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rustyvanburace · 1 year

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Analysis on SMTIV’s Issachar

I wrote up a long analysis on Issachar from Shin Megami Tensei IV, covering his aspirations for wanting to become a Samurai, his myriad struggles, and even a bit of how he’d compare with Walter.

Spoiler warnings for the beginning of SMT IV up to Kiccigiorgi Forest. This is all my own interpretation, of course!

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My personal belief is that if Issachar did become a Samurai, I don’t actually see him as becoming "Another Walter". In some ways I actually even think that Walter would clash with him somewhat. And I say this in respect to Issachar's own beliefs and ambitions. As a Samurai, I can see Issachar clinging onto his new role with overwhelming pride and maybe even turning a blind eye of denial to the discrimination within. I can imagine him turn excessively determined to prove himself and even more so in defiance of his growing disillusion. And maybe that would still culminate in him losing himself and becoming vulnerable to demonic influence all the same.

For both good and bad, Issachar has raw emotion. And it's those same emotions that kept both his ambition alive against impossible odds, as well as what ultimately consumed him. Issachar isn't just at odds with the Luxurors' stifling oppression, though that is a large part of it, but also what he idealizes the Samurai to be and his complicated relationships.

So let's analyze Issachar's reason to become a Samurai. At quick glance, it is a means to escape his Casualry status and become a Luxuror. And that is true and something he expresses, but that also doesn't cover all his values nor his complicated anger at his rejection. What’s important is to first consider the value he holds the Samurai to and their perceived role in society.

If you go to the Obelisk before taking the Rite, Issachar comments on each section. And there's a comment there that really stands out. In retelling the founding of the Samurai, the epigraph relates Aquila's heroic deeds and ends by describing today's Samurai as the "cornerstone of our defenses". And it's right afterwards that Issachar starts to daydream in that role. "When I am made a Samurai, then I, too, shall be..."

Issachar doesn't state it outright, but given what the epigraph just described, I take this to mean that he values the Samurai as heroes of justice. Maybe even reveres Aquila. And this reverence would've come to him at an early, impressionable age, when he and Flynn had first gone to the castle on an errand as children and vowed then to become Samurai. Seeing as Issachar is a Casualry from a remote village, I can see him believing the Samurai to be noble heroes who equally come to everyone's aid. This belief would certainly give a lot of hope to a young Casualry and something to aspire to be, especially for one struggling with his own village's expectations.

During the Kiccigiorgi mission, there are a pair of NPCs who are implied to be Issachar's parents (or at least close acquaintances). Yet instead of expressing concern for their son's safety during a crisis, they speak of his absence with contempt -- in sharp contrast to their lauding of Flynn's bravery. Mind, they haven't seen Issachar at all since he left for the Rite. They have no knowledge that he led the Sabbath and embraced the demonic. Their assumption and source of ire is that he has cowardly run off. Maybe even abandoned his duties before all of this even happened. While Flynn is busting his ass to save everyone, where the hell is that lousy Issachar?

If that's their reception towards him during a major crisis, then I don't think they were supportive of his ambitions and efforts either. They may have seen his training as goofing-off from work. Casualries becoming Samurai are almost unheard of, so why waste all his time doing that? It's a fact that a lot of Casualry NPCs early on have simply accepted their lot in life and it's this conformance that creates a divide between the elders and youths. The elders have no interest in the Sabbaths. There are Casualry elders who give God their thanks for their role, who let the Luxurors think for them, and who are too concerned with work than bigger issues.

All that, of course, is rooted with the Luxurors for creating a controlled, oppressive society. Nonetheless, to a Casualry youth who may not have realized that yet and wants more out of life yet is shown no support by their own peers, that is incredibly frustrating. The exchange from Issachar's implied parents is very short, but it paints the picture that Issachar was among those struggling with his own peers on top of the Luxurors. Maybe even at odds with his village at large. And I believe that to be one aspect that encouraged his aspiration to become a heroic Samurai. So that he could bring hope to his village and become someone they could look up to instead of down upon.

At the Gauntlet Ritie, Issachar reassures himself by repeatedly saying "I will become a Samurai... I'm definitely going to be a Samurai... A Samurai and Luxuror at that..." He chants becoming a Samurai three times and a Luxuror last. It's not that he doesn't want to escape his trade, but that he holds greater value in becoming a Samurai first and what that role signifies. Conversely, there is a NPC during the Rite who, having just been rejected, waves off the whole thing as a dog and pony show. And this is a crucial exchange as it directly counters the heavy significance that Issachar is placing in the Rite. What that NPC is saying is that the Rite and by extension the Samurai aren't actually as grandeur as the early narrative is suggesting.

Then, to be rejected and shortly afterwards discover books that open to new ways of thinking, it's likely that Issachar would've been confronted by the reality that the Samurai are not actually defenders of the people but soldiers who enforce the Luxurors' rule. And if he truly believed the Samurai to be just, noble heroes and aspired to become that, then this revelation would've been a painful one.

So Issachar is struggling with society, his unsupportive family/community, and his beliefs shattered. But there is also a fourth thing going on: his complicated relationship with Flynn. It needs to be said that Issachar, even before being rejected, is not without flaw. He didn't actually have confidence in Flynn’s success despite together vowing to become Samurai. While at the same time that Issachar is reassuring himself, he doesn't extend that same hope to Flynn. He never mentions "we will become Samurai" but consistently "I". He states this could be farewell and thus indirectly hints that Flynn would be the one leaving. And instead of feeling proud that his best friend and fellow Kiccigiorgi Casualry was chosen, his reaction is of appalled shock.

And this all culminates at Kiccigiorgi Forest. Issachar isn't happy to see Flynn to the rescue and responds back sarcastically. He tells him his revelations, but only "I'm telling you this because you're you." He is treating Flynn as stupid, incompetent, and undeserving of becoming a Samurai. At most Flynn is now just another Luxuror dog upholding authority, in contrast to the survivors who laud Flynn's arrival or knew him positively. It's very possible that Issachar is also jealous of that, especially if he was like an older brother to Flynn and helped him out with most things. Like baiting hooks.

