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March 23rd, 2019

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Age: 65
Country: United States

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November 18, 2018



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01/23/2019 07:09 PM 

(CS) wayne-o'shea family tree.

those featured in this family tree are as follows:

ronan wayne (charles dance); jorah's uncle on his father's side (paternal, alive)
seamus wayne (clint eastwood); jorah's father (alive)
ava o'shea-wayne (helen mirren); jorah's mother (alive)
millie o'shea (barbara streisand); jorah's aunt on his mother's side (maternal, alive)
corinne o'shea (meryl streep); jorah's aunt on his mother's side (maternal, alive)
unknown male/female (alive/dead, unknown)
maeve wayne (lena headey - needed); jorah's sister (alive)
svetlana vasiliev (carice van houten - kinda wanted); jorah's ex-wife (alive)
joray wayne (liam cunningham); aka me (alive)
rhett aldridge (michiel huisman); jorah's boyfriend (alive)
unknown (robert sheehan); jorah's potential nephew (alive, depends on the taker of lena)
siobhan wayne (maisie williams); jorah's daughter with ex-wife svetlana (alive)

*any role on this tree aside from myself (Jorah), Rhett, and Siobhan, I wouldn't be opposed to having. The likelihood of that, however, is small, and thus I'll stick to primarily wanting Lena. Conleth Hill (not featured) also desired! Send a sample for more information! ~

01/23/2019 02:02 PM 

maeve branna wayne (cs)

#sendmeasample #fillthis #youwon'tregretit

the many faces of maeve branna wayne ~

on facetime with maeve wayne (she's totally also on the landline) ~

01/23/2019 02:01 PM 

fired. (2014 drabble)

March 15th, 2014 --

Fired; after twenty-three years, he’d been bloody sacked at the drop of a hat, all because the department wanted to make an example out of him — they wanted to make the man he’d been caught with, Rhett (a particularly beautiful American man) feel guilty and confess. Jorah never knew whether they’d intended to “hire him back” after they got rid of Rhett but he didn’t care. Within a couple of days, he’d talked his former father-in-law into helping him get a diner he’d seen in the paper and begin renovations on it. Also, he’d put out a very lowkey add in the papers about anyone needing a private investigator, and he’d already gotten one call.

Walking through the chilled London streets, hands deep in the pockets of his black wool peacoat, he thought about his situation. He’d dedicated more than two decades of his life to that bloody department, and they did him incredibly dirty. He hadn’t expected them to drop him like that, especially after promoting him to senior investigator the year prior. Oh well, he would make it. It was so comforting to know that not only did he have his savings, but he also had a crew starting work on the diner in the morning and he’d be there to help them.

Oh, black water, keep on rollin’, Mississippi moon, won’t ya’ keep on shinin’ on,” came from the pocket, the device vibrating against fingers and the silver-haired man plucked it free and glanced at the screen. Recognizing the name as a former colleague from the PD, he swiped into the green.

“Aye, lad, ye been okay?”

“Yeah, but do I ‘ave some news for you…”

Oh, gods.

“What is it?”

“So, you know that… guy you were caught with…”

“Yes, Ronald, I remember him quite vividly,” he could practically hear the other man’s cheek sizzling on the other end of the line. “Get to it.”

“He came forward an’… told the truth.”

“Aye, so I got sacked for nothin’,” he chuckled, kicking a rock as he veered off the sidewalk into a park, settling onto a bench. The wood was cold on his backside, but he didn’t mind. “Anything else?”

“They knew it was him, Jorah,” Ron’s voice dropped to a whisper, as though he was afraid of being caught. “They knew...”


“They fired you to make ‘im feel guilty, so he’d come forward and rat on ‘imself…”

He couldn’t believe it — or maybe he could. They’d fired a veteran employee for kissing a subordinate, after all; there were no regrets. It had been the best kiss he’d ever had in his life, not excluding his ex-wife.

“Why would they do tha’?”

“I dunno, some half-cocked idea, maybe… I’ll never know, but...”

“But what, mate?”

“I have t’give some props to that American, Jorah, he absolutely gave it to ‘em!”

This day seemed never to cease with its endless surprises.

“Tell me…” he sounded mildly amused, and was becoming more so by the moment.

“The moment ‘e found out they knew it was ‘im and fired you anyway, to make ‘im feel guilty, he started goin’ off about how they buggered themselves out of one of their best officers...”

