#;bones

[dingledorcas]

the bones family

[kimimaro-nojutsu]

What's your favorite bone? :o

I don’t believe I have a favorite. Maybe each bone of my spine? Really holds me up you know.

[seanorudalann-blog]

APPLICATION

Application for: Sean O’Rudalann

Pronouns for the character: He/him

Should this bio be updated to nonbinary? No, Sean identifies as a cisgender male.

At least 3 headcanons:

—A CONNOISSEUR OF MAGIC

Since Sean does not possess any natural magical capacities, he is a bit of an elixir hoarder and stockpiler. He will always have a few vials with him and knows the magical qualities of each vial very well - it is possible he absolutely would have been on his way to becoming an addict if it weren’t for his status as a player; he needs to stay in top physical and mental shape, as Ivy had sharply reminded him at one point. He used to use a lot more when he was younger and didn’t particularly care for fighting - he figured he’d die young, so might as well go out fast, frenzied, and without any regrets - but since his venture into the human realm and revelation, he has started to wean himself off using them.

—THE ART OF MIMICRY

Sean is very adept at copying others - their mannerisms, speech patterns, and their thought process and reactions are duplicable after he’s spent time with the individual. This is also what makes him a strong fighter - he is able to quickly spot fighting patterns and consistencies when engaged in combat, and uses this knowledge against his opponent. On a less violent level, he is able to make fast friends with this skill, because he tends to play off of their energy. For example, Sean is coy and playful with more outgoing individuals, but introspective and gentle with softer souls. In a sense, he is a sort of mirror: his own visage inextricably tied to whoever stands opposite of him.

—LET ME LINGER

A little tick of Sean’s - he always leaves something behind when he goes places. A cigarette on the asphalt of the city, a book left askew, a little X scratched into the bark of a tree - they are meaningless and probably harmful actions (he leaves a trail), but he likes the idea of accumulating proof that he was there, he existed, he left a mark. The idea of leaving behind some piece of himself is appealing.

—THIS CITY OF MINE

Needless to say, Sean is very much in love with New York City (and the human world in general) - he likes to travel around the city, visit beautiful places, watch people, and just take in everything, the conglomerate of humans surrounding him, the simultaneous mundanity and exquisiteness of a city where magic is a threadbare whisper, a pale pulsing ghost: you could thrive with or without it. How wildly different from the Unseelie Court! For once, the playing field is leveled for Sean; if anything, it is tipped in his favor. He is very knowledgeable about the city and has a strong mental map of the area - he just happens to know all the nooks and crannies.

—SHORTCUTS

Sean is remarkably self-sufficient and resourceful. A lifetime without magic in a world rampant with it has taught him very valuable lessons in how to get things done in the fastest, easiest, and least complicated way - where he lacks in privilege he’s made up for with creativity and cleverness; you’ll find quickly he’s full of shortcuts, interesting little tools, exceptional improvisational skills, and a very impressive ability to bullshit his way through most of life’s non-fatal trials and tribulations. Some fey will mock him for it - viewing it as a sort of helpless overcompensation for his mortal shortcomings - but others find it rather charming and amusing.

Please describe how you interpret their personality:

And he watches the silver figures waltz by, an immortal quality to the carriage of their procession, the illicit murmur of something ancient in their smiles. Teeth. Magic. A bitter wailing in the throat. More, more, more.

It is an entirely teeth-grinding affair, to parade in the realm of divinity and shed scarlet blood; like kissing a mouth whose body he cannot hold, like leaning against an icy rail to observe New York - oh, city of cities - vivacious and alight with vitality, yet without an open space in her crevices, some benevolent house, some home for Sean to rest his head. After all, the Unseelie are fond of him, yes: the little ones come to see him fight - small, darkly things who peek from beneath their lashes and clap with a feral sort of elation when he parries a blow or lands a strike - and many nights, a fey will take him home, purring and honey-skinned against his body. And yet, their affection condescends - he is touched as prized wardogs are touched, caressed coolly as a child is. (In their ancient eyes, he supposes he is: young, nonpermanent, the mortal warrior for gods to kiss before he perishes in the war they have created.) And so, the Winter Court is not his home, not yet: it is a museum of lights, a stage he can emit no sound from; it is the exquisitely unknowable, faraway nation whose citizens are all silver-eyed and secretive, privy to some arcane, native magic that runs like ichor in their veins, all the while he stands amongst them, a tourist of the stars, a wingless angel in Heaven.