I imagine, following his rejection, Issachar must've felt abandoned by Flynn and his future stolen by him. Now Flynn gets to be that heroic Samurai that everyone can look up to. Worse, he may even betray his Casualry roots and forget all about Kiccigiorgi. Issachar essentially expresses that belief during his battle depending on how Flynn responds and it's why he reacts with surprised torment and regret for his actions if Flynn affirms that he is still a Casualry.

Now of course, none of this is actually Flynn's fault nor his intention. Issachar is running on high emotion. Regardless of the Rite though, it still doesn't change the fact that Issachar initially doubted Flynn. Issachar has a selfish side, and that's a good thing actually, as that gives him more nuance and his reaction is honestly a natural one. But he also comes around to overcoming that jealousy at the end and, in his final words, pleads that Flynn becomes that "magnificent Samurai" that he dreamed the Samurai to be.

So having gone through all that -- the oppression, the shattered moral value he placed in the Samurai, his lack of community support and pressure to prove himself, and his future seemingly stolen by his best friend and then abandoned -- it's infuriating. It's soul crushing. Where do you go from there when you have placed your entire worth into one moment that has never guaranteed you a future? Back to the village, alone, that's already disappointed in you? It's little wonder then why he became easy prey to the Black Samurai looking to stoke that anger and why he'd throw everything away. And it's because of those complex emotions and beliefs that I believe Issachar would struggle even as a Samurai.

I believe Issachar's idealization is where he and Walter differ greatly. Walter doesn't revere the Samurai nor does he place his entire worth in being one or upholding their image. He doesn't adopt a heroic or Luxuror identity. Walter also wanted to escape his family trade, but the way he treats the Samurai is much less of a life's goal and more as a pleasantly surprising turn of events. If he were denied, he would've likely sought his own way of escape. I earnestly don't believe that Walter actually aspired or even hoped to become a Samurai. Walter also runs high emotions, but he is still able to reign those in. He is able to hone his anger into a strength as opposed to a vulnerability. And he tends to be a lot more realistic or grounded.

And it's those differences where I think that the idealistic Issachar and realistic Walter would honestly clash. Maybe not necessarily as a heated argument (at least not right away), but as an annoyed or awkward discomfort. In some ways, Issachar actually has more in common with Jonathan insofar as their views of the Samurai.

Now obviously, who knows what would've happened if Issachar did become a Samurai. I do think he would at least be able to cope much better, having finally made it. But I also still believe that his idealized view of the Samurai would begin to crack while still clinging onto those same values. Maybe he would still fall to demonic influence out of despair. Maybe become a resigned, insipid shell of himself. Maybe emboldened to become that noble hero at all costs. Maybe his jealousy of Flynn would even carry on with him. Who really knows?

But if he did become a Samurai, I cannot see him as "Another Walter" nor would I want him to be.

#Shin Megami Tensei #Shin Megami Tensei IV #SMT #SMT4 #SMTIV #Issachar #Megaten #character analysis #rusty's analyses

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embrassemoi · 3 years

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Surrounded by the Moon and Stars ✷ 20

Pairings: Sirius B, Remus L, [F]Reader Content: Language, possible errors A/N: Some ppl asked for a playlist... so ofc I made one!

Series Playlist or Chap 20 Playlist

【 Masterlist: Previous Chapter | Next Chapter 】

Chapter 20: Little Lion Man

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When Regulus was younger, his aunt Andromeda and Sirius were obsessed with Muggle stories. Andromeda would send them loads of books every month to the local Muggle post office to prevent their parents from confiscating them. He remembers the ten minute walks there and back, Sirius holding his hand tight, even stopping to buy ice cream during the warmer seasons. They would greet the delivery men and women, picking up a heavy stack of wrapped books before waddling out, each boy mirroring a large grin.

Every night at twilight, when their parents were asleep, Sirius would crawl into his bed and read to Regulus in a hushed voice. He would read a different story every night, lulling him to sleep. Sirius spent hours gushing about the fantastical tales Muggles wrote; how magical and mystical their minds were despite not having an ounce of magical blood. From Superman to Batman, the Joker to Daleks, Prince Caspian to King Miraz; Regulus quickly learned that they all had one common theme: the good guys and the bad guys.

Regulus often spent his time grappling with the notion; what made someone good? Because the definition changes depending on the person.

Were the good guys good because they were selfless — passionate? Those deemed good never let themselves be seen as selfish. The heroes would sacrifice themselves for the greater good, even going as far as giving up their loved ones. Or maybe it was because they went against the odds. But villains did that too.

So he re-worded the question; what made someone bad? Was it their selfishness or greed? Was it putting themselves above others? Did they know they were on the wrong side of history? Make a mistake, once, twice — but surely, that didn’t make someone bad. Did it?

If virtue is understood by both sides, then the bad guys would immediately cross that line time and time again. They lacked wisdom and truthfulness, filled with too much pride and vanity.

But now as he began to grow up far too quickly for a fourteen-year-old boy, he realized that there was more to people than just being good or evil, a saviour or tormentor, light versus darkness.

The definition of good and bad depended on who told the story and Regulus didn’t know who controlled his; him or his parents. The line was so blurred that he couldn’t objectively make the decision himself anymore. Was he more bad than good?

Laughter — rich and inviting beckoned throughout the library, snapping him out of his thoughts again; but it did nothing but chip away at his heart. Regulus got up, shoving his books and parchment into his bag, making sure to hide his face before they saw him. Today, the Marauders had come earlier than expected and he was caught off guard. He’d been doing everything to avoid them out of pure shame.

Before he went to turn, he eyed Sirius from the shadows. He smiled, carefree and happy, clinging onto Pettigrew, ruffling his hair like he once did to him.

What made them so special, so loved and cherished by Sirius? How were they able to make him laugh so effortlessly, able to brighten his day with a mere glance? What made them more of a family than he ever was to him?

But he knew, it was their family’s values and it had been taunting him every waking moment.

It’s not like he didn’t want to escape that night, but he wasn’t Sirius. He was never as bright or strong or as good as him. Sirius was bold and courageous and certainly had more bravery than he would ever have. Regulus was far too weak, a puppet for his parents to control. Sirius was everything Regulus was too afraid to be — a reminder of what he could have turned into.