“Did ‘e say anythin’ else, lad?” Jorah’s interest was quite piqued, by now.

“Yeah, he said tha’ he was glad they were firin’ him too, and that you’d probably wind up bein’ glad,” Ron sighed, “because they didn’t deserve you…”


“Needless t’say, his version was more colourful than mine.”


“Oh yeah, Jorah, you shoulda’ heard ‘im, I swear! I’ve never heard so many ‘fucks’ in me life! Full’a spit and vinegar, tha’ one.”

Jorah couldn’t help the smile that had subconsciously plastered itself across his face, or the little skip of his heart. He figured that it had been an isolated incident, but something in the story his former colleague told lent to something a little bit different. Rhett and Jorah had worked together in the same office for nearly six months before the incident that cost the younger man a job and Jorah his career. In all honesty, the freedom he obtained by hearing the words ‘pack your things and leave,’ had been absolutely worth it. He only wished that maybe… things could’ve turned out a bit differently. Rhett seemed like the kind of guy Jorah could’ve spent quite a long time with, if he sat and thought about it.

01/23/2019 02:01 PM 

it's on fire! -- short drabble.

“It’s on bloody fire,” Edgar cried, hanging up the phone and turning to Jorah and the couple of young guys he’d hired to help him get the artwork out of the woman’s house. “Her house, it’s on bloody fire! What are we going to do?”

“Jus’ calm down,” the silver-haired man sighed, thinking for a moment; it wasn’t that far away. An idea — not a good one, per se, but an idea nonetheless — popped into his head. “Let’s go anyway.”

“Are you ou’ of your mind?” one of the young bucks from the south gasped, and when Jorah looked at him, he nodded.

“Righ’ now I am. I want my bleedin’ paycheck and I think ye do too.”

“I don’ wanna die fer it…”

“Then don’t.”

The other one, while listening to this, looked as though he was ready for anything; Jorah knew him to be a pyromaniac, so this would be his jam. Stepping outside, they got into the van and drove the couple blocks to the burning building. The police and the fire brigade hadn’t arrived yet; glancing it over, shoulders shrugged; they were shrouded by a gray wool trench coat so dark it was almost black. That way it would burn, instead of melting to his skin if it caught on fire — the beauty of natural fibers.

“Alrigh’, you lot,” he said, “let’s get wha’ we can get — an’ keep an eye out for that oil Edgar paid this lady for, an’ grab anything else ye can. If anythin’ can be said fer us now, it’s that we’re preservin’ art. This bitch has plenty of originals.”

Into the house they went, looking this way and that; thankfully, it was mostly the upper levels on fire thus far, so that must’ve been where the fire started. He wondered who did it, but then looked across the street to see an open window with the curtain fluttering. He knew; it was Edgar’s ex, Julian. Molotovs were his MO, when he wanted to take away something he knew his Edgar would want.

Luckily, the boys were out the door and loading up the back of the van with several unburnt art pieces — including the painting the bald man paid for — before grabbing one more trip’s worth of things, Jorah stuffing his own pockets with little things he found would probably be valuable (random pieces of rare gemstone encrusted jewelry). He heard the van doors close and the engine start; one of the young’ns poked his head back into the doorway.

“Go on, you lot, I’ll be along. I wanna talk to the bobbies.”

In moments an engine could be heard — the van pulling away, heading around the block a few times to avoid any suspicion before heading back to Edgar’s; by the time the fire brigade and police had arrived, the fire had made its way down along the door frame and into the room to burn up and eat anything it could get its tendrils on. Millions of pounds, probably, going to waste, but they’d done their part.

Stepping out onto the stoop, he placed an unfiltered cigarette between his lips and lit it with what he could find — a small pocket bible that had just caught flame.

“Rough night indeed,” one of the officers said, extending a hand to him. “You know wha’s goin’ on here?”

“Julian McDonough,” he said without missing a beat. “Got a portfolio on ‘im a mile bloody long, I’m sure he’s the one who’s done this; check the CCTV camera that was aimed at that,” he pointed to the open window, “window. Guarantee he chucked… some sort of inflammatory device into the upper window of Lady Beaumont’s home.”

“That’s an empty apa—wait, Julian… the guy who was datin’ that art collector?”

“Aye, he’s got a flair for the dramatic,” the chilled night air made the cloud of smoke and breath leaving Jorah’s mouth that much bigger.

