : 6'6". WEIGHT : 185 lbs. BUILD : Slender, defined muscles in his arms, chest and legs. Sharp shoulders. FEATURES : Wide, sunken eyes. Large, gentle hands, folded at his chest. Painted fingernails. Intimidating stature. ALLERGIES : N/A. USUAL HAIR STYLE : Straightens his waves and slicks the whole thing back, parting it to the left. USUAL FACE LOOK : Expressionless. Ivory makeup still shows the freckles on his face. Though expressionless, he always tends to look alert, on his guard. USUAL CLOTHING : A suit, including a vest, ironed to crispness the day before. Suitable colours are grey, black, or beige. Ties, usually blue or red. A silver cross around his neck. Edwidge's promise ring on his middle left finger. Nails painted usually nude shades. Black or brown shoes shined until you can see your face in them.

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR / S : Fear of imperfection. A slight fear of disappointment. Fear of being outed. ASPIRATION / S : To purge and purify: to rid the country of those that depend on them, them being the NFFA, the government, the healthcare system, housing, welfare. To make his superiors see that he can one day be as good as any of them. To lead the New Founding Fathers of America. POSITIVE TRAITS : Loyal, peaceful, spiritual, efficent, disciplined, aware, calm, intelligent, self-confident. NEGATIVE TRAITS : Hypocritical, overzealous, judgemental, blindly obidient, sadistic, insensitive, remorseless, blunt, withdrawn. MBTI : ISTJ, the Logistician. ZODIAC : Libra. TEMPERAMENT : Melancholic. SOUL TYPE / S : Thinker. ANIMALS : A wide-eyed owl, constantly observing. VICE HABIT / S : Vanity, a bit more concern about his appearance than most men his age. Overly critical of those in a lower position than him, even though he was once one of them. FAITH : What the NFFA deems to be Christian. GHOSTS ? : Yes. AFTERLIFE ? : Absolutely. He needs to go home sometime. REINCARNATION ? : Possibly. ALIENS ? : No. POLITICAL ALIGNMENT : Right-wing. ECONOMIC PREFERENCE : He has more than he knows what to do with. SOCIOPOLITICAL POSITION : One of the 1%. EDUCATION LEVEL : University.

FAMILY. FATHER : Richard Allen James, the chief communications officer of ARCON and the first press secretary of the New Founding Fathers. Deceased. MOTHER : Caroline Ann James, a talented pianist and violinist, with dreams of playing with a famous orchestra. Still living. SIBLINGS : Seven. Sarah, Mary, Caleb, Lucas, Joanna, Michael & Hannah. Harmon is sixth. EXTENDED FAMILY : Aunts, uncles, several cousins, and a total of twenty-seven nieces & nephews. NAME MEANING / S : Harmon, "man of the army." Mallory, "ill fated." HISTORICAL CONNECTION ? : Unknown. There is a place named Harmon mentioned in the Bible, but this place name is debatable. It's been thought of that Harmon James is a pun on "harming James," James being a leader of the early Church.

FAVOURITES. BOOK : Other than the Bible, specifically the Old Testament, he enjoys a good true crime novel now and again. Also, political biographies. MOVIE : Dramas, documentaries and psychological thrillers. 5 SONGS : (these remind me of him, not his own favourites.) The Sisters of Mercy - Driven Like The Snow. Frank Tovey - New Jerusalem. Cloudeater - Hollow. Fad Gadget - Under The Flag II. Nathan Whitehead - The Sacrifice. DEITY : A God who encourages a yearly slaughter of His creation. HOLIDAY : That blessed night, the one night the country does their bidding. MONTH : March. SEASON : Winter. PLACE : His home, Our Lady of Sorrows, or the NFFA's headquarters. WEATHER : Cloudy, foggy; a brisk morning that beckons snowfall. SOUND : The echo of footsteps walking across a marble floor. A choir of unintelligeble words. Wind whistling through telephone wires. Silence. The scream of a man, strapped down, a knife plunging into his heart. A siren. SCENT / S : The smoke from an extinguished flame. Stale. Eau de cologne. Hair gel. TASTE / S : Blood. Luxurious foods. Tea. Ice. FEEL / S : A shiver running down your spine. The touch of a hand when no one's around. The feeling someone's watching you when you're alone. Blood on your lips. A cold wind. Emptiness. ANIMAL / S : An owl seems to be the only thing I think of. Maybe an eagle. Harmon seems like a bird. NUMBER : Six. He's the sixth in his family, he stands at six feet and six inches tall... COLOUR : Blue, to show his loyalty to the NFFA. Red, the colour staining his hands. White, for the supposed purity of his soul.

