#one of them was talking abt how he was almost convinced by the recruitment lady to join the navy and i was like. dude | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

frghten · 5 years

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guess who’s back from the dead and ready to party !! ( hint: it’s me ) but i’m a giant weenie about messaging people unprompted to plot so if you’d be interested in plotting with any of the babies below the cut, please give this a LIKE & i’ll jump into your ims !!!

lucian “angel” rosetti. 34. career thief. what happens when a spoiled rich kid gets dethroned? in angel’s case, they become a high profile thief to fund the life they’re so accustomed to living. angel is a danny ocean wannabe with a career to boot. started with small-time bank robberies, and now he has a crew that pulls full on heists (blows a kiss @ adelaide and maddox). still acts like the spoiled rich kid he was before his family cut ties with him. kinda nuts, gets giddy really easily, throws grown adult temper tantrums, will hold a gun to someone with a grin on his face (though things never get that messy). that tweet abt that dude in starbucks calling his wife and being like “do you want your iced coffee, or are you still being a bitch?” that’s him. the perversion that could have been a happy ending to “paul’s case”, gatsby with none of the discipline, hopelessly romantic in a literary sense.

adelaide marlowe. 33. career thief. the second third of angel’s crew !! grew up in rural tennessee, got mixed up with some bad characters and even ended up dating one. got roped into doing her first job by her boyfriend who promised to use the money to get her out of the shithole she grew up in. they did good, became infamous, started off knocking over a couple convenient stores, then soon were working their way across the country bank after bank. they took in the cash, eventually settled down. but apparently settled didn’t work well for him. the first time he laid a hand on her, she set their mansion ablaze with him inside of it and ran. later recruited by angel, now makes p much all the plans for any jobs they work. super smart. that harley quinn type of giggly crazy. a bubbly and lively presence, total sweetheart. stubborn and entitled. will go from saccharine to Bitch Mode in 0.1 seconds if you test her. angel’s best friend. chaotic neutral, loves making messes.

maddox shah. 26. getaway driver. the last third of angel’s crew !! grew up in a super tight knit family with three siblings. started drag racing to send money back to them, while they were under the impression he was bartending. built a reputation for himself, and was later connected to addie who convinced him to work a job with them. it was supposed to be a one time thing to rake in some cash, but it became a regular gig. now he’s pretty much a permanent fixture of the crew, a getaway driver or transporter depending on the job. tends to get a lot of attention from the ladies and he Ain’t Complaining, kind of a womanizer. went from being working class to having everything he could ask for almost over night, doesn’t take it for granted but definitely likes to splurge lmao. big ass goofball. likes last minute adventures to do dumb shit. considers himself an ameteur photographer which really just means he takes instagram too seriously.

willa rosetti. 21. university student. the younger of the two rosetti children, the one who never had the silver spoon so rudely snatched away from her. in her third year of undergrad, studying forensic anthropology. incredibly intelligent. hopelessly and endlessly infatuated with death. all tucked away underneath the image that her parents perscribed to her. wouldn’t dare to let herself go unnoticed, has something to say about everything ( even things she doesn’t know anything about; she’ll make you believe she does ), will talk a strangers ear off if they let her. secretly keeps in touch with her brother against her parents wishes, often daydreams about running away to join him on his grand adventures.

luca de leon. 38. hitman. the softest killer you ever did meet, but he’d never let it show. raised by a single father with the same profession, taught to be a soldier as soon as his little arms could bear the weight of a gun. keeps a stoic, no-nonsense front to hide serious loneliness. very rigid, quiet gentleman kinda presence usually, but gets sassy when he’s peeved adfvsdf. real bad guilt complex. likes to talk about philosophy despite believing that most of it is a crock of shit. owns his label as the typical stone-face criminal tbh.

jensen reed. 35. bar owner. another character involved with angel’s bullshit but not an actual member of his crew. owns a bar that he uses to launder money for criminals. charismatic, funny, a great sweet talker. but also foolhardy, impulsive and incredibly short sighted, probably doesn’t fully grasp how deep he’s gotten himself in, but chooses to forgo worrying about the future and concern himself with whatever the reward is in the moment. a flirtatious dummy. greasy, hole-in-the-wall bar aesthetic. hums a lot and likes to play the guitar but isn’t great at it. probably wants to be ur friend.

