I DID IT MY WAY.

ᶜᵃʳᵉᶠᵘˡ, ᵗʰᵉʸ ᵐⁱᵍʰᵗ ᶠⁱᵍᵘʳᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ᵒᵘᵗ.

[warscorned-a]

#WARSCORNED  (  adjective  )  :  meaning  ruined,  ravaged,  or  laid  to  waste  by  war.    presenting  dependent  character,    sgt.   sebastian  harris   for  londonfallingrpg.   this  is  an  original  introspection  of  what  remains  in  the  wake  of  war  &  more  importantly,   surving  the  horrors  that  still  await  on  homeland.   as  adored  by  kay,  twenty+,  she/her  pronouns.

                                          DOSSIER   •   MUSINGS   •   THREADS   •   PINTEREST

[exitwound]

[warscorned-a]

harry-carmichael​:

“Some of it belonged to my grand father. When he passed, we found crates of Ruinart dating back to 1926 in his cave,” there were worst things to stumble upon, for certain, and Harry couldn’t help but flex about it any chance he got. One day, it would undoubtedly end up with him getting robbed of it all, but the temptation was too great.

“Some bottles are too expensive. You pay for the brand, and after a certain price tag, it takes a true connoisseur to tell the difference between a bottle worth ten thousands and one worth twice or ten times that,” and he was humble enough (ha !) to admit that he was not as refined as that. “It’s ridiculous, if you ask me. Rarity isn’t always a sign of quality,” but it often was, and he participated happily to this charade.

“How did you end up in here?” He finally asked the question that was his initial thought upon seeing him in his wine cave. “I agree that waiting around while people have dinner is not really interesting, but maybe you’d prefer to lounge in the library or the living room?” He understood wishing to be lonely, or secluded. He often felt this way himself.

HOW  ODD  A  PHENOMENON  THAT  CERTAIN  THINGS  WERE  HANDED  DOWN  MERELY  OUT  OF  CIRMCUMSTANCE.   the  only  thing  sebastian’s  grandfather  had  left  him  was  hand - me - down  anger  that  befit  him  like  an  oversized  sweater.   it  gathered  in  all  the  wrong  places  and  you  could  tell  it  didn’t  quite  belong  to  him.   but  nonetheless  he  inhabited it. “  that’s  what  you  call  yourself  then  ---  a  connoisseur  ?  ”   there’s  no  ill  intent,   though  it  should  be  noted  that  the  man  is  hardly  removed  from  dim  sights  skimming  the  stock  of  wine.   finally  something  knowing  tweaks  up  at  the  corner  of  his  lips  and  sebastian  looks  to  the  other  for  an  answer.   there’s  something  concurring  in  his  visage  though  baz  doesn’t  bother  to  admit  it.   “  it’s  more  of  a  status  symbol.   i  suppose  there’s  something  or  another  in  being  able  to  say  you  have  something  that  someone  else  doesn’t.  ”  not  to  mention  if  it  were  aged  older  than  both  of  them  combined.

“  got  lost  looking  for  the  bathroom,  ”  it’s  a  brazen  lie,  and  it  would  be  foolish  if  they  hadn’t  both  realized  ---  sebastian  was  snooping.   “  the  prime  minister’s  security  detail  aren’t  aloud  to  lounge  if  you  could  believe  it.  ”  there’s  a  half  attempt  at  being  jovial,  if  one  could  believe  baz  had  a  funny  bone  to  begin  with.   “  though  if  you’re  not  too  busy  entertaining,  maybe  you  could  give  me  a  tour  of  the  premises  ---  for  security  purposes,  of  course.  ”

[ferrisbueller]

[harry-carmichael]

@warscorned​

“I’ll get the Chateauneuf du Pape, why don’t you two go take a walk in the garden? With winter being so warm, it’s stunning,” besides, he needed a breather. He loved the Finleys dearly, he did, but even he had his limits. Stepping out of the living room, he headed down the stairs that led to the wine cave. His house originally had a cellar, but he thought it a shame to use it for something so trivial as a man cave, like the previous owner did. He rolled his eyes at the memory, and frowned as he realized the lights were on. Did he leave those on or… “Oh. Did you get lost?” There stood the Prime Minister’s bodyguard, looking at the bottles on the shelves.