EXTRA. TALENTS : His intelligence. His written communication skills. Most of his oral communication skills, his stutter stands in his way. Good with weapons. His knowledge of the human anatomy. He's fairly good at ice skating. Singing. BAD AT : Having a social life. Drawing. Being an enjoyable person. Smiling. TURN ONS : Men in positions of power. Voices that draw you in. Strong hands. Blood. Twisting a knife inside of a martyr. TURN OFFS : Anyone lower than his class. HOBBIES : Choir. Anything that involves assisting the NFFA. TROPES : Badass Long Robe. Dissonant Serenity. Giggling Villain. AESTHETIC TAGS : Blurry images. Graveyards. Blood covering hands, covering the Cross. Knives. Pale, trembling hands. Waves of blue. GPOY QUOTES : "You are never here. You are always almost there."

FC INFO. MAIN FC / S : Christopher James Baker. ALT FC / S : Mark Strickson (possibly.) OLDER FC / S : Not sure, but Robert Redford currently is a possibility. YOUNGER FC / S : Freddie Fox. VOICE CLAIM / S : CJB in "True Detective." GENDERBENT FC / S : Lisa Pelikan.

MUN QUESTIONS. Q1 : if you could write your character your way in their own movie , what would it be called , what style would it be filmed in , and what would it be about ? A1 : He has a movie, but he's not the focal point. He has his big moments though! I'd like to see more of Harmon in The Purge 4, since that will be more focused around the NFFA. The story of how a man becomes the way he is today, desensitised to death, wanting destruction, yearning for violence. What made him be this way? What would it be called? No idea. Q2 : what would their soundtrack / score sound like ? A2 : Ambient. Echoes where none of the words can be understood. A soft organ playing in the background. Suddenly, the music becomes a bit more intense... Q3 : why did you start writing this character ? A3 : I watched The Purge: Election Year, and immediately fell in love with him. I knew I had to do something, and this is what I chose to do. Q4 : what first attracted you to this character ? A4: June 30th, 2016. Around 9:00pm. I'm sitting front and centre watching the newest Purge film, a sequel in a franchise I've loved for three years. Charlie Roan is delivered to Our Lady of Sorrows. All of a sudden, this tall, thin, creepy fucker in a long blue robe makes his debut. Just the kind of character I love. I walked home that night, wrote "Harmon James can own my ass, what the fuck" into my phone, and knew this was the beginning of something beautiful. Q5 : describe the biggest thing you dislike about your muse. A5 : He's everything I hate in a person. He dislikes everyone who isn't like him. He's almost every -phobic or -ist in the damn book. Q6 : what do you have in common with your muse ? A6 : We have blue eyes, and we laugh similarly. That's it. Q7 : how does your muse feel about you ? A7 : Harmon James would want me sacrificed. Q8 : what characters does your muse have interesting interactions with ? A8 : Edwidge Owens. Thomas Roseland. Caleb Warrens. Harlan Coy. Claude Frollo. Richard Miller. Curtis Stafford. Leo Barnes. Charlie Roan. Ambrosia Reynolds. If I could ever actually get to plotting with other people, them as well. Q9 : what gives you inspiration to write your muse ? A9 : Watching Harmon's scenes! Listening to songs that remind me of him, like the Election Year soundtrack. Scrolling through the archive on his aesthetic blog. Being outside in the cold. Q10 : how long did this take you to complete ? A10 : I forgot about this for a good month. So a long time. Thanks, Ocelot. xo

#( holy FUCK this took me SO LONG )#( but here it is )#( I AM NOT MERCIFUL. AND I AM NOT KIND. )

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3one3 · 7 years

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The Sequel - 869

That Nerve

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s (okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

“Ow!”

“Hold still, Prinzessin.”

“It stiiiiings.”

“He’s almost finished.”