#me: here's 5 characters related to angel and also uhhhh luca #indie rp #indie crime rp #its late so if this flops i may repost it tomorrow afternoon we'll see

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draw-you-coward · 5 years

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(some violence, killing, an offhand comment abt a bj)

ao3

“Gentlemen,” Thancred says to empty air, “How may I be of service?”

The heavy footsteps behind him come to a stop. Thancred allows himself a small, private smile before smoothing his features and spinning around on his heel.

The thugs don’t seem terribly intimidated by his hearing, nor his graceful footwork. One of the pair crosses his arms, shifting his weight. Thancred shrugs a knife down his sleeve until he can feel the comforting weight of the handle resting against his palm.

“I bet you felt mighty brave,” one of them mocks, advancing, “Telling us off in there.”

Thancred's gaze flicks to the right, at the tavern he had just left. “Not really,” he admits airily. “The lovely lady did not wish to be… plagued by your boorish company, and I didn’t think it was in your rights to argue against that.”

This earns him a laugh. “Your fancy words ain’t going to help you here,” the one who hasn’t spoken yet remarks, advancing. “Neither is anyone else.”

The other one moves to Thancred's right, cutting him off. Thancred licks his lips and smiles, turning to face both of them. The tavern is behind him, now.

“Gentlemen.” He spreads his hands. “Although I am touched you missed me enough to follow me, surely we can agree to part ways peacefully?”

“Oh, so now you don’t want a fight?” They keep walking forwards. Thancred steps back, feels his heel touch the cold stone of the tavern’s exterior wall. “You seemed very eager to pick one ten minutes ago.”

“True colours of a coward, eh?” the one on the left says. “I’d reckon the only reason you said anything earlier was to get your prick sucked by the grateful lady.”

They both laugh, the heavy mockery in their voices thickening the air. Thancred raises an eyebrow as he shrugs another knife down his sleeve, forcibly casual.

“Jealous of my innate charm, are we?” he challenges. “Well, if all you wanted was for me to suck yours, you could have asked nicely.”

That earns him a sudden furious growl, and he ducks down just in time to avoid a swing that would have knocked his head off his shoulders. Not in time to avoid the kick aimed at his stomach, however, and although it only catches him in the knees, he drops the ground with a pained grunt.

He catches himself with one arm and throws out the other, sending his knives spinning at a regrettably awkward angle. He must have hit something solid, however, because when he rolls to avoid another blow and straightens into a crouch, he sees one of the thugs curled up on the ground.

A large cutlass glints as it arcs towards Thancred’s neck, and he parries it with the blade at his belt, drawn by quick fingers. He slices the man’s stomach open, stepping away as he gurgles and falls to his knees.

There is a gunshot, startlingly loud. Thancred’s head whips towards the other thug as a chunk of wood breaks off and falls from the tavern’s roof.

A miqo’te woman is standing astride the fallen man. Thancred watches as she kicks his pistol away before bringing her heel down on his neck, quick and vicious. He hears a dull snap, and the man’s head goes unnaturally limp.

“I suppose it is too late to simply wait for the authorities to apprehend them,” Thancred comments wryly, his reflexive sarcasm functioning even as the rest of his brain tries to puzzle out the situation. Who is she? Why did she step in to help him, since she appears unarmed? Why hadn’t Thancred noticed her?

The woman looks up at his words. She steps down from the body and faces him, quickly taking him in. Thancred does the same, curious.

There are wrinkles by her eyes and mouth, but her gaze is piercing and spry. The end of her hair is pulled into a loose black braid, slung over her shoulder in a miqo’tian style typical of those who dwell in the desert. There is… something about her eyes that is odd, but Thancred cannot tell in the dull light of dusk.

She smiles, then, and the oddness manifests in the form of familiarity. How strange—Thancred does not recall ever meeting her. But he meets a lot of people, as the life of a Scion is, at times, a social one. Well, the way he does it, at any rate. He doubts, say, Urianger spends much time with anyone at a tavern, let alone complete strangers.

“You could always try,” she replies, walking towards him. “I would love to watch from a distance and see how it goes.”

Her voice is moderately accented, and it solidifies Thancred’s theory about her being from the desert. He has only heard such a cadence from the rarely-seen miqo’te that dwell in the Sagolii—Ikael’s people, actually, although the fellow himself has mostly worn his own accent down.