Deciding to be not too unpleasant, he approached him slowly, and offered him a polite smile while he picked up the bottle and headed toward his collection of decanters. “I used to think those were useless, but it really does make a huge difference,” he commented.

[warscorned-a]

HE’S  LIKE  A  HOUSECAT:   VERY  IMPORTANT  WITH  LITTLE  TO  DO  BESIDE  NAB  UP  ALL  THE  RATS  THAT  CROSS  HIS  PATH.   sebastian  perhaps  would  have  rather  tucked  himself  beneath  a  couch  while  he  awaited  the  charade  portion  of  the  dinner  party,   much  rather  he  finds  himself  left  to  his  own  devices  for  the  first  time  that  night.   consider  this  unpromted  wandering  as  a  house  sweep  for  safety’s  sake.   “  my  apologies  sir,  ”   sebastian  means  to  add  that  he  was  too  busy  marveling  to  notice  the  other  had  joined  him  where  he  certainly  shouldn’t  have  ventured. there’s  a  note  of  humor  found  in  the  unawareness  of  all  the  benefits  of  subtle  airation  ---   you  can  afford  to  indulge  wine  anyway  please  when  you  have  a  cave  scaled  with  bottles  of  it.   “  you’ve  got  quite  the  collection,  i  suppose  no  grenache  is  too  expensive.  ”   there’s  something  coaxed  beneat  the  half - compliment:  niceties  weren’t  particularly  within  his  paygrade,   not  from  within  this  social  sphere  for  that  matter.   

[warscorned-a]

lrzadie​:

Zadie wasn’t religious, she didn’t believe in a higher power per say, but she was a convert to the concept of peace. Maybe it was because outside of this place everything felt like it ran faster than she could keep up with, but when she stepped into the sanctuary of the cathedral it could all stop for a second. Whatever played on her mind melted away when met with the scent of century old wooden beams stretched across ancient stone. It was bigger than her, it was bigger than everyone, making it easy to disappear into. This sense of inner calm was the closest she ever felt to her mom these days which lead to it being something she couldn’t resist every so often. 

Turning to look up at the familiar figure she didn’t speak, fingers drifting across the spine of the bible in her lap. Not to read. Just to hold. The air once more silent with the unspoken prayers from others around them when Sebastian sat down his shoes no longer clicking against the floor. Once more everything was still. “Both pry on the same lapse in control - who’s to say they don’t go hand in hand.” The brunette murmured through chapped lips, tongue swiping across the bottom to wet one, dehydration catching up with her. Coffee didn’t have the same effect as water that much was clear, you’d think Zadie would have learnt by now. “What makes you wonder?” 

SEBASTIAN  HAD  CONSIDERED  HIMSELF  NOTHING  MORE  THAN  A  VICTIM  OF  RELIGION:    THE  ALL  KNOWING  BELIEF  OF  BELIEVING.    more  knife  than  man,  he’d  spent  all  these  years  carving  out  the  pieces  of  god  wedged  in  him.   it  was  like  pulling  bad  teeth  ---  the  pain  is  so  raw  he  could  still  taste  the  divinity.   

she  notes  that  they  are  perhaps  no  different  but  one  of  the  same,   and  isn’t  that  worse  somehow  ---  knowing  that  this  was  all  just  another  thing  baz  couldn’t  quite  denote  with  pinprick  determination.   the  rattling  thing  inside  him  that  he  calls  control  continues  to  unspool   &   even  for  just  a  moment,   sebastian  will  allow  this  lapse  to ensare  him.   as  a  final  plead,   the  man  looks  up  at  god  only  to  have  the  cathedral  ceiling:   all  ordained  in  depictions  of  young  martyrs  and  wooden  beams  looking  back  at  him.   “  it’s  nothing  really,  ”   there’s  a  moment  of  repose  to  swallow  the  truth;   the  whole  brunt  of  it  all  while  trying  not  to  choke  on  the  bones.   “  i  just  think  i’ve  begun  to  lose  the  plot  ---  properly  this  time.  ”

[rafaeleliad]

where: the private garden of a five star hotel when: evening with: @warscorned​​

Another day, another charity dinner. Rafael has been attending these functions for thirteen years, and they never change; it’s just an excuse for his high society peers to get together and congratulate each other for doing the bare minimum, while consuming as much champagne as possible. Donating one’s money to a worthy cause does serve a purpose, there’s no denying that, but… personally, he’d rather just get on with it - there’s really no need to devote an entire evening to standing around tossing each other off. Still, Rafael’s presence had been expected at the event tonight, and he has a reputation to uphold, even if he does wish he were anywhere else.