“You were always a good investigator,” the guy began, sighing a little; he’d been one of the PI’s best friends while they were in the department together. “We’ll check your lead. Trust you saved anything overly valuable? How’re Lana and Siobhan?” they always seemed to ask about Lana, despite that they’d been divorced for years.

“Boys an’ I did what we could, aye. Dunno’ about Lana, but Siobhan’s good. Always good, tha’ one.”

“Good.” the cop turned to the fire brigade. “Put ‘er out, lads,” and back to Jorah. “Mind givin’ a statement?”

“Not at all.”

01/18/2019 08:08 PM 

jorah wayne - quick stats

❰ ❰ Quick Stats
full name: jorah hugo wayne
birthday: june 26th, 1967
age: 51 (fifty-one) years
zodiac: jorah is a cancer
height: 6'3" (191 cm)
weight: fluctuates, but about 190lbs
species: human
gender: male
occupation: on the record jorah is a former investigator for london metro police department who's turned to private investigating, and he also owns a diner. off the record the clients who pay for jorah's investigating skills often have off-the-books tasks for him (like picking up illegally obtained artwork - aka smuggling, a la ser davos seaworth; other softkey crime elements)
nationality jorah is irish
accent: he sports a very thick irish (dublin) accent
place of birth: jorah was born in east wall, dublin, but shortly after his birth his parents decided to move to birr (the countryside)
current residence: he currently lives in london (exact place tbd)
education: jorah attended primary and secondary schools in dublin before being recruited to the irish air corps at the age of sixteen
hobbies: reading, drinking, coffee, swimming, dancing when nobody's looking, listening to music, playing the guitar nobody knows he can play, softkey traveling (with his daughter to aunt (lena headey)'s place in italy, or back to bray to visit his mom and dad)
parents: seamus nathaniel wayne (clint eastwood, alive) and ava marie o'shea-wayne (helen mirren, alive)
children: siobhan jaycee wayne, 24, alive and kicking (biological); noemie clovis, (age), alive and kicking (daughter figure)
other family: maeve branna wayne (lena headey NEEDED), sister, alive and well; millie o'shea (barbara streisand), maternal aunt, alive; corrine o'shea (meryl streep), maternal aunt, alive. more to be cast later! habits: both good and bad enjoys his regular pint, it's become part of his routine; he's also got a bottle of jameson at home he drinks from, sometimes. as an irishman, he's got a wickedly high tolerance to alcohol. he likes the occasional cigarette or cigar, and yes - he has tried marijuana, but he didn't like it. when nervous he fidgets, mostly with his own clothing or something in his pockets
to be continued...

01/16/2019 12:58 PM 

christmas shopping - starter to rhett♥

December 17th, 2016

“Can we go do some Christmas shoppin’, da’?” came the voice of Jorah’s twenty-two year-old daughter; it was just over a week before the holiday, and the former officer realized he’d not done his shopping. How?

“Bugger me,” grunted the silver-haired man, adjusting his glasses and looking at his watch; half past noon. “Aye, we can, just need t’get… dressed,” he was still in his pajamas; the diner was covered, there was no glorified spying scheduled for that day. Standing, he folded the post and set it aside, sighing quietly and running the fingers of one hand through what little silvery-white hair still remained atop his pate.

“I’ll be waitin’,” Siobhan grinned, obviously having gotten what she wanted; probably wanted to see what her dad would buy her, maybe give her something early. Ever since she’d helped him that very first time, their relationship had taken a turn for the better; they were closer, less barriers between them. He was still a dad, that wouldn’t ever change, but there was a degree of leniency and trust between them now that, despite the circumstances required to gain that, he wouldn’t trade for the world.

Entering the bedroom he called his own, Jorah glanced at his unmade bed and absentmindedly kicked the door closed with a bare foot. Back to bed? That would be lovely, but he’d already made a commitment. Approaching the closet, fingers pulled the slatted folding doors open and the t-shirt he’d slept in was tugged off and discarded into the hamper outside the master bath. Another was taken out and pulled on, followed by a charcoal  button-down. Pajama pants subsequently discarded in favor of fresh skivvies and slacks, a belt, and clean black socks. In twenty minutes, he was fully dressed and in front of the mirror taking a comb to his hair, washing his face, and adjusting his glasses.

Darkness flooded first the bathroom and then the bedroom as he exited and made his way back down the stairs and into the kitchen, nearly slipping across the tile floor Tom Cruise style, but with much less grace and purpose. Immediately, he wanted to yank the socks off his feet and burn them, but then his shoes would stink from foot sweat — and he couldn’t have that. Listening to the dryer with shoes in it — in a bag or not — was r o u g h.