They are in Thanalan, so it makes sense, but it is odd to see a lone miqo’te out in a tavern, away from their tribe. What is she doing here?

Thancred bows, not wanting to forfeit his manners in the place of rude curiosity. “I doubt it will end without me getting a stern talking-to,” he says. “In any case, I must thank you for aiding me, my lady. I am called Thancred, and I am at your service.”

He straightens up in time to catch her amused smile. She replies, “You did not seem to need the help, Thancred, but you are welcome. I am called…”

There is a short, insincere beat.

“M’aev,” she finishes easily. It is a lie, but a smooth one. Thancred politely does not point out that he is quite sure the M tribe is Ala Mhigan. What does the average hyur know about miqo’te, anyhow? He would be a hypocrite to disallow her her secrets.

Thancred takes her hand—rough, tight brown skin—and brushes his lips over it. “I must thank you regardless, M’aev,” he states. “Anything can go wrong in a fight.”

A twinkle of amusement dances in her eyes. She pulls her hand back, then briefly touches her fingertips to his cheek, idly tactile. “Then it was bold of you to stand your ground,” she says. “I noticed you earlier, in the tavern. Getting between that girl and these,” she curls her lip up at the thugs’ motionless bodies, “… ruffians.”

Thancred bows. “A gentleman does as he must.”

“Of course, dear.” She pats his cheek in an almost maternal fashion. “Are you injured?”

Thancred shakes his head. “Not more than a little bruised, he says. “We should get going before anyone notices us.”

He glances at the tavern’s windows. “Not to rush a lovely conversation with a lovely lady,” he adds out of persistent habit, “but it is only a matter of time.”

M’aev’s lips quirk up before straightening. “Of course.” She gestures to him, then begins to walk away. “I set up camp not too far from here. No inquiring eyes will go searching there.”

Except for Thancred's. He trots up to her, following with a quiet tread. Her stride is quick, but confident. Curiouser and curiouser.

“Protecting the innocent and those who cannot defend themselves,” he comments as they walk, “is what me and mine do. Our organization, that is.”

She raises an eyebrow without look at him, and ducks under a low-hanging branch. “Oh?”

“We are the Scions of the Seventh Dawn,” Thancred tells her as he follows suit. “And I find myself thinking that your graceful and deadly self would be a good addition to our numbers, if you so wish.”

This time she outright laughs. “Oh, so that is the reason for the excessive flattery, is it?” she asks. She sounds amused, thankfully, and not offended. “I am sorry, young Thancred, but I am not quite the energetic and hopeful adventurer to whom joining a supposedly secret organization would seem like an appealing idea. I appreciate the offer, however.”

He nods, easily acknowledging the rejection. “I did not hold out much hope for it to be accepted,” he admits with a smile. “But I am supposed to try nevertheless. I reckon telling you that we house the newly-acclaimed Warrior of Light would not sweeten the pot?”

She pauses. Thancred pauses as well, watching her carefully. And then M’aev lifts her hand and points to a hill.

“There is my camp,” she says simply.

They settle down as comfortably as they can. There is a firepit already set up; Thancred watches as M’aev waves a hand over it ignite it. Curiouserer, he thinks as the conjured flame dances in her eyes. Is that a word?

“I know about you.” She speaks up. Thancred glances at her, readying himself for antagonism, but he sees only calmness in her gaze.

“Of you Scions and your Warrior of Light,” M’aev continues, smiling softly. “Your very secret headquarters are in Vesper Bay, are they not? Where there is no aetheryte.”

Her eyes are shrewd. Thancred breathes out a laugh, stretching his neck before lightly shaking his head.

“You seem to know a great deal more about me, my lady, than I know about you,” he ventures. And this is not something he would usually bring up, but… “In my way of business, such a thing is odd.”

M’aev begins to undo her braid, fluid and efficient. “Of course you are,” she murmurs, as a reply to what he has not said. “Charming and handsome lad like you? What else would they use you for?”

And there is the interesting commentary Thancred had been hoping for.

“Charming and handsome? My dear lady, you flatter me.” He ducks his head in a semi-serious bow. M’aev lets out a light laugh.