With the dinner finally over and the party in agreement to adjourn to the hotel bar for drinks, Rafael had taken the opportunity to quietly slip away from them, venturing into the private garden for the cigarette he’s been craving all evening. It’s ironic, really, that Meagan Finley hates smokers so much, when spending any significant amount of time around her while she’s standing on her soapbox is enough to drive even the most commited of non-smokers into the nearest packet of marlboros.

Letting his eyes slip close as he takes the first, grounding drag of his cigarette, Rafael sighs as the events of the day wash over him. It’s cold out here in only his dinner jacket, but he finds he doesn’t mind - it’s still better than spending another moment inside, deprived of nicotine and forced to listen to the inane prattle of somebody’s poor, drunk second wife, who really shouldn’t have been invited in the first place.

His brief window of respite is gone in an instant, the click of the door alerting him to somebody else’s presence in the space. Rafael opens his eyes, his expression instinctively flattening into his usual effortless neutrality as he observes the intruder: the latest in the Prime MInister’s line of loyal guard dogs.

“Oh dear, caught red-handed,” Rafael says, not seeming sorry in the slightest as he expels a smoky breath into the freezing night air. “Have you come to chastise me, Sergeant Harris?”

[warscorned-a]

THE  HOTEL  IS  YOUNG  AND  INTENSE,   A  PRIME  SETTING  FOR  DEBAUCHERY  MASKED  BEHIND  ROBCHAW  TABLE  LINENS   &   A  SYMPHONY  OF  PRONGED  CUTLERY.   the  dinner  was  intimate,  or  at  least  that’s  what  those  who  were  awarded  a  seat  at  the  table  had  thought.   sebastian  himself,   thought  it  foolish.   this  was  no  dinner  party,  and  the  drinks  to  be  had  afterward  weren’t  just  drinks.   it  was  a  competition,  and  surely  not  one  he  had  a  foot  in  by  the  time  he  found  himself  hovering  from  the  edge  of  the  bar.

to  protect  and  serve  was  his  sworn  duty.   to  bow  his  head  like  a  good  dog  should  at  the  end  of  the  table  until  they  threw  him  something  out  of  pity  or  beckoned  the  viscious  thing  bridling  inside  him.   it’s  not  a  scene  of  his  own,  everything  too  posh   &   velvet  to  not  be  maimed  by  his  touch  so  the  man  renders  himself  an  outlier:   a  shadow  with  purpose  who  finds  solace  watching  his  old  gods  from  afar.   he  becomes  theirs  to  command:   an  ear  to  the  ground  even  when  out  of  sight.

guard  dog  kept  on  a  tight  leash  is  finally  set  loose   &   frankly,   he  hasn’t  any  clue  what  to  do  with  himself.   he  paces  the  gilded  cage  for  a  moment,  racking  his  mind  before  instinct  leads  him  where  all  wild  things  go  when  they’re  lost:   outside.   he  appears  as  nasty  black  orchid  sprung  from  this  garden  of  eden,   something  wrong  buried  beneath  all  of   his  divinity.   it  seems  baz   is  the  first  to  notice  the  shift  though  he  does  not  identify  it,  he  offers  that  right  to  the  other.   he’s  dressed  like  an  expensively  suited  shark  just  like  the  rest  of  them  except   something  is  different  ----  he’s  missing  all  his  teeth;   so  long  as  he  had  them  he  would  use  them  to  do  bad  things.