“Alright, ye little gold digger,” he teased, toeing on his shoes and tying the laces, “grab your coat and let’s go.” Pulling on his own jacket, Jorah grabbed the keys to his house and car, his wallet, cell phone, and his tube of lip balm — this English cold was terrible for drying one’s lips out. Once Siobhan was out of the house, the door was locked and pulled to a close. Snow was falling, as was ideal this time of year, and the wind was crisp and a little harsh as it whipped through the neighborhood. Breathing alone was enough, in this, to make one’s lungs burn, and Jorah hugged himself as they moved along the sidewalk to the driveway, the car having been remote started before he even put his shoes on.

When they sat down inside it, they both groaned at the loveliness the warmth blowing from the vents had to offer. A big yawn forced bearded jaws open, and then the vehicle was shifted and backing out on roads quickly covering with snow. The city would be through soon, surely, to make travel ways safe again, wouldn’t they? Driving home would be an absolute bugger, if they didn’t.

Into the city with them; the roads, while not the safest, were surprisingly populated, and even more surprising was the lack of accidents that kept traffic moving all the way into the shopping district of London. Pulling into a car park, Jorah fed the machine enough for a five-hour window — probably overkill, but better to have wasted a pound or two than to have to pay fines — and plucking the ticket from the machine and putting it onto the dash.

“Alright,” he began, glancing at Siobhan, who looked at him with her wide eyes and raised brows.

“Yes, da’?”

“We’re not splittin’ up,” he pointed at her, squinting behind the black rims of his glasses. “I don’ wanna lose ye’ in all this, there’s bound t’be plenty o’ people wanderin’ abo—”

“Dad,” she added the ‘d’ back on the end to emphasize her point, “y’don’t have t’worry about me. I’ll be fine,” her hybrid Irish-London accent fit her surprisingly well. “I’m not a child anymore,” she cautioned him; a statement that would serve to break just about any father’s heart, despite having already known it.

“Aye, yeh’re right…” he sighed, undoing his safety belt and stepping out of the car, locking the doors once Siobhan joined him. “Just… I trust ye’, I do, but this place is probably a bleedin’ mad house, an’...”

“I can take care of myself, if I’ve gotta’.”

They made their way from the car park to the main street, lined on either side with shoppes lit with Christmas lights and decorations, their windows adorned with signs left and right offering holiday deals.

“Just another way t’get ye’ t’spend yer money…”

“What else is shoppin’ fer, da’? This is s’posed t’be fun.”

“Oh, is it?” he asked, skeptical, hands jammed into the pockets of his slacks. “I thought ye’ were draggin’ me out o’ the house t’spend me money,” he smirked at her, watched as she rolled her eyes, and then let out a throaty chuckle and threw an arm around her. “It’ll be fun regardless,” the elder nodded, “long as ye’ don’t drag me into any o’ them, ah, fancy underwear stores.”


01/10/2019 05:07 PM 

call her... (starter to siobhan)~

Bells tinkled over the door; another customer either in or out. The smell of food — bangers, mash, coddle, shepherd’s pie, etc — hung in the air like a fog, making Jorah’s stomach growl. The harsh lights in the kitchen hurt his eyes, but he stayed there anyway, at least long enough to tap his cook and order helping of shepherd’s pie for himself, to be brought to his office when the boy had a minute.

“You got it, sir,” the words were accompanied by the clink of a metal spatula on a flat top, and the diner’s owner then moved along the slightly slick floor and into his office, situated at the back corner. Closing the door, a finger flipped the switch and the small room was flooded with light. Not such harsh light, either, thankfully; that of the kitchen was giving him a headache.

Flipping open a binder, eyes began scanning over lines of names, numbers, dollar signs; a list of food items to be ordered for next week, composed by his kitchen staff and only needing to be signed. A pen was picked up once the list was properly gone over — mostly to make sure everything seemed accurate — and a scribbly, semi-legible version of ‘Jorah H. Wayne’ was inked on the proper line. For a moment, the debate of whether to order anything for himself, for personal use — at wholesale prices, what other reason to own a diner? — but opted against it. The fridge at his flat was properly stocked, no need to get extravagant.