Christina shuddered again, ignoring her husband’s order, and her groom pulled the cotton swab with which he was torturing her away from the bloody cut on her side. It was a few inches down from her right armpit, right below her bra, and more in the back than the front. She couldn’t reach it or see it herself to be able to clean it, and Tom was very experienced in taking care of equine wounds so he was elected to look after her instead of André. It needed to be disinfected and cleared of all the pooling and dripping blood so that they could get a good look and decide if it would require stitches. Christina planned to take Calvin for a long gallop in the neighbor’s field on Monday afternoon, in part because he was due for one and in part because she thought it might make her feel better about the various things plaguing her heart and mind. Few things felt more exhilarating and satisfying to her than holding a half-seat on a big and true-strided horse covering open ground like a high-speed train. She and Jill once talked about how primal a thing it is for one to gallop a horse because people have been doing it from the beginning of human history. People of nearly all ancient cultures used horses. To gallop a horse is to partake in something un-evolved. Christina just didn’t get to do it on Monday because her horse decided to lose his mind in the tiny bit of forest separating the Schürrle property from the riding academy next door.

Some large forest fowl burst through a bush and then took off in flight, big wings flapping, right in front of Calvin. He was terrified and wheeled in the opposite direction before his rider even knew what was happening. Her seat was secure and she was in no danger of coming off, but steering his explosion was out of the question. He cantered sideways too close to a tree with pointy branches, and one of them reached out for Christina on their way past. It ripped her shirt and her skin and caught badly enough that it knocked her right out of the saddle. She decided on the long walk back to the barn that it was a good thing the force dislodged her and sent her flying, as the sharp piece of wood might have otherwise ended up stabbing her and doing more serious damage. Her Hanoverian left her there and ran all the way back home, where he gave Tom and Isandro a proper heart attack. He trotted right into the barn, head in the air, ears all over the place, snorting, out of breath, shaking like a leaf. Neither of them thought to call their boss to find out if she was okay or lying in a ditch somewhere. They were too busy assuming she was definitely in a ditch, and freaking out about it. And she didn’t think to call them either. She was too busy worrying about how nasty a scar the cut would leave, and, sort of non-seriously, if she’d die of blood loss before making it back. Her guys called André instead, and he was just getting home from training, or physical therapy really. Husband and wife arrived at the barn at more or less the same time. He was relieved that she was mostly okay, and she was relieved that Calvin was too.

“I don’t think it needs to be stitched,” Tom declared after dabbing the wound with alcohol a few more times. “The worst of it is the beginning and that’s pretty small. Do you have any longer Band-Aids at the house?” He had the barn first-aid kit out, as well as some supplies normally used on the horses. The cut was the width of his palm and there was nothing there that could cover it.

“Yes but not that big. Can’t you just put two gauze pads on it and then tape them down? Ow! Stop touching it!”

“You’re such a baby,” André laughed at the patient, whose back and side were still streaked with blood, and whose black breeches showed a wet, reddish sheen in places. She was holding the similarly stained, torn white t-shirt. He thought she looked like she’d been at the scene of a murder.

“Fuck you, it hurts!” she shot back with murder-level anger in her pretty blues.

“I can improvise something, yeah,” her groom nodded. “You’ll probably need to change it again in a few hours if it doesn’t stop bleeding. The whole area will probably be black and blue soon, so I’ll try to keep the tape as far from the cut as possible. Otherwise it’s going to hurt like a bitch to pull it off and press new tape down. Can I lift the bra up here?”

“Yeah. If it’s still bleeding, how do I not need stitches?” Christina alternated between trying to see the cut from the side and trying to look over her shoulder. Neither view was very good.

“Well it’s not bleeding in this moment but it might start again when you move around. As I said, it’s only bad here, under your arm. It’s just a scratch at the end. The middle isn’t so terrible.”

“You can go lay down on the couch on your other side and it’ll probably stop,” André offered. “Lucky it was that side and not in the middle of your tattoo.”

“I have more horses to ride.”

“Don’t be-“

“It’s going to be very sore in a hurry, Chris,” Tom interjected warningly before the couple could get into a fight, which everyone knew was coming. Spencer even gave up sniffing at the first aid kit on the stepladder and trotted off to see what Isandro’s dog was up to by the wash stall. “And it will definitely bleed if you get your heart rate up. Stef can ride a few more horses today.”