Besides, there wasn’t a single doubt in his mind that his parents would have killed Kreacher had he left. And this way with Sirius gone, it left Regulus to be the sole heir. Sirius was free, not being hunted down by his parents now that he bore the title. That was his gift to him, freeing Sirius of all the responsibilities, pain and grief. He owed him that much. Besides, Regulus had already mourned the childhood he never had; that made everything easier.

The day Sirius left was the day before they were set to leave for Hogwarts again and the impact of his absence was massive. He no longer heard the thumping of loud Muggle music nor the clanking of piano keys or doors slamming shut. There wasn’t any screaming aside from his parents shrieking at him for taking his father's wand. The stairs creaked; he could even hear Kreacher padding his way to his room.

It was eerily quiet and lifeless in that damned house, and he was only gone for a day.

Regulus hadn’t been taking it well. Nearly every night, his face was pressed into a pillow muffling his sobs. Sirius had kept his promise, he hadn’t talked to him since.

If only he had a scarlet tie…

Ha! He could laugh; he’d been trying to get his attention in little ways. He’d even gone as far as growing out his hair to match his — coping by writing letters every night with words he wished he could’ve said before storing them in a box under his bed. Forever unsent. Hell, Regulus was a coward, every bit as pathetic as Sirius deemed.

Ever the winter break, his parents were relentless, dumping everything that was meant for Sirius onto him. Letters were sent daily; there were talks about an arranged marriage, lumps of money now being transferred under his name, getting the dark mark… and he was being watched. Every interaction he had, his parents always knew. Especially with Muggleborns; he had to limit his interactions with them to almost nothing, or it wouldn’t end well for either.

His mind reeled back to that night, where his parents and extended family toyed with that blonde Muggle, leaving her half-dead on the dining table, the image branded in his head. It made him sick just thinking about it, he never knew what happened to her, he was too busy trying to muffle out her screams.

Regulus had been questioning everything he was taught. Sirius’ words echoed in his head; was he willing to kill Muggleborns solely because of their blood status? He's a believer in old values and traditions: yes, blood should be kept pure, but to kill Muggles… that was completely different. He’d seen how his dearly beloved aunt was burned off the tapestry, threatened and almost killed for marrying a Muggleborn — a Muggleborn who he’s met and liked and respected. His family tortured them for the sake of it and more. That wasn’t the move of someone good, those were the actions of someone evil; filled with greed, spite and selfishness. But how was he going to stop a whole bloodline from their mania?

Some may call it obedience, the way he’s listened to his parents all these years blindly, but to him, it’s respect. But did he believe that? Did they deserve to be respected? He was miserable and this wasn’t a healthy way to show filial piety.

What did he believe in?

Perhaps there wasn’t such a thing, good or evil, maybe there was only power.

Regulus was lost and confused and most of all, lonely. He remembered Sirius promised him once, before the day he was set to leave for Hogwarts for the first time, that he would never be alone. What a funny thing, promises.

Tears were forming fast and if he didn’t leave then, they would fall any second now. He needed to get out of the library.

Regulus asked himself again; what made someone good or bad — or rather, was he good or bad? He’s veering towards bad.

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After catching word from Mary that Remus’ birthday was approaching, Y/N had been knitting him a sweater in her spare time (or trying to). It was sweet, simple and showed that she’d put effort into it, especially since he taught her. Although, the sweater was lopsided and she hadn’t quite gotten the hang of a certain stitch or how to close sections. Perhaps she should use magic.

Her fingers fiddled with the needle, looping the yarn over the other side. Without looking up, she made a sharp turn into the library before crashing into a hunched-over figure; sniffling and a complete mess.

An apology dangled from her lips before recognizing the figure as Regulus. It had been two months since she’d last seen him and in short, he looked like shit. His skin was grey and lost all sense of a youthful dewy glow. If Sirius had dark eye circles or Remus looked tired, Regulus beat them by miles.

Y/N stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to do before gently patting his shoulder. “Regulus?” She asked softly, nothing more than a whisper.

There was a flash of pure terror as he looked up, his eyes nervous as his head spun around to look around the place like he always did. He looked mad, almost unhinged as his hands gently pushed her away, signalling for her to leave. “I — I can’t be seen around you.”

“Can’t? What are you going on abo —” She cut herself off, ignoring the matter entirely. He clearly wasn’t in the right mindset.

His voice was strained, quiet as he kept on murmuring, he almost sounded angry. “You can’t — we’ll both get in trouble. Y/N, go — please… ”

At this, Y/N felt her skin rise in small goosebumps. She looked back to the library, just making out her friend’s figures before looking down at Regulus again. She wasn’t going to leave him like this: crying and delusional.

She took a deep inhale before bending down, picking up her needles and yarn off the ground and slipped them into her bag. She placed a cautious arm around Regulus to keep him upright. “Come with me.” But Regulus wouldn’t budge, not until she flicked down her hood, obscuring her face.

She led him up to the astronomy tower, walking and twisting around before setting him down on a nearby bench, making sure to lock any entrances. They sat in silence, aside from Regulus attempting to regulate his breathing. The cold whipping wind tossed his hair and sank into her bones. With a few charms, they were both warm again, but still able to breathe in the crisp air.

He remained quiet. Y/N didn’t push. Instead, she began babbling softly about random things to distract him. When she heard a sharp exhale of air, mimicking a half-hearted chuckle was when she knew he had calmed down.

“Thank you,” he muttered. It’s quiet, barely above a whisper. Regulus’ cheeks were pink, colour finally returning to him from either embarrassment or the cold.

“Any time,” she smiled warmly. Her hand reaches into her bag, fishing out the snacks that were meant for the study group: blackberries that were for Remus, a muffin for Marlene, were now shared between them. She tried to encourage him to eat, to regain any sort of energy.

He listened without complaint, a tense yet thankful air engulfed them. It was only until he finished the food, about an hour gone by, was when he spoke again. “Why are you being so nice to me.” It’s not even a question, just an odd accusation.

She thinks for a while, searching for the best answer. “I wished someone was there for me when I was going through a hard time.”

“But you don’t know me.”

Her eyebrows raised, “Well, let’s get to know each other then. I’ll tell you something about myself and then you can go?”