there  is  no  bad  here  though,  there  isn’t   anything  really.   there’s  only  quiet,  displaced  gravel  wedged  between  the  ebbs  of  his  shoe  soles   &   a  certain  odd  disposition  between  them.   “  fortunately  enough  for  us  both  sir,   that  is  of  no  regard  of  my  job  description.  ”  there’s  an  effective  carefulness  in  the  way  the  words  lay  flat  against  the  roof  of  his  mouth,   this  is  sebastian  biting  down  something  more  unsavory.   “  lest  you’d  prefer  for  me  to  tattle  to  misses  finley,   maybe  she  could  put  us  both  out  of  our  misery.  ”

[warscorned-a]

CLOSED  STARTER  FOR:   @lrzadie​ SETTING:   st.  paul’s  cathedral,   midday.

IT’S  ONLY  CUSTOMARY  FOR  GHOSTS  TO  FIND  EACHOTHER  IN  ALL  THE  SACRED  CORNERS  OF  THE  WORLD.   firstly,   kneeling  at  the  foot  of  your  bed,   then  once  more  in  pews  that  now  only  house  you  as  a  martyr.   what  does  it  mean  to  be  flayed  by  all  in  which  you  once  believed  ?   as  it  turns  out,  it   only  makes  you  real,  no  matter  how  bloody  or  bruised.   this  man  of  holy  sacrifice  finds  the  other  awaiting  in  the  pews  reaching  for  divinity  ---  the  perpetual  want  of  things  entirely  out  of  reach.   sebastian  can  spot  her  hunger  from  afar,   and  allows  himself  a  seat  at  her  table.   there’s  a  brief  quiet  as  he  hovers  in  the  clearing  between  empty  pews,   only  the  sound  of  polished  oxfords   moving  against  harlequin  tiles  suspected  to  be  older  than  time  itself  reverberating.   baz   offers  a  wordless  look  before  finally  perching  himself  at  the  near  end  of  the  pew.   “  you  know,   i’ve  always  wondered,  ”  there’s  methodical  prose  when  he  finally  primes  his  mouth  to  speak,   slow  &  unravelling,   though  baz  does  not  turn  to   face  her.   promise,   he’s  not  always  this  quizzical.   “  what  are  we  made  of  more  ---  hunger  or  rage  ?  ”

[lady-of-the-spirit]

Enemies to "I accidentally came across you while you were vulnerable and scared and I'm not a total asshole so I tried to help you" to "accidental mutual uncovering of softer sides and vulnerabilities" to "I can't be mean to you anymore, not out of pity but because it would feel weird betraying that brief truce we had" to "Fine I'll make an effort to be nice to you now I guess" to "actually now that we're not actively hating each other you're not so bad I guess" to "i think we're friends but I'm not going to say that because I'm afraid you're not gonna feel the same way" to "oh you also think we're friends? Great" to lovers

[warscorned-a]

                              I  FORGOT  SOFTNESS  /  BECAUSE IT  DID  NOT  SERVE  ME.  

NICKNAME(S)   baz,  probably  won’t  answer  to  any  others.  ZODIAC   scorpio  AGE  /  D.O.B.   thirty6,  november  20th.  PLACE  OF  BIRTH   redacted,  only  alluded  to  the  rural  english  countryside. GENDER  /  PRONOUNS   cis  man,  he / him  ORIENTATION   repressed  bisexual OCCUPATION   sergeant  for  the  london  metropolitan  police   &   bodyguard  of  the  prime  minister.

PARALLELS   lenny  bruce  ( marvelous  mrs.  maisel ),   paul  spector  ( the  fall ),   harry  hart  ( kingsman:  the  secret  service )

POSITIVE  TRAITS   independent,  ambitious,  imaginative,  competitive,  reliable. NEGATIVE  TRAITS   enigmatic,  nihilistic,  domineering,  perfectionistic,  penitent.

BIOGRAPHY.

TRIGGER  WARNINGS    emotional / physic abuse,  religious  trauma,  drowning,  violence,  gun  use,  mentions  of  war,  mentions  of  ptsd.

TL;DR    rural  british  evangelical - raised  boy  does  what  he  knows  how  and  bows  to  the  hand  that  feeds  until  it  ultimately  strikes  him  down.   and  still,  he  becomes  theirs  to  command:   one  of  their  finest  assets  even  though  he’s  nothing  more  than  a  finger  on  the  triggered.   marred  by  war,   this  man  now  stands  to  atone  for  what  he  could  not  previously  protect.