“I’ll text her,” the footballer offered. He had her phone anyway. He pushed the home button and frowned at the wallpaper with more aggravation than he felt about his girl’s objection to taking the rest of the day off to relax and give her cut a chance to begin healing. It was a picture of Juan on the ball in some match. Tapping in her passcode and seeing the home screen wallpaper- a photo of himself and his son sitting together with a funny top hat and monocle filter- did little to suppress his irritation. He was getting ready to encourage Christina to start scaling back her “privileges” with Juan, and she just seemed to be ramping them up. He didn’t know it until she called on her way home from the airport and sounded terribly down about being back and totally disinterested in making plans for when he got back from Brackel. His impression wasn’t helped when he helped her out of the bloody shirt and spotted the hickey sticking out from her belt by her hip.

Two steps forward and one back, every time she goes to see him. I need to keep her away from him for a while. We were fine. She comes home unhappy, and with him on her phone. And she would fight me to the death on riding more today if not for Tom, because she trusts his opinion on anything related to horses more than she trusts mine on anything related to...anything. Sometimes I want to strangle her, André thought while he watched her wince and grimace as Tom measured some gauze for fit. The groom asked him to help hold them so that he could secure them with the tape, so the player put the phone in his pocket and put down the water bottle he’d also been holding for Christina. She asked what he messaged to Stefanie and then wanted to know what he’d been staring at her phone for if not to write the text.

“Admiring Juan in his black kit,” he quipped, unable to help himself. His wife had a long-standing love/hate relationship with Chelsea’s third kit. All the players looked extra attractive in it, but the black kit was notoriously unlucky for the Blues during her tenure as a Chelsea wife.

“Not even one day,” she spat back.

“What?”

“You can’t go a single day without being a jerk. I remember when you were the kind of person who would kiss my booboo better, not-“

“I remember when you didn’t take 48-hour holidays from our relationship.”

“And I remember when I was just a lowly horse groom, paid to look after the plow horse at my uncle’s farm,” Tom declared melodramatically after loudly clearing his throat. He then mumbled something about scissors and walked purposefully away from the erupting volcano outside Christina’s office. She insisted he treat her cut in the aisle, where she wouldn’t bleed on anything important like the “godforsaken” carpet that Zoe just had to put in her office. He sat on the bench outside the door to play doctor instead. André was still holding the pads against his wife, and he wanted so badly to push them into the wound and hurt her for turning that biting attitude on him. Jerk or not, that was not the “kind of person” he was.

“Just let go,” she demanded with something like disgust in her tone. He did as she asked, stepping away with the gauze in his hands, and she let go of her sports bra too. It went back to its normal place, and that place was in fact already tender. The pain certainly didn’t sweeten her mood. “Why can’t you just say the truth?” she asked after turning to face the footballer.

“Which truth is that?”

“Say it’s not okay anymore. Stop pretending.”

“It’s not okay anymore.” On the off chance that Christina had been waiting all that time to hear her husband demand she make room only for one man in her heart- that she felt he must not love her enough if he could consent to sharing her love with another- he looked her in the eye and was honest with her for the first time in the better part of a year- for the first time since he convinced himself that he didn’t mind the sharing if it meant she was happy, because her happiness mattered to him and he would never have any if she didn’t. He was very wrong, and very surprised to see that her eyes remained locked on his when she told him so.

“Then we have a problem.”

“I think so, yeah.”

“If you make me choose, you won’t like the outcome.”

“You already chose.” We’re finished, the BVB man told himself just before he realized he couldn’t stand there in front of her a second longer. He turned and walked toward the nearest exit, pausing only to drop the gauze pads in a garbage can. No girl who issues a warning like that one is the girl for me. Not anymore. She doesn’t love me like she did. She doesn’t even respect me. No. I’m done with her. I’m done. I’m completely done. His steady stream of angry introspection was keeping the panic out. The panic and the enormity of consequence that would emerge from that brief conversation were landing on the rider.