Regulus looked up at her with a calculated expression, cautious and looked uncomfortable but he nodded.

“Let’s start simple. I have an owl named Celeste.”

He gulped, looking back to the entrance. His answer came delayed, strained and she wondered if she had pushed him too far. “I play the violin.”

Y/N smiled largely. “The violin is beautiful! Hmm… I can’t ride a broomstick to save my life, unlike you.”

At this, he smiles — a real genuine smile that causes his eyes to crinkle and sparkle. “Really?” His eyes burned with curiosity before he looked down, “I can’t swim.”

“Swim?” She repeats, chuckling to herself, “Who doesn’t know how to swim?”

“You’re making me feel grand. Terribly uncalled for.”

Her eyes rolled, “You should learn. It can save your life one day. Who wants to drown?”

“Maybe I’ll ask McGonagall — I heard for tougher punishments she’ll throw you into the black lake.”

“You’re the perfect candidate then.”

After a while, way past curfew, Regulus seemed cheerier; his tear-stained cheeks now replaced with a smile and relaxation. That day, Y/N unaware, was a day Regulus would never forget.

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March 8th, 1976

“Sirius, shut up.”

“You’re the one yelling!”

“... Right.”

Excused from their afternoon classes because their Puffskein was about to hatch, the Marauder’s dorm was bustling with panic and bickering. When Y/N partnered with Sirius for their project, she expected fighting (which happened every day) but not for Sirius to be like this. He’d been running around the dorm, grabbing warm towels, bowls of water and taking out his panic on her. He gripped his textbook, flicking through notes to see if they had everything. It was as if he was preparing for the birth of an actual baby.

She silently watched him, her mind thinking about Regulus rather than their project. This was the only time she and Sirius were alone and wondered if she should mention his freakout the other day but stopped — it didn’t take a genius to know they weren’t on friendly terms.

Since that night, she’d seen Regulus almost daily, but only at night before their study group. She would spend an hour or so with him before the Marauder or girls came barraging in; Regulus left before they appeared. The entire situation left her deeply confused, worried and most of all, suspicious.

“We need Kettleburn —”

Annoyance began nipping at her. “Calm down.”

“I’m not going to calm down!”

Sirius paced, both firing snide jabs. Too preoccupied in his panicked state, he didn’t hear the quiet cracking of the white shell, forming the shape of a lightning bolt before cascading over.

“Um, Black?”

“Let’s not start. How are you so —”

“Get your ass over here now!”

Sirius pressed his lips together immediately and rushed over, both huddled side by side near the roaring fireplace. The shell twitched, cracking more and they both gasped in amazement. The process was faster than either expected as they saw the small tuft of cream fur peek out along with a pair of black eyes. Its long pink tongue slipped out, already looking for its first meal. Y/N scrambled to grab a nearby dish of dried spiders to feed it while Sirius cradled it in his hand. His smile was wide, buzzing with excitement as he observed it. His hands gently glided over the soft fur as it emitted a low humming sound.

A deep chuckle erupts from Sirius and she could feel the vibrations from how close they were. His laugh, which once made her cringe, now made her skin feel fuzzy and heart flutter. But, it wasn’t like that, she thinks. Of course not! She still wants to jinx him, maybe even throw him into the fireplace. Yes, that’s it.

She snaps out of her violent thoughts when she finds Sirius already looking at her, a pretty flush to his skin as he observes her softly. Her brows crinkled; instead of a frown or on the cusp on an insult, he smiles.

“Do you want to hold it?” Y/N nods eagerly. Sirius shifts his body, placing the Puffskein in the palms of her hands. It’s incredibly soft, adorable and when it leans into her, falling asleep, she swore she fell in love.

“What do you want to name it?” She mumbled, afraid that if she were any louder it might wake it up. Sirius takes a long time to ponder and Y/N braces herself for an insult, already thinking of a plethora of her own.

“It looks like porridge… Oatmeal!”

“Are you serious?”

“I’d be worried if I wasn’t.”

Y/N tries to suppress her smile but fails. The Puffskein did look like a grain of oatmeal. Plain and simple, she liked it.

“Hello, Oats! You’re so cute — I could just eat you up!”

“Morbid much.”

Hours went by before they ultimately decided to head down to Kettleburn’s office for an examination of Oats’ health. Sirius cradled it in a small blanket, shielding it from the rest of the world. Marlene and Dorcas were standing by the sidelines, joining them as they walked past.

“Yours hatched already? Aw, it looks so cute!” Dorcas squealed. Her hands reached out, giddy as Sirius gently placed it into her arms but not without fretting. Marlene only looked down at her with a soft gaze, her face becoming pink as she wrapped an arm around her.

“Give it a rest. She’s not going to drop it.”

“Now you, McKinnon?! I’m a father now! Our kid deserves the best care! Right, L/N?”

It catches her off guard. Sirius trying to include her in a conversation? That’s a new milestone. ��Of course; the proudest parents.”

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Once done with Kettleburn, Sirius went to bring Oats back to his dorm, parting as Y/N went to find Lily who took her notes for her afternoon classes.

Out in the courtyard, walking around in the snow, both Lily and Snape wandered around before she picked up a snowball, throwing it at him. Snape sent her a deadpanned look as Lily kept hurling snowballs. Most missed him, others hit him before he retaliated and threw some back.

Y/N halted, watching the scene play out and debated whether or not to approach them. But decided to, shouting while striding up to them.

“Petals!”

Lily’s smile grew before her head whipped to her. She stopped her snowball fight, getting up to bounce her way over to her. Snape followed in suit, but as Lily began to babble on and on about what she missed, Snape’s eyes bore into her, vice versa.

“I’ll see you later, Sevy! We need to go,” said Lily, already turning to walk away. Y/N lingered back a pause, just enough to see Snape draw his wand and shoot a spell at her. She had just enough time to block it. Whatever spell it was, it sparkled like a firecracker. If Snape could easily send a hex or jinx her way inboard daylight with Lily just a little ahead, what was he willing to do had they been alone.

His angel persona around her was dropping quickly.

“Whiskers!” Shouted Lily. Her arms raised in question. “Get over here!”