OUR  FATHER  WHO  ART  IN  HEAVEN

the  dusty  nowhere  surrounding  hartlepool  is  where  you  grew  up,   a  wooded  edge  that  kisses  right  up  against  town  and  teeters  on  shire  lines.   you  were  an  odd  child,   born  to  a  peculiar  family  that  lived  in  a  little  yellow  house  on  the  edge  of  a  bluebonnet  field.   for  years,   these  hues  of  pallid  yellow  and  lavender  paint  your  life ━ though  they  only  paled  as  the  years  marched  onward.   your  hometown  is  one  that’s  never  felt  quite  new,   rather,   there’s  always  been  a  tinge  of  the  past.   like  this  old  mining  town,   you  were  run  down  sooner  than  you  knew.

the  sacred  walls  of  his  little  yellow  house  are  where  you’d  tell  your  first  lies.   crosses  nailed  in  each  room,   wallpaper  cracking  with  temperature  and  peeling  away  at  the  edges.   you  spent  your  childhood  wondering  if  it  was  always  like  this.   soil-covered  hands  pressed  together,   you  would  pray  for  the  unfortunate  children  down  the  road  who’d  just  lost  their  gran.   god,   you  would  say,   but  you  knew  you  were  speaking  to  your  father.   the  shadow  in  the  door  frame  that  stood  in  that  small  creak  of  light,   a  lean  figure  stretches  out  as  if  you  did  not  see  him  there.   oh,   please  bring  them  good  graces  in  this  time.   let  you  take  the  pain  from  their  shoulders.   learning  to  be  a  ghost  in  your  own  home.

taught  to  behave  like  a  young  man  ought  to,   you  are  taught  to  take  the  deer  by  the  antlers  but  not  to  look  it  in  the  eyes.   you  knew  only  to  pray  for  others,   only  to  care  for  the  world  around  you,   rather  than  the  bruises  on  your  back,   or  the  grazes  on  your  knees ━ or  your  mother  who  left  when  you  were  too  young  to  know.   the  woman  who  now  lives  with  her  new  husband,   and  kids ━ leaving  you  and  your  brother  with  him.

you  were  just  a  child  that  first  time  pa  took  you  and  you  watched  him  wash  the  old  town  sinners  clean.   you  watched  them  cry  out  hallelujah  and  praise  jesus,   praise  your  pa.   it  was  your  pa’s  hands  on  them,   not  god’s.   pa  tells  you  that  god  is  in  you  too,  but  this  will  be  the  first  and  last  time  a  reflection  you  recognized  would  ripple  across  the  water.  

OUR  FATHER  WHO  ART  BURIED  IN  THE  YARD

god  is  in  you,  boy.   so  you  let  pa  take  you  to  the  water’s  edge  again  once  you  were  a  bit  older.   you  can  still  hear  the  hum  of  the  hymnals  even  now.   do  you  hear  the  word  of  god?   have  you  believed  another  gospel?   you’re  like  an  angel  fallen  in  the  dirt,   something  out  of  place  prickling  beneath  all  the  holiness.   you  looked  just  like  the  woman  your  pa  hated  most,   and  this  would  be  the  sin  for  which  only  you  could  attest.   so  pa  plunges  you,   washes  you  of  the  sins  not  committed  at  your  hand,   but  rather,   those  of  your  mother.   because  if  she  could  not  be  here,   you  would  take  her  place.   shoved  beneath  the  frigid  surface  by  the  hands  of  your  pa,   under  the  guise  that  god  made  him  do  it,   sending  his  own  son  thrashing  like  some  wild  thing  your  pa  once  claimed  he  could  tame.

he  considers  it  only  a  miracle  of  god  that  you  hadn’t  drowned  that  day.   you  were  returned  to  your  siblings,   sopping  wet  on  the  porch  of  the  little  yellow  house  with  the  peeling  wallpaper.   you  begin  to  pick  at  it  when  no  one  was  looking,   chipping  away  the  watery  gray  floral  print  to  unveil  the  wood  paneling  beneath  it.   life  is  stripped  of  its  color  but  at  least  you  were  not  alone  in  your  suffering.   not  that  it  makes  it  any  better  that  your  brother  is  subject  to  your  father’s  delusions.  