“So did they use you to recruit—the Warrior of Light, then?” Her hesitation is barely there; such a fleeting thing… but Thancred notices it. “From what I have heard of him, he does not seem like the rough and tumble adventurer type either. But someone like you could have convinced him, I would imagine.”

Thancred raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Are we a Warrior of Light fan?” he asks with a wink. “I should tell him I caught another one; he will go red and perhaps faint from the attention.”

She laughs again, soft but long. Thancred gets the oddest feeling that he is missing something.

“Is that so?” she says. “He shies from it, then?”

There is… something. The tone of her voice. The oddest little upturn to the corner of her mouth, the strange softness in her eyes. Thancred dwells on it for a moment… and then sighs inwardly. Of course Ikael would still have that effect on a complete stranger who had never met him.

Thancred grins, a spark of remembered familiarity emerging as the opportunity to tease his (admittedly absent) friend presents itself. “He really is,” he says. “All of that attention from all of those beautiful ladies is wasted on him! He actually did faint, once; turned red as a rolanberry and before we knew it…”

He pops his lips, imitating Ikael swooning and falling to the ground in perhaps an overly-gratuitous fashion. M’aev seems delighted, however, and Thancred is rewarded with another laugh. He joins in, chuckling at the memory.

“The poor dear.” M’aev presses her lips together. “Ah, I am sure the flood of attention will die down in a few moons.”

“Ikael would be relieved to hear you say that.” Thancred pokes at the fire. When he doesn’t get a response after a minute, he glances back at M’aev.

She is focused intently on the flames. Thancred drops his stick, and her gaze flicks back up to his. Her expression relaxes.

“Ikael… Jelaar?” she pronounces carefully, curiosity edging her tone. “That is what he is called, yeah?”

Thancred nods. “Almost,” he says. She had put the emphasis on the wrong syllable in “Jelaar”. “Jelaar.”

She tilts her head. For a second, that strange familiarity flickers back, and it gives Thancred pause. M’aev’s chin lifts upwards incrementally, and she—for an instant Thancred is sure she sees something in his face, she knows—she—

—turns away, running her fingers through her unbraided hair and shaking her head to allow it to settle naturally. It falls as a thick black curtain, blocking her face from Thancred's view. He looks away.

“Do you have a linkpearl?” he finds himself saying after a few minutes, when the silence feels as if it is just about to burst.

M’aev shakes her head, scattering it. Thancred is already digging through his things.

“Here,” he says, holding out the extra he keeps for new recruits. M’aev takes it, looking it over curiously. “You can contact me with it. In case you ever find something you think we should see… or change your mind about not wanting to join.”

He adds a wink for good measure. He bites back his words about her contacting him if she is ever in danger; somehow, he doubts she would.

She smiles, dipping her head graciously. “Thank you, my dear,” she says. “I appreciate it, although I have nothing to give in return.”

He smiles back and shakes his head. “The pleasure of your company for an evening was enough,” he says. His smile turns into a grin at her ensuing raised eyebrow and flat look. Too far, then. “I only mean the conversation, of course! Ah, you remind me of a friend of mine…”

She gets up, moving away from the firepit to shake out a sleeping roll. “This is my extra,” she calls over her shoulder. “Feel free to stay here if you have nowhere to rest for the night. You will not have to worry about keeping watch.”

She makes to duck into the small tent set up a few fulms away, but pauses. “Goodnight, Thancred,” she says quietly. “And goodbye.”

The farewell seems oddly final.

She disappears into her tent. Thancred keeps looking as the flap closes and the night goes still. Her comment about not keeping watch intrigues him; she must have warded the grounds somehow. Not an easy task unless one is at least proficient in the arcane.

Thancred scoffs at himself, shaking his head. Some part of him recognizes that had she been so inclined, this would qualify as a missed opportunity for quite an interesting new Scion. And yet…

He puts out the fire with splayed fingers and a willpower that is not as strong as others’ could be, but still sufficient. Then he crawls over to her sleeping roll and lies on it, connecting the stars in the sky into familiar shapes. He has a feeling this will be gone in the morning: firepit, tent, and miqo’te all. Perhaps even her bedroll. The entire encounter, vanishing without a trace of its existence.

Thancred closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

He is right.

~*~

#thancred #i'jela #writing #drabble #Yes that's Her

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