A flurry of thoughts bombarded her before she could process them. She was about to cause a scene, yell and scream until that nasty sneer fell off his face until she felt a tug on her arm. Lily hooked her arm around Y/N, pulling her away. But she still had her wand drawn, ready to block another spell. She tossed one last look at him; he smiled wickedly.

“Are you okay?”

She had enough tip-toeing around Snape. She remained tranquil, gave him the benefit of the doubt and respected their friendship but that was enough.

“No, I’m not actually,” keeping her tone as soft as possible, trying not to sound defensive, “Why do you waste your time around him?”

Lily paused, her eyes going wide. An offended expression crossed her face as she took a moment to digest the remark. “Sev? What are you getting at?” Her tone was guarded which had Y/N debating whether or not to drop the conversation entirely. A fight with Lily was not on her to-do list.

“I just think you should be careful around him.”

“I can look out for myself,” she grumbled, “Severus has been there for me for years. I know how to separate myself from the wrong sorts.”

“I’m only saying this to look out for —”

“I know, but he isn’t like what you’re thinking.” Lily didn’t look mad, just tired as she nodded sharply. Taking a stack of parchment from her bag, Lily handed it to her and walked faster. “You’re around Potter too much. He isn’t like what he says he is.”

Y/N felt annoyance blossom in her chest at the accusation of James but bit her tongue to avoid more conflict. Right now, they trod on dangerous waters.

Neither spoke to each other for the rest of the day.

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nenya85 · 3 years

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Ficlet: The Missing Ingredient

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Written for the “Intoxication” prompt on the Dark Pride of Dimensions Discord’s Drabble Night.

The link to join the Dark Pride of Dimensions Discord is here.

SUMMARY: Set after the end of “The Dark Side of Dimensions.” Atem returns to Domino with Kaiba. But now that Atem has his memories back, he discovers that some things aren’t the quite same as he remembered.

Comments, either here or on the server, would be appreciated!

THE MISSING INGREDIENT

Kaiba breathed a sigh of relief as he entered the mansion. It had been a long day. He made his way to the game room and stopped short just inside the doorway.

Atem stared up at him, bleary-eyed. He was surrounded by beer bottles, like a pharaoh buried with his treasures. “I slid off the couch,” Atem said.

Kaiba took a quick, reflexive glance around the room before remembering that Mokuba was spending the night with friends. He scanned the room more carefully. Kirin. Sapporo. Suntory. Asahi. No two labels were the same.

“Having a beer tasting party all by yourself?” Kaiba asked.

Atem was hugging an empty bottle of an artisanal malt. He sat up. “I couldn’t find the right one,” he said sadly.

“Right for what? Getting smashed?”

“None of them taste like home.”

If Atem had been sober, he would have noticed the way Kaiba’s lips tightened at his words.

“There’s beer in paradise?” Kaiba asked, trying for a conversational tone.

“Of course! What good is paradise without beer?” Atem chuckled to himself. His gaze turned mournful as he turned his bottle upside down and said, “All gone.”

“You miss it there.” It wasn’t a question.

“Sometimes,” Atem admitted, a confession that sobered him a little.

They stared at each other in silence, then down at the ground that had suddenly shifted beneath their feet. Kaiba had crossed dimensions. Atem had returned. Neither had mentioned the trip again, equally eager to let sleeping landmines lie, to cordon off the area and avoid trespassing.

“I need a drink.” Kaiba stomped out of the room; the words, “All gone,” followed him out the door.

Kaiba headed for his office, the one that had been Gozaburo’s. The furniture was the same. Somehow, in the intervening years, except for adding a statue or two of his Blue Eyes White Dragons, he’d never gotten around to renovating. He went straight to the liquor cabinet. He’d kept it stocked even though he rarely drank, never seeing the entertainment value in losing control.

Kaiba lightly touched a bottle of Scotch, the Macallan Exceptional Cask. It had been Gozaburo’s favorite. He’d rarely offered it around. He’d sit there and drink it in front of his guests, then serve them a slightly cheaper, but still ostentatious brand. Kaiba had only had it once, after he’d earned the privilege by proving he could get throw-up drunk without giving away company secrets. He’d been 14. It had taken him two years to achieve the skill.

It had tasted of power.

Kaiba swept his hand across the top shelf of the cabinet, knocking the overpriced bottles of alcohol over. He picked one at random, grabbed it by the neck, swiveled and brought it down on the top of his desk. Nothing happened. He glanced at the marble dragon guarding the door, strode over and smashed the bottle against it. This time the bottle shattered, spraying the room with vodka. Kaiba grabbed the next bottle and then another. He threw back his head and laughed. He ran from the room and through the mansion, returning with a baseball bat he’d rummaged from Mokuba’s closet.

“It’s all a game, right?” Kaiba picked up a bottle and threw it in the air. With mid-season form, he swung for the fences, catching the bottle right on the neck, bathing himself in a shower of rum. He grabbed the next one and then the next, smashing through each, going 3 for 3 and then 4 for 4 in his impromptu batting practice.

“Seto!” Atem called, staring at Kaiba, now drenched in spirits and surrounded by glass shards.

“What are you doing here?” Kaiba asked numbly.

“I heard…” Atem gestured. “All of this. I came to find you.”

Kaiba grunted. “I came to find you, too.”

“Seto…” Atem’s voice gentled, as if Kaiba was the one who was drunk. “You can miss something without wanting it back.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Atem came over to Kaiba, stood on tiptoe and planted a sloppy kiss in the vicinity of Kaiba’s lips. “And that’s why I chose you, why I want a life with you.”

Kaiba wrapped his arms around Atem, lifting him up to kiss him more easily.

Kaiba set Atem back down and smiled. He glanced at the Macallan Exceptional Cask, which had somehow escaped the carnage. He walked over to it, with Atem still clinging to his neck like a second locket. It was unopened. Kaiba grinned and opened it, then took a slug straight from the bottle. He’d never thought of drinking, just for fun, before.

“Come on,” he said, carrying both Atem and his bottle like trophies. “There’s too much glass in here.”

They settled back down on the thick shag carpet covering the game room floor. By the third pull on the bottle, Atem was curled in his lap and Kaiba had remembered that most problems were solvable.

He juggled Atem to get to his phone.