it  stays  like  this  for  a  long  while.   seeing  your  little  brother  off  to  school  each  morning,   and  making  a  point  of  not  eyeing  the  brown  and  green  glass  bottles  that  he  strings  up  on  the  tree  in  the  front  yard  like  liquor  store  wind  chimes.   your  father  isn’t  the  man  you  thought  him  to  be.   you  consider  that  maybe  he  was  always  like  this  and  that  you  were  the  last  to  realize,   the  last  one  to  find  complacency  in  his  disillusionment.   and  that  only  makes  it  worse  so  he  pledge  that  one  day  you’d  leave  that  little  yellow  house.   that  you  would  rebuild  himself  like  an  old  factory  town  and  come  back  two  times  better  than  before.   had  only  you’d  known  you  would  always  be  that  odd  little  boy,  with  the  odd  family  in  the  yellow  house  on  the  edge  of  town.

your  brother  is  the  first  to  leave,   and  there’s  nothing  left  in  a  town  that  wasn’t  made  for  staying  so  you  follow  him.   you  pledge  yourselves  to  manmade  horrors,  trading  one  ghost  for  another  if  it  meant  the  cause  you  had  served  was  deemed  more  righteous  than  the  last.   had  only  you’d  known  that  it  would  be  another  thing  to  sever  you.   you  soar  ranks,   spit  out  commands  like  a  morning  prayer  even  when  things  had  become  everything  but  what  you  wanted.   you  were  no  longer  fighting  the  good,  noble  war ━ you,  and  again  your  brother ━ were  the  casualties.   

HEADCANONS.

served  in  the  british  military  &  was  permitted  leave  after  10  yrs;  swiftly  arose  in  ranking  for  his  aim  as  a  sharpshooter.   called  for  leave  following  his  brother’s  passing  and  has  since  been  passed  up  with  several  (  theorized  black  ops  )  agencies.

indecent  and  irritable  but  also  charming  and  a  great  believer  that  perhaps  there  is  still  some  goodness  left  in  him.

never  quite  returned  home  following  his  service,  worked  in  veteran  affairs  in  bristol  intermittantly  before  finding  placement  at  the  police  academy  in  london.

third  bodyguard  personally  contracted  to  look  after  the  prime  minister  since  his  appointment   &   just  wants  to  do  his  fucking  job  no  matter  how  much  he  sorta  hates  it.

the  brother  who  had  the  privelege  of  becoming  prodigal.   his  brother  died  in  the  line  of  fire,   and  though  not  entirely  unscathed,   baz  was  the  one  to  escape  with  a  life  he  was  never  truly  able  to  wholly  return  to.

avid  wine  lover,  doesn’t  drink  much  outside  of  classical  swills.  keeps  the  cork  from  every  finished  bottle   &   has  red  wine  with  almost  every  meal  off  duty.

reconnected  with  his  mom  following  his  brother’s  passing  and  has  since  maintained  loose  contact  with  her.

studied  briefly  at  the  university  of  bristol,  majoring  in  art  history  with  a  concentration  in  architecture.

undiagnosed  tinnitus  from  direct  exposure  to  an  implosion  on  the  battlefield;   can  indirectly  trigger  ptsd  episodes.

a  shadow  that  serves  a  purpose:   sworn  to  protect  and  willing  to  die  by  the  gun  he  lives  by  if  it  means  no  harm  is  inflicted  upon  who  he  was  made  to  protect;   though  this  was  not  his  initial  sentiment.

WANTED.

coming  soon.

[heavensghost]

[mashamorevna]

I am not gentle, I am not kind; I am rough and wild and savage. I bite, I nip, I lick, I devour. I want and I want and I want and I want. I hold nothing back.

S. Jae-Jones, Wintersong (via mashamorevna)

[rob-pattinson]

MICHAEL B. JORDAN 2023 | Adrienne Raquel ph. for Rolling Stone

[warscorned-a]

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