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I should do my drafts
What every RPer says before promptly not doing said drafts. (via fun-in-funeral)
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i still donât understand the phrase âluck of the irishâ because the luck of the irish is, historically speaking, fucking terrible.
self care is walking into the forest and letting the fae take you
I am not arrogant. I simply know my place. Itâs quite far above yours.
Call and response. (x)

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Guess who lost the note theyâd made about the starters they own on here...
I found it again. But work is nearly over so Iâll have to do them later. Iâm sorry Dears
Kiss of Death
The room had gone quiet and Archer froze up. Goosebumps prickling against his dotted skin. His shoulders tense and his head tilted to the side that was bleeding.
He was sure Atlas was here. The man to end this, or start something even more horrible. âPleaseâŚâ He begged meekly, lip trembling as he struggled to get the words past his fat bruised lips and sore jaw. ââŚ. I donât⌠know anythingâŚâ
He tensed, shaking like a leaf in a tree with a hard breeze. Her fingers grazing over the bruises and making him hiss in pain. He could hear her voice very subtly . It sounded too high to be a mans and the confusion was clear on his face.
Who was this?
âDonât lie. You are Mr. Ryanâs PA. Ya know everythinâ we could wanna know.â
Her eyes glanced carefully toward the door. The men were leaving. Good. If she had to start hitting Archer just to keep them from being suspicious the red head would never forgive herself. Or them for that matter. Atlas. That bastard idiot. As if she hadnât spoken to Archer White months ago. If heâd had anything useful to say theyâd already know it. What did the âman of the peopleâ think she did all day? Wait by the door for him to decide to return?
Green orbs still on the door, ears open for any sound, Moira pressed her lips to Archerâs neck softly. Carefully. Avoiding the blood. Red stains of a different nature left by the soft kiss.Â
âI ainât gonna let them get away witâ Archer. But youâre gonna have tâ hold on.â
Atlas, for all his promises, all his ambition, all the things he could have been or used to be... he was the one who deserved to be tied to a chair and beaten. Heâd scarified a lot more than a few lives to this cause. And his âwifeâ had reached the end of her rope. She didnât care anymore.
âAre ya gonna be able tâ walk if I get ya untied?â
He watched the woman, a little smile on his face as she spoke. Â She certainly was headstrong, but he didnât mind. Â In fact, he very much preferred when people werenât afraid to speak their minds; directness could be quite a good thing.
She spoke again, and as she did, she leaned over to press her thumb to his lip, presumably to get rid of the lipstick that no doubt stained his lips after that kiss. Â
âNow I think youâre just makinâ up excuses ta touch me,â he said with a teasing little laugh. Â Though if that was the CASE, he couldnât say he was complaining.
He paused for a moment, taking a sip of his drink before he turned back to the redhead, offering her another smile. Â "I was wonderinâ, Moira, if youâd like ta have dinner with me sometime.â Â Sheâd already kissed him; it couldnât hurt to ask her for dinner, could it?
âDinner? Why, if I didnât know any better Iâd say ya were askinâ me out on a proper date. Mr. Sinclair.â His name on her tongue twisted and flipped oddly. Something a little harder from her lilt than the way the man himself said it.
She stared at him for a long time, smirk on her painted lips before finally turning back to her drink. Moira was far from opposed to going on a date. A real date. She hadnât dated since Murphy. And she had a small blond boy running around to show how well that had worked out for her. Had she mentioned Patrick to the businessman? Probably not. She didnât often drink and talk about her son in the same breath.
Wouldnât that be her luck? A man who wasnât even more broke than her asking her out only to run for the hills when he realized she was a single, unwed mother.
âYa donât gotta waste your time witâ all that if all youâre lookinâ for is another kiss.âÂ
"Standing up to a tyrant has always been illegal and dangerous. There is no guarantee but one â to not live like a slave, nor to die like one.â
Eric Schaub (via intellectandwill)
Kiss of Death
Archerâs head was ringing at that last hit. The force of the pistol butt against his ear made his whole body lurch forward, unable to fling too far forward with being tied down to the chair. He could feel something warm and wet now rolling down his neck and by the way everything sounded very muffled he was sure it was a ruptured ear drum. All he could make out was laughing noises, or he assumed by the vibrations. He couldnât see anything due to the blindfold against his eyes.
What happened before all this? He was walking home, walking home from the bathysphere or to the bathysphere when the men showed up. It only took a few hard hits for Archer to black out, and then he woke up stripped to his underwear and tied to a chair. A bucket of ice cold water dumped over his head to wake him, then they got rowdy.
They were Atlasâ men, or so they claimed. Cheering and yawning on about how good Archer would be for them. How much their boss wanted to see him. His begs and pleads only seemed to amuse them more and with that last hit, Archer was now silent.
His heart was racing and he was shivering from the cold. They could kill him, but that would be no fun he was sure.
@sassinalass
Moira was not always the person most in the know when it came to the revolution. It was a matter of no small annoyance to her. Atlas thought he could go and do whatever he wanted, without so much as telling her a thing. For all she knew he was off screwing half the city while she sat at home becoming increasingly numb to his absence.
It was that lack of communication that lead to the red head beginning to make random stops by the secret headquarters. Had she been informed than when she entered the back most room and saw Archer tied to the chair she might have been prepared for the sight. The blood down the neck. The bruises already starting to form on his pale skin. Instead she gasped softly. A reaction that never occurred.
Moira OâHara was accustomed to seeing men and women both in varied states of torture. But never her friends. Possibly her only friend. The only person in Rapture who really knew who she was and who she was associated with and still spoke with her. She could not leave him like this. She also couldnât explain to anyone why she couldnât. Friends with the enemy.
âIâm gonna talk tâ him. âFore ya morons beat thâ memory outta him.â A man opened his mouth to speak and was met with a glare simultaneously cold as ice and burning hot. The expression frigid. The fire behind the green eyes burning strong.
Moira didnât wait for her order to be obeyed. They WOULD obey. Or sheâd find her husband and god help any man, or woman for that matter, who crossed Atlas these days. She wouldnât be able to signal Archer that he was safe now. Not yet. But her lacquered nails across his bruises was less a punishment than heâd had up until now.Â
âYa know. Iâm guessinâ it ainât my menâs fault they had tâ hit on ya, Mr. White. Youâre beinâ tight lipped, ainât ya?â

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me: Iâm not bitter
narrator: she was bitter