“What are you doing?” Atem asked, looking like a cat that has had its nap disturbed.

“Texting Isis.”

“Why?”

Kaiba typed for a minute, then held his phone out for Atem to see. “Are you sober enough to read?”

“Of course, I am. Watching you bash liquor bottles sobered me up nicely.”

Kaiba smirked as Atem stuck his tongue out and tried to focus, determined not to lose the challenge.

Atem sounded out, “Send me all the information you have on obsolete Egyptian methods of brewing beer, circa 1100 BCE, and an ingredient list and I’ll fund your next expedition.” Atem grabbed the phone from Kaiba. He added star-eyes and a series of beer mug emojis and then then hit “Send.”

“We crossed dimensions,” Kaiba pointed out. “Recreating ancient beer should be a piece of cake.” He paused. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is. Always.” Atem sighed in contentment. “Beer and you. Sounds like paradise to me.” He chuckled. “And speaking of cake, the date loaves back then were pretty awesome, too.”

Atem tossed the phone away, ignoring Kaiba’s yelp of protest. Atem’s eyes narrowed. He pressed himself against Kaiba, attempting to steal a kiss that Kaiba was only to eager to give away. His enthusiasm over-balanced them both, as Kaiba’s arms came up around him… and the tightness of their hold on each other was a renewed promise.

Neither noticed the return ping of Kaiba’s phone as Isis sent him the information -- along with the budget for her next project. When he finally retrieved his phone, Kaiba had to laugh. He’d managed to find a beer that cost exponentially more than Gozaburo’s prized scotch.

#prideshipping #DRoD Drabble Night #drinking #well the prompt was #intoxication

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adamsvanrhijn · 3 years

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@thismoleculeisacomedian

wait what is your opinion? Do you think he hated himself for being gay? (I disagree w/ that viewpoint, but would like to understand what it is & where it comes from.)

I definitely don't think Thomas hates himself for being gay — at any point in the series. I also don't think he ever moves away, internally, from "I am not the same as you, but I am not foul". I have seen people say that what happens in S5 is an indication of that and I completely disagree.

However.

I do think Thomas has low self-esteem for essentially the duration of the series, and I think he experiences self-hatred that is complicated by the fact that he is gay, surrounded by homophobia, and almost certainly a victim of complex trauma (also related to homophobia).

Thomas is confident in one thing over the course of the entire series, and this is his exceptional competence at work. He recognizes his own worth and takes pride in his actual value, which I think he actually sees very objectively. (Facebook moms, etc, do not agree with me here.) Wherever possible he makes himself indispensable, and it is in my opinion literally something he clings to as a reason to live.

(I also think he cares deeply about and, until S2/S3, has confidence in, his physical appearance. But that is a different piece.)

One of his most basic psychological needs is to be needed, and as part of this, to be contributing to something larger than him and to be essential to its functioning.

Literally in the very first episode of the entire series, we see that he is recognizing he may not have a place at Downton at all, and if he does, it isn't a place where he is valued and appreciated. This is a psychological threat—time and time again after this, we see him start to lose his head at the idea of instability.

How does he react?

By trying to make himself necessary elsewhere.

The amount of birds he is trying to get with one stone—

Give something that is necessary & desired to a man he loves

Resolve an issue at his workplace (I don't think he thought about this much but I do think it would have crossed his mind)

Escape a place he is not valued

Move upward in his current social hierarchy (domestic service)

To a job he is skilled at and enjoys

The job itself is providing essential service to the life & functioning of another human person

That human person is his lover, thereby fulfilling a different emotional need (his and said lover's)

And even when he is almost certainly set on running off into the sunset with the Duke, he still jumps at the chance to prove his worth when Bates goes, because that's just how he functions.

Like, in terms of the relationship specifically, he is trying to solve the financial problems of the Duke's estate AND become the person responsible for his daily care & keeping AND establish a safe way for them to be lovers For Ever And Ever—where he can then emotionally & sexually fulfill him on top of the physical, mental, financial and societal (having a valet as social status but also as the person who arranges pretty much everything for you and keeps you up with appearances) and needs he would be meeting.

CLINGY MUCH?

And then as soon as it starts going south his tactic is:

Look at how bad I want it

Look at how good of a valet I am

(You promised!)

Look at how good of a lover I am

Look at how much I know & care about you

Except then—

{clear internal chaos}

I do not care about this in terms of you at all, your needs never meant anything to me, this was just about me and I'm not the vulnerable one here, you are

But what is blackmail?

Blackmail is when you threaten another person with exposure of private/secret information to get something out of them.

The idea is that the victim will fear losing social standing or facing legal consequences enough to provide whatever that something is—and it can leave long-lasting damage regardless of the length of the extortion itself, because the victim has a psychological, and it follows, social & physical need, to maintain their current life sans embarrassment or like, a criminal record. Even a threat itself that cannot be carried out is damaging, because it makes the victim aware of the possibility.

The victim has to rely on and trust the blackmailer (that they will keep their word) while also fulfilling their own demands. Indefinitely, or even like, forever. Control freak much? Etc.

"smithensy when the fuck are you answering the actual question" PROBABLY NEVER

It's also a common event with relationships resembling theirs, so it's bound to be the first thing to come to mind! And he came up with it in the moment and clearly regretted it like, immediately!

Absolutely! Agree!

...except that he does it again.

And then again.

The second time, he is actually reluctant! He knows in what way he has been trusted and he knows what need he is fulfiing! And he really doesn't want to break that trust and stop fulfilling that need, even though his own needs have been intentionally torn to shreds!

But the next time he does it it is intentional. It is not split second and it is not against someone who has severely harmed him and brought the threat of ruin over his head. He takes it really fucking seriously, to the point of neuroticism, and he constantly reminds that person that she needs him—and although Baxter has to be liked for his requirement to stay in the know, I think there is also a vicarious element. He is giving her everything she needs to become indispensable. He's doing it while also holding the one thing that could ruin it over her head, yes, but he is also using her as like, a way of validating his own understanding of the house and who lives in it and what they require.

Anyway.

There are many points in his arc in the series where someone prone to depression and suicidality could be driven to attempt suicide. I can think of like, five off the top of my head.