“Mr. Wayne, sir,” the door opened, “your shepherd’s pie.” the binder was practically thrown out of the way to make room for the plate, the elder of the two’s stomach almost violently growling as he nodded his thanks and made a mental note to give the boy a bonus for being such a talented cook — nearly rivaling himself. When Phillip wasn’t manning the grill, on days when his other ‘ventures’ lulled and he was bored, he’d do the cooking, and he felt himself and his chef were on fairly even grounds, at least where the type of cuisine served in the diner was concerned.

The first bite was delicious — hot, steaming, and most importantly: uninterrupted. Before the second could be lifted from the plate, the mobile device in Jorah’s pocket vibrated to the tune of ‘Ohio’ by Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. Sighing heavily, the fork dropped to the plate with a clank and a calloused finger swiped the green button to answer.

“Yer timin’s awful,” grunted the Irishman, “what d’ye want?”

“Pick-up’s tonight,” a voice, sounding rather disingenuous, replied. “Two am, by the port. Whoever your buyer is will be pleased; this piece,” emotion finally found its way into the voice, “it’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

It’s a surprise,” Edgar Kingsley had said, when Jorah had inquired as to just what, exactly, he’d be picking up that was so wildly valuable as to earn him thirty-five-thousand pounds just for the pick-up and delivery.

“Aye, I’ll be there; anything I need t’know?”

“Know anyone good with computers?”

“...maybe, why d’ye ask?”

“There are cameras that need to be disabled before you get there; I would do it, but I believe I’ve already done my part.”

“Well yeh’re a chincy fucker, aren’t ye?”

“I was paid for a delivery to this location, not to disable security devices.”

“Then why can’t we bugger off to a different location? One without, say, surveillance?”

Gods, the Irishman was thankful for burn phones.

“Because,” the Englishman on the other end of the line responded, exasperated, “it’s secure.”

“Aye, against people like us.”

“Precisely, which means it’s also most secure for us, providing we take the proper measures. Have them disabled, I’ll call you thirty minutes before we meet to make sure you have someone able to do it — and keep them scrambled long enough for it to appear as though we were never there.”

“D’ye have any information on these cameras?”

“Yes, I’ll have it sent to you.”

The line went dead, and Jorah’s stomach twisted into a thousand different kinds of knots; sure, this sort of thing paid extremely well, but the anxiety — was it worth it? His hair was already silver, could it get any more so? Personally, he liked the little black patches in his beard.

Who did he know?

“Bugger me…”

Siobhan; Jorah’s very own daughter was the most tech-savvy person he knew — she’d been caught hacking in primary school to up her friends’ grades for money, and Jorah had kept it a secret from her mother. He didn’t want to do this, but was there a choice? The internal battle had begun.

Looking at the clock, the hands rested so as to tell him it was nearly four-thirty in the afternoon. Yes, there was time, but did he want to waste it? Surely, just an hour for deliberation would be enough, right? The device dinged, signaling a document with information — probably make, model, serial numbers, etc. — about the cameras had arrived.

“Mr. Wayne, sir, the man for the food order’s here…” Phillip’s knuckles had rapped on the door so meekly that Jorah’d barely heard him before he spoke. “Did you sign it?”

“Aye, Phillip,” standing, he grabbed the sheet of paper and opened the door, handing it out. “Crackin’ on, Randall?” the Eatinvale food delivery driver tipped his cap and nodded.

“Crackin’ on, sir. Thank you, have a good day.”

The door closed once more. Five-forty-five. Would he call her?

“Have a good day, sir,” called Phillip from the kitchen as he went to clock out, his replacement having arrived to work the night shift — that meant it was nearly eight o’clock. RayAnne’s voice could be heard as the two bid one another good day as well, and he opened his door to call out his farewells — and greetings.

“Bugger it,” he murmured to himself, picking up the cell phone and glancing into the black mirror of the screen before double-tapping and swiping it open. A finger hovered over the call button once he’d gotten his daughter’s contact open; anxiety shriveled his stomach, the shepherd’s pie from earlier — despite how ravenous he’d been — still sat, mostly uneaten. Finally, after a few more moments’ deliberation, the pad of his digit pressed ‘call’ and eyes closed behind black-rimmed glasses, nostrils flaring as he let out a shaky breath. What kind of father would ask his daughter for help with something like this? Jorah Wayne definitely wasn’t getting any ‘father of the year’ awards, as the phone was pressed to his ear and he listened to the monotonous ring, waiting, every second seeming to tick by slower and slower. “Pick up, m’lovely daugh’er, please, daddy needs ye…”

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