Shit. I didn’t mean- I didn’t mean to say that! I was just mad at him and trying to be...spiteful. He’s never going to listen to me when I tell him that, she realized, blood rushing to redden her face and heat all of her most sensitive places to a temperature that felt uncomfortable and sickening almost. I was just mad! He was such a dick. He didn’t have to say that about the picture. He didn’t have to say what he did about me going away! And in front of Tom! What did he expect? And why did he go on for months and months letting me hurt him? He’s such an idiot. SUCH an idiot. I don’t even... I don’t know what I don’t even. Why was he perfectly fine and smiley about me going to Italy? He didn’t care. He argued halfheartedly just so that I’d say he could use the Ferrari and feel less bad about doing it behind my back. Why does it not bother him that I go to a race with Juan but having a picture of Juan on my phone is worth a fight? I know one actually means more than the other, symbolically, but it’s not like he thinks Juan and I just fuck. He knew from the beginning that it’s more than that, and he encouraged it, and said it’s fine and doesn’t matter to him. I’m an idiot too, either for believing that or for believing that he really loves me. How can you love someone if that doesn’t matter to you? And how can I love him if I keep doing something I think has to hurt him? What have we been doing all this time? What is wrong with us? Christina weighed hurrying after her angry husband versus seeking out her groom to finish covering her cut, and against a third option that was slightly less immediate.

She thought of packing a bag for herself and for Lukas and booking a flight to whatever city on France’s Atlantic coast that Juan said he was visiting for a few days with Taylor, Antonio, and Antonio’s girlfriend. That was a trip he said he’d happily cancel to go to Havana with her, as well as his scheduled visit back home in Spain. He’d skip both for Cuba, or for Mallorca if she preferred to go to the beach house, or even London if she wanted. Juan ditched others for her and physically loathed the idea of sharing her with André. That was the kind of love she wanted. Being over the Olympic hurdle, no pun intended, gave her some clarity on that, not just on what she wanted to do next. She wanted to care less about winning and more about enjoying all the other great things in life, with a wonderful adventurer at her side. She wanted him to teach her how to do that, and believed there was no one more suited to the task. But her obsession with winning and lust for the satisfaction of victory were what made her force that confrontation with André, and what made her say something that likely could not be taken back or explained away. Her old habit would fight back against her will to leave it behind. As if all the physical reminders of it, like that stable full of show jumping champions, weren’t big enough obstacles, Christina had her own nature to fight.

“Where did Schü go?” Tom inquired almost fearfully when he returned with a pair of scissors.

“I don’t know. Maybe to hire a divorce lawyer.” She hiked up the band of her bra again so that he could resume covering up the gash.

“What is going on with you two? Why did you snap at him that way? I assume he plucks on that Juan Mata nerve all the time.” He sat on the bench again and opened two more sterile pads to replace the ones André threw away. As always, Tom was calm and dutiful.

“Because if he wanted to scold me or complain about my having Juan on my phone, he could have used better judgement and refrained from doing it in front of you, while I’m bleeding. And it’s just a picture! I didn’t have a temper tantrum when he changed his from a picture of he and I together to one of Lukas trying to ride his stuffed rhino.”

“That’s different. He didn’t choose a picture of another woman to replace you. And then it’s worse because it was one of Mata playing football, I guess?”

“Yeah. But how is that worse!”

“Schü can’t play right now, and even when he was playing he wasn’t...at his best. You basically kicked him in the balls, Chris. You want to look at another man playing football every time you look at your mobile.”

“Oh come on,” the rider tutted. “And ow!” Tom pressed the pads into place and inadvertently pushed a bit too hard because he was more focused on lining up the strip of cloth tape he cut to size. “I picked that picture because Juan looks hot in black. He’s not doing anything special in it. It’s not like he’s actively scoring a goal or something. I’ll- Actually no, I won’t show you, because he took my phone with him. Great.”

“I don’t know, Chris. I’m the wrong guy to convince of anything when you start with “I like the photo because Juan looks hot in it”. I can’t imagine a relationship like yours.”

“Is it bleeding again? Or is that antibacterial ointment dripping?”

“It’s bleeding. That’s what happens when you get all worked up. That’s why you shouldn’t ride.”

“Fine.”

“What if I just put some Fura-Zone on it and left it open?”

“Fine.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“I was kidding. I think the federation would be upset with me if I accidentally killed you.”

“It’s not going to kill me. Anti-bacterial ointment for horses can’t be that much different than for people, and if you’ve followed the rules and never stuck your finger in there without brand new gloves on, there’s nothing icky in it.”

“I’m not putting Fura-Zone on you. I put the human kind on, which needs to be covered.”