But when he does, the breaking point is that he sees himself as unvalued and unnecessary—in essentially every area of his life, but especially his job and industry, which as above is really the only thing he never wavers in.

And he still doesn't waver in the work itself, necessarily. His problem is not that he is no longer skilled at his work, or that he can't meet his own expectations. It's that the job itself is surplus. It doesn't matter how good he is anymore; it doesn't matter how perfect he is. He has no control over it and it is the final straw for someone who has been fighting for scraps of agency for his entire life and only managing to have them through self-harm (see series 2).

I do not think Thomas sees himself as Enough. That is why he strives for perfection—if he is Good, and Skilled, and Talented, and he is needed, that is almost like being loved.

And by working his ass off and keeping the expectations of others around him low, forcing a poor opinion of himself, he is putting himself in a position where even if he isn't able to give it his all, his 70% or 60% or 40% is still better than what all these other people are capable of at 110%, so even if he is disliked and looked down upon and nobody wants him around, well, they have to keep him anyway because he is That Good and things will fall apart without him—

—and if it doesn't work and he has to go well then at least they'll be sorry when everything is ruined and he is irreplacable!

Aaaaaand he's thrusting himself into isolation and shooting himself in the foot.

The self-hatred piece is knowing that no matter what he does he will not be Enough, that there is just something missing. One piece is out of his control but he can never successfully work around it, so he can never have what he wants. The lack of success is what is driving the inward resentment. He has a lot of regret and guilt and he blames himself for every single action he takes that results even slightly in a loss of dignity. Again we see this in the first episode but also, like, the entirety of series 2, 3, 5 and 6 have this thread weaving in and out. When being mean and externalizing his blame doesn't work or make him feel better he turns it around.

The S5 plotline is more to do with having something than getting rid of something. If he can just have this one thing it will make everything else go away; it is the key to Being Enough.

And then in the cottage hospital he is immediately lashing out at and blaming himself for bothering to want that, let alone to try it.

Baxter is right, though! His tolerance for pain and suffering in the pursuit of fulfilling his own needs is extremely high and he seems determined to push it.

People who have lots of self-love and self-respect do not constantly punish themselves.

I have been writing this post for two hours and I don't think it makes much sense. I am going to make dinner now.

#downton abbey tag #thomas barrow posting tag

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twsthoodstar · 3 years

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The Omamori Clan 🎋

One of the minor sorcerer families in Japan, but they are still plenty well respected. Especially since they rank just below the 3 Major Clans.

Gifted with the power of chance, something we as humans so desire, their technique Seal of Fortune is cherished among their lineage & even envied by outsiders.

Like most sorcerer clans, if there were more than one child it was most likely the eldest child would inherit the technique. However, it took a different turn as it was a daughter that took up the technique as well as the family name.

The most powerful ancestor known throughout the Omamori blood line, the Lady Fortune. The only female sorcerer that has inherited the Clan’s technique: there has never been another female heir until the birth of Miyoko.

Thus granting Miyoko the title of the Clan’s heir and as the next Lady Fortune. Miyoko is known very well throughout the rest of the clans because of this. However, due to traditional values, the Omamori deal with a lot of criticism for having a woman as heir.

Unsei Omamori

Age: 47

Cursed Technique: Seal of Fortune

Likes: Sake, dice games, & Ahmya’s cooking but mostly her motsuyaki

As head of the Omamori Clan, Unsei is quite prideful in his skills & powerful strength regarding his technique. While to the public he is prideful & rambunctious, he holds a deep sense of love for his family & proudly states how wonderful they are. However there are times his arrogance gets the better of him & his wife often keeps him in check.

Ahmya Omamori

Age: 42

Cursed Technique: Paper Doll - Resembling Washi Ningyo dolls, she is able to summon & control these little paper than can easily be hidden from sight. Making it useful for stealth & surprise attacks.

Likes: Origami, kaninabe, & doing her daughter’s makeup

Regal & strong willed, Ahmya is well known throughout the Jujutsu World not only for her husband but for her status as the 2nd head of her Clan. She was married into Omamori Family by her parents & despised Unsei for when they were younger, but seeing Unsei’s kind heart she eventually fell in love with him. As it was him that gave her a position & never saw her as an object nor trophy. However, a good smack to the neck often keeps him in line.

Kenji Omamori

Age: 15

Cursed Technique: Paper Doll

Likes: Omurice, pretty girls, anime

The second oldest: Kenji sees himself as a “handsome & reliable young man” but in reality he’s just a skirt chaser. However, he knows his mother & sister disapprove of this behavior so he often pulls the “innocent child” routine when they’re around. Despite this, he admires his eldest sister to an incredible extent, however he struggles knowing how sometimes he wishes he were born first.

Shō Omamori

Age: 13

Cursed Technique: Paper Doll

Likes: Daifuku, manga, video games

The youngest: Shō is often a very quiet & timid child who stand out in his rowdy family. He’s always had trouble making friends especially outside of his status so he’s often seen clinging to his brother or sister. Like Kenji, he admires his sister to a great extent but ends up following her like a lost little puppy. He doesn’t speak much, one might think he’s mute.

#miyoko omamori #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen oc #jujutsu kaisen headcanons #jujutsu kaisen imagines #unsei omamori #ahmya omamori #kenji omamori #shō omamori

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spideymybucky · 5 years

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Liar, Liar - 1 little lie

Pairing: Tom Holland x reader, Zendaya x Tom Holland (Friends)

Warnings: Lying, bullying, being self conscious, a looser and just yeah... a bit funny??

Summery: (Y/n) had fucked up badly, not just badly but truly horribly. How had this happened? Well… being in the so called “Celebrity school”, took per pressure to a whole other level. Not just that, but lying, trying to maintain that lie and not getting caught had her making decisions she should’ve never made. Insert a handsome young actor, trying to prove he’s more then an action movie star, it’s a recipe for disaster… or the story how (Y/n) kissed Tom to prove they were “dating” him, caused too much drama and had to actually fake-date him to keep her dads’ reputation and movie from falling down hill.

A/N: Feedback? Y’all enjoy ok? and please tell me if you like it or not... IDK i hope y’all do like it!

