#ofapocrypha

My dear diary, 

Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck Louis. Fuck Louis.

"Fuck you!"

Claudia shoves Louis, and she shoves him hard. She's sick of this. She hates his self-pity. She hates his self-loathing. She hates him—

gone girl rp prompts

The curling smoke from dragon’s fire wafted from the craggy remains of the city. Cersei had set as much of her own city alight as Daenerys had, leaving most of what was left, smoldering ash. The rancid stench of death and excrement hung low on the city like a cloud as the smattering small-folk left standing drifted between the desolation like ghosts. Some wept, their shrieks throaty and haunting, but most were silent as they trod amongst the remainder of the city and what once had been vibrant, lively neighborhoods. Thousands on thousands of innocent lives were given in their pursuit of the throne and even on the precipice of victory, Jon couldn’t help turning his nose at the foul taste. It was a necessary evil, he reminded himself, one made far more severe by the reigning monarch and they’d been forced to answer in kind. The facts did nothing to soothe the hollow in his chest, the nagging thought that they’d made a mistake along the way, as they marched through the ruins, winding their way toward the Red Keep.

Soot and flecked blood was smeared over the sharp lines of Jon’s face, making him look older than he was. Mud was caked in his hair, knotting the curls and pasting them to his scalp and neck. He’d fought with the best of them in the field, never more than a few meters from his brother, who now rode a dappled destrier just ahead. Robb would make a good king, he knew, had never doubted that fact in all the trials of their youth. Despite the Tully red of his hair, Robb was a truer Northerner than any of them. Jon, for his part, was painstakingly exhausted, his mind was flocked with static and his were eyes itchy where he hadn’t slept in days, never once leaving his brother’s side. The fear kept him sharp amongst the fog, the reminder that betrayal always came unexpected, from the dark. 

The Sept of Baelor had been decimated before they’d taken wing from Essos, but even its ruins were awe-inspiring. The polished white marble steps had cracked and crumbled, all but the strongest pillars blown out from the explosion that had killed the remainder of House Tyrell and any hope for a more peaceful resolution to their war. Jon reigned his horse to a stop, allowing the marching ranks of Unsullied to continue on without him as he paused to stare. It was no secret that this is where Ned Stark had been beheaded on manufactured crimes years before, cowed at the steps of the great sept to atone for charges that weren’t his to bear. 

Jon frowned as he took in the sight of what remained, imagining Lord Stark on his knees before the executioner, silent and resolute in the crown’s decision. He felt the lump in his throat at the thought, unable to grieve his father where nothing had stabilized under his feet from that moment on, leaving Jon to roll from grieving one tragedy to the next, unable to catch his breath. 

Robb had noticed his brother’s absence in moments, looking over and then back to where Jon was frozen, resplendent in the glow of the evening before the holy pantheon. The king turned his horse, nodding to the battalion to continue on without him before he came up beside Jon. He was quiet for several moments, taking in what was left of the temple of foreign gods before realizing what Jon what doing and where his mind had gone. Robb’s relationship with their father had been the more complicated of the two, and though he missed his father, his eldest trueborn son held no reverie in his death. 

“Come,” Robb offered gently, rousing Jon from his daydream at the sound of his voice, “You’re staring at ghosts.”

“A  reader  lives  a  thousand  lives  before  he  dies.  The  man  who  never  reads  lives  only  one.”

[ @ofapocrypha​  /  script starter ]

          elliot has had more training then him.  from none other then the professor,  whose mutation had come early on,  a powerful indicator.  he could not help but feeling this kind of superiority,  because looking at abel made him unfamiliarly mad,  despite his usual disposition.  

nicky’s working overtime. it’s bad form to cast doubt on your fellow player. erodes the morale, if you will, and if booker were here, he’d latch right onto that fissure and spider its suspicion home. joe rids himself of the instinct to count the heads.

as nile beelines for a refill—no more for me, joe thanked, his molars gooey with orangeade sugar—he regards nicky.

shoulders winged out along the couchrest, joe leans back into the feeling until his joints go firewood pop. his grin creases so far, it pins around his snaggletooth. it’s been a while.

’ don’t be disheartened. beginner’s luck. ‘

all in the wrist, joe seems to be saying. he thumbs under his chin in concentration, as if he doesn’t know his merry way around nicky’s pretend buttons. the ring closest to his nose bites the light. he wouldn’t oppose to seeing nicky fail again.

the meeting was long. exhausting. the secretary of state, for all of his achievements, was not a skilled public speaker; ross could make a room turn cold with a compliment. the long speech and long list of statistics and facts and precautions hardly inspired confidence, and they’ve only been given a week to make a decision about whether or not they wish to keep their jobs and move forward with the proposed project.

isaac’s made up his mind. but syd has said nothing.

they sit outside, just twenty some minutes after ross and his gaggle of scientists freed them from the conference room. silence has always been the norm between them -- however, today, isaac can only find comfort in it for so long.