“Everything would be easier if I just died though. Imagine. “Olympic and World Cup Champion dies of gangrene from four-inch twig wound sustained during pheasant attack”.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Tom replied, his voice low and his sarcasm gone. He was no longer just joking about putting the goop for the horses’ cuts and scratches on her and musing about the consequences. No one who knew Christina as well as he did- and that group was very, very small- ever felt at liberty to joke when she talked about dying and in the middle of a serious problem.

“Do you have to push so hard?”

“Do you want the tape to fall off?”

“No, but I also don’t want it to take skin with it when I take it off later.”

“It won’t. There. You’re done. Let go of the bra and I’ll put it back carefully. You can’t see.”

She let him make it as comfortable for her as possible, and then took her boots off and walked back to the house without a shirt. It hurt to do anything. It hurt to do nothing too, so there would be no physical advantage to just sitting at her desk or something. Staying in the office would have the advantage of keeping her away from André though, and that was taken into consideration. Talking to Tom for those few minutes was enough to deescalate some of the panic and anxiety and immediacy of her worries. She’d stepped down from the cliff, so to speak. Explaining herself and making it clear that she didn’t mean exactly what she said seemed easier than she initially assumed. That she could swallow all of that stuff instead of dissolving into a full on panic attack or breakdown was depressing though, because to her that meant she didn’t care as much as she once did- that somewhere inside, she wasn’t that worried that her partner wouldn’t believe her or accept an apology, and that he might end their relationship. To make herself feel better about realizing she wasn’t as upset as she could have been, Christina told herself all the Game of Thrones marathoning was desensitizing her to trivial matters of the heart. It somehow failed to desensitize her to the pain and horror of a little cut that wasn’t even bad enough to need stitches. Lukas touched the bandage before she could warn him not to when he ran to her for a hug as soon as she walked into the foyer. It hurt. She practically shrieked. He found that funny and she briefly worried that she was raising a little monster like Joffrey.

“Where’s Daddy?” she asked him.

“Up.” He pointed at the stairs and frowned because he knew she wasn’t going to take him with her. Does he know Daddy is pissed at Mommy? Or does he just think I don’t want to hang out with him because I left for two days and only spent a couple of hours with him when I got home?

“I’m just going to change my clothes and then I’ll come play with you, okay? Love you, Munchkin.” Mommy smooched her little blonde and sent him back to his nanny in the living room. Espen asked if she needed any help with her wound. Christina said she could help by rinsing the blood out of her breeches, and stripped out of them right there in the big foyer. Her butt and thighs were bloodstained and she worried about how much blood she actually lost and how Tom and André could conclude a wound that bled that much didn’t need sutures. The latter grimaced when she walked into the bedroom, and she hoped it was because of her state and not because he was disgusted with her. He was just sitting in his chair. “I’m gonna hop in the shower for a second and then...can we talk?” she asked him.

He nodded but the player didn’t want to talk. He wanted to cease to exist. He wanted out of life for a little bit so that he wouldn’t have to deal with what just happened, and what had been happening for months. All of his instincts told him it was time to free himself from the woman who loved him less than his old teammate and who seemingly didn’t even respect him anymore. He wanted to liberate his happiness from the handcuffs that bound it to hers. But his head fought the instincts of his heart, and kept reminding him that fighting with Christina, and having only part of her heart, and being able to raise their child together as a family, was a lot better than not having Christina to do anything with, and not having any of her heart, and not co-parenting with her. The problem was that he loved her, and didn’t know how not to. He’d never be convinced that life without the one he loved could be better than life with her. But it seemed like she didn’t care. For her to issue a warning- to say that if he forced her to choose between only him or only Juan, she wouldn’t choose him- told him that his love might be wasted. Surely she couldn’t love him if she’d say such a thing, and surely she couldn’t love him if it were true. Every choice he made previously was based on the premise that their love was bigger, more significant, and more dear to her than the love she had for the Spaniard. Christina slashed that belief in the barn. It took about two minutes for her to use the handheld showerhead to wash away the blood and rinse it from her underwear. She did her best not to get the bandage wet. It hurt to get the spray anywhere near it anyway, such was the water pressure available. André was still in his recliner when she walked out in her loosest tank top and some cotton shorts- things that wouldn’t be ruined if he cut seeped through the gauze. She took a seat on the very white and very ruin-able sofa, thinking it was safe from stain if she avoided reclining back on the cushions, which she couldn’t do anyway given the location of the problem.