For what is he, if not temporal and estranged, rare and exotic? Barely human and far from fey - so in between, then, this gladiator walks. And the spaces that are carved out for him to inhabit - the training grounds, the arena, the cold city apartment he shares with ghosts - they feel removed and hollow, illustrative flashes of a life he could have, but doesn’t. How powerful, how immortal it must feel, to observe from the stands while the likes of him hiss and claw for entertainment, carried onward by nothing but a nameless panic, by adrenaline that reveals how fragile, how dispensable they all are, and a swallowing desperation that threatens to utterly consume - how he yearns for marble floors and gold watches, for a name saturated with prestige, for an impeccable handshake and the self-assured insouciance that must come with tailored suits and black Maseratis. They are all dreams in his head, Sean knows, brief dalliances with fantasy between the endless hours of training, the attempts to slash away at his gnawing self-pity, his forlorn fury - but perhaps they are also why passion breeds itself in him. Certainly, his vigor must come from the extraordinary conditions of his life: to live amongst fey is to be raised on philosophies of daring and imagination. There is no such thing as impossible, here in the Court of Iron - only sacrifice, strength, nerve. Train long enough, and opportunity will present itself. Fight hard enough, and what you desire will be within grasp. Win fast enough, and all is yours for the taking.

What else? He is the boy they all look upon, a movie in their midst - as handsome as he is tragic and fragile, as all humans are; yet carrying with him that solemn, emboldened gaze, those molten eyes made for war. In some ways, he is every bit an Unseelie, if not more: built as if from pale marble, judicial and critical, a bitter, crooning hunger for more more more echoing in the jealous chambers of his collapsable, fast-beating heart. Why, he has become something of a spectacle amongst them - his name a sound for betting pools to collect beneath and curious fey to call out, smirking with fondness and cynicism alike when he turns to look, the taunt lines of his body so young, so exciting. And isn’t it a sight? To secretly steal away to the arena where he trains and watch the cruelty with which he is capable of striking down an enemy - calculation, precision, resolution in his every motion; a once scattered, restless energy refocused and made abruptly deadly. Many have noticed. He hasn’t been the same since his return from An Rudalann - where he once wasted precious hours high on potions and in the beds of strangers, purposely weaseling his way out of An Fidchell games to indulge in nothing but emptiness, but smoke and sorrow, he now runs: chasing after a mirage on the horizon, revived by something he discovered in New York City he can put no other name to but hope, but possibility.

They say he has finally become a true contender; a player made dangerous by wicked, teeth-like fervor. And isn’t that how all the best games pan out? To parry iron and steel with dreams, to mount upon one’s most intimate vulnerabilities as armor? So watch him ascend - and perhaps, he will fall in time, as countless others have; captured in the whirlwind throes of pride and blood, made weak by love, by fear, by hunger - but perhaps, those very things will be what crowns him victor. Only time will tell.

Anything else:

Mock blog

Various edits

[thefallenwinter]

Still Want that drink? || ReadyForYours

Bucky pulled out a bottle of scotch and a glass, pouring it into the glass, before turning to look toward the Older.

“You still want that drink?”

@readyforyours

[jarvisthelittleandroid]

❛ i saw you together. ❜

“Oh….You did?”

[jarvisthelittleandroid]

“Do you still love him?” His breath smells of alcohol and there is a trace of blood going from his lips to his chin.

“Yes.” The dancer replies, simple and without hesitating. “Do you?” A nod and a sad smile are his answer.

Silence settles between them and for once it’s not awkward or tense. It is just the silence of two men, lost in their thoughts.

“He loves you.” The silence is finally broken and they look at each other. “He loves you and I hate you for it.” The fighter clenches his hands into fists, his bloody knuckles turning white.

“What makes you think that he does?”

“He said hello.” The blonde boy replies, looking down at his hands. “He hasn’t say hello to me. Didn’t even bother saying goodbye.”

“He said goodbye to no one.” It’s an attempt to comfort but it doesn’t work. A punch is thrown at the wall, aggressive and careless.

“He was going to marry me and he did n’t say goodbye.”

“Was?”

“Yes. I don’t think that is going to happen.” A defeated sigh and once more, silence. “I think he loves you more than he’ll ever love me. And it kills me.”

A part of Bones wants to feel bad for Tank, the other is filled with joy upon hearing those words. He wants to believe they are true. But he knows the pain Tank must be feeling so he says nothing.

“Do me a favour.” Tank mumbles, words slightly slurred. “When you see him, give him this for me.” Bones expects to begiven something, perhaps a letter or a present but Tank just leans over, pressing a kiss to his lips. Bones can taste the blood and cheap beer. He can also taste the salty tears that began falling from Tank’s eyes. “See you around.” Tank walks away as if nothing happened, tears and blood staining his face. Bones can only sit there, unable to react.

What a blessing and a curse, to love someone so deeply.

[jarvisthelittleandroid]

"What's your favorite music to dance to? How did you started into the interpretive dancing world?"

“I really like classic music in general but my favourites are piano melodies.” Bones replied, the hint of a grin in his lips. “It was…Kind of an accident, really.” He started explaining. “Midas wanted to go watch the Nutcracker and Jarvis was supposed to take him but something came up at work so he was going to cancel but Midas has been so excited that I told Jarvis I’d take him and I just…Fell in love with dancing. The way these people expressed themselves through movements was mesmerizing.” He let out a content sigh and smiled properly. “So I guess I have to thank Midas for helping me figure out my biggest passion in life.”