“I’m sorry for what I said,” she began levelly. The apology put her player off balance from the get-go, because he thought her virtually incapable of admitting to a mistake. “I didn’t mean it. I was just mad and trying to hurt you.” Except that...it also might have been true, Christina thought. I don’t think I would choose him if I had to pick just one today. I don’t know that I would pick Juanin if I had to choose in a week. I have no idea. That’s the problem. Also, I’m clearly insane.

“You succeeded,” the injured Bee told her just as levelly. Her appearance was distracting. Normally she wore that shirt over a bathing suit, or with a sports bra underneath. The front was very low and the armholes hung down almost to her waist. Her tits are so perfect, he sighed inside. I couldn’t have done better if I custom ordered a girl.

“And you were hon-“ The rider stopped mid-sentence, quite abruptly, and moved her gaze to the windows at the back of the house. They had fabric panel drop-down shades in off-white and narrow hanging curtains in medium-gray like the carpet. There was nothing happening out there underneath the shades. It was just somewhere to look while her mind did the heavy lifting. I can’t have this conversation with him. If we talk this out, the logical conclusion is that we need to split up. I can’t do that. I might want that right now, but I don’t know if I want it next week, or even tomorrow. So I can’t do this. I’ll keep kicking the can down the road because that’s what I do. Now what, Christina asked herself. She could feel the other pretty blues in the room staring at her profile expectantly. “You were honestly less immature about it than I might have expected, or deserved.” She adlibbed instead of reminding André that he was finally honest about his disapproval of their arrangement with Juan, and she touched delicately at her side to try to make him think her momentary pause was caused by pain.

“I’m not going to ask you to choose, but I’d like for you to tell me if want to choose,” her patient partner told her before adding an ominous qualifier. “Once and for good.” She shook her head vehemently and her face inadvertently turned very pleading. He hated when all of her delicate but softly rounded features showed him that he was actively hurting her. That his conscience still spoke up and told him he couldn’t do that was one of the ways he knew he was still too in love with her to think about moving on. He wanted to hurt her in the barn. He wanted to cause her pain for what she did, and what she said. He had restraint then because of his general decency. Poking his finger in her cut would have been petty and childish and unlike him. His restraint in the master bedroom was from something much deeper, and much more singularly related to Christina. He couldn’t deliberately hurt her heart, even if the intent wasn’t to hurt her. “You’re sure you weren’t just looking for a conflict so you could force the issue?”

“Positive. I was just angry. And, you know, slightly traumatized.” She pulled the underarm part of her shirt away to point at her bandage. Relief was already setting in. There was some consolation in the fact that André knew exactly what her subconscious intent was. She figured he was correct- some part of her wanted to force a change. That part couldn’t be trusted though, and he deserved credit for knowing her so well. They were still connected enough for that, if nothing else.

“What did you end up with? How did Tom cover you up?” The midfielder beckoned her over to show him Tom’s handiwork, and he put his arm around her hips when she sat on the arm of the chair so he could see. He lifted the baggy shirt up to check it out, and pushed a little kiss low on her shoulder blade. “Are you going to start calling him “Maester” like the medical people on your show?”

“No. Can’t give him that much power.”

“I see.”

“Come with me to play with Luke? I can do action figures or something. I can sit Indian-style on the floor and not be hurting it, assuming he doesn’t climb on me.”

“Okay.”

“Say you forgive me, if you do.”

“I forgive you, Prinzessin.”

Christina leaned over to kiss André for his understanding, or for his willingness to overlook actions driven by the corruption and confusion of her heart. She was learning to extend understanding and a blind eye for herself instead of maintaining blame and condemnation, and hating herself. That almost disappointed her. It scared her. She didn’t want to let herself off so easily for her mistakes, or for her willful avoidance of things she felt she really should deal with. But holding a grudge against herself had proven so toxic and dangerous in the past, and everyone who mattered to her encouraged her to give up that habit, so forgiving herself was bittersweet.

“I changed your wallpaper.”

“To what?”

“A scene from the Red Wedding.”

“I’m like...this close to changing Dirk’s name to Dracarys.”

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