Chapter one:

(Y/n) (Y/l/n) wasn’t a social person; she liked the solitude of her room on long summer days, with a book in hand and a bowl of melted ice cream somewhere on the floor. Sometimes, she would binge watch a show, after she got tired of re-reading all her favorite books, and pig out on papa johns pizza and their chocolate brownies. Sure, her friend Aline would come visit her from time to time, but it was only her most of the time.

Her parents were always out and her brother never really acknowledged her, after he went through puberty. (Y/N) didn’t mind it though, she hated their attention, specially her dads. He expects too much from her, and she couldn’t give him that kind of greatness.

She stared up at her ceiling and sighed, she was bored out of her mind but to lazy to go anywhere. Her brother had taken her car, and she wasn’t going to take his death trap of a motorcycle, (Y/N) valued her life too much. Sitting up, she ran out of her room and to the kitchen. She grabbed the cookie dough ice cream pint and a spoon, moving into the T.V. room, she turned it on and put on E! News, hoping to watch a Kardashian episode.

“Breaking News guys” Giuliana Rancic voice grabbed her attention. “It’s been confirmed that Tom Holland will be the new Mr. Darcy in the remake of Pride and Prejudice. We don’t know when filming starts but we can’t wait!” (Y/n) rolled her eyes, not really caring for him or the remake of the movie. In fact, she was against it, how can someone remake such a perfect movie?

Her dad, (Y/d/n) (Y/l/n), was a highly known man in the film industry. He was a famous actor, left it and now he's behind the scene with his production company, financing the remake of Pride and prejudice. She completely hated it.

“Its official, huh?” She turned around, looking at her brother. He was semi-shirtless with Apple, his girlfriend or un-official hook up, clinging to him. (Y/n) had never liked her, she was a bitch, plain and simple.

“Yeah, well I still don’t like the idea of it.” She shrugged, towards him.

“We’re ordering pizza, what do you want?” He said, leaving the room.

“Get me a chicken bacon bbq please!” (Y/n) screamed, turning to watch a new episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Half a sleep, the door bell rings and she excitedly runs to the door. She’d been expecting it to be the pizza but instead, saw two of the most influential and insufferable people in her school.

“Hey?” (Y/n) reacted. She felt self-conscious, both pair of eyes on her worn out pajamas.

“So… we heard your dad's casted Tom Holland for his movie.” Lola pushed (Y/n) aside and entered her house. The black staircase was in front of them, with a small black circular table with a gold elephant on the middle. It screamed wealth, high society and modern, everything that she wasn’t but Lola was.

“Yeah, I guess.” She mumbled, leaning on the white wall while observing Lola and her minion.

“Well, Lola wants to meet him. We all know that they would be such a great couple. Imagine them on red carpets, events, ugh… the most perfect couple and I ju-.” Daniela rambled.

“Daniela, shut up!” Lola commanded, her curly brown hair falling on her scrunched up mean face.

“As Daniela said.” She glared at her friend. “I want to me Tom now that he’s here in LA and you can introduce us. I might just even be nice and let you get to know him as a FRIEND.”

“Maybe, he can get a friend for you (Y/n).” Daniela dumbly stated.

“Just shut up Daniela” Lola screamed at the top of her lung. (Y/n) rolled her eyes and walked in front of them.

“I don’t need a boyfriend and I can’t introduce you to Tom, is that all?” She responded nonchalantly.

“What? Do you think Tom would want to be with you? You’re just some random who wouldn’t even look good with him. You really think he’ll be fixated on you? Not even John Welsh at school would!” Daniela madly responded. Lola shut her up with a look and came closer to (Y/n) and smiled.

“Why can’t you introduce me to Tom? It's not like he’ll want to date you, you’d be luck to even have on of his ugly friends ask you out.” She wickedly smiled.

“First of all I can’t introduce you, and second I don’t care if I’m too ugly for whomever you qualify as hot, I’m already dating someone hot and interesting.” She stumbled out, lying through her teeth.

“Oh, really? Who? Do I know him?” She pressed, pushing (Y/n) towards the wall.

“No, you don’t know him. Please, just leave.” (Y/n) mumbled, feeling scared.

“OH, so he doesn’t go to our school… is he older? Still didn’t answer why I couldn’t meet Tom.” She pressed, growing taller by the second, intimidating (Y/n).

“He’s older and you just can’t, sorry.” She quietly stated.

“Why? Its not like your dating Tom or are you?” (Y/n) was pressed to the cool wall, Lola hard glare staring back at her without flinching. God, she was about to commit the stupidest thing, but she just wanted out.

“Yes, we’re dating, thats why you can’t and won’t meet him. I don’t care if you don’t believe me, just leave Lola before you embarrass more of yourself.” (Y/n) rapidly stated with false confidence. Danielas’ mouth was agape, looking towards a startled Lola. She had moved a step back in surprise of (Y/n) little outburst.

“You’re lying (Y/n), I just know it.” She snarkly said.

“No, I’m not Lola, just leave.” She hated her school, she hated Lola and this was just too much. She didn’t care if she didn’t know tom, its not like she’d ever see him and has to be in a room with both Lola and him. Also, she didn’t have to prove anything.

“I know you’re lying (Y/n), Tom wouldn’t be with an untalented creep like you.” She snarled.

“Leave.” (Y/n) commanded. Lola rolled her eyes and started waling towards the door with Daniela trailing behind.

“I want proof (Y/n), I won’t stop until I get proof.” Lola screamed as (Y/n) closed slammed the door shut. God, she hated them.

The weekend came and went without any real event until she started getting weird messages asking about Tom Holland from people she never talked too. It started the night before school, when she got 5 messages asking how she was and how she’d gotten such a hot boyfriend. (Y/n) was confused until she realized what was happening. How the fuck was she going to go back to school?

She had fucked up, telling Lola and her clan that she had gotten a boyfriend during summer, and it was Tom Holland. She’d told everyone, trying to make her break but it wasn’t going to happen. She was in LA, it was a big enough place to go to school and avoid all these celebrities. That night she fell asleep, dreaming about how fucked up she was going to be. She knew Lola wouldn’t stop until she got some proof, it didn’t matter if it was in favor of (Y/n) or not.

(Y/n) had royally fucked up, now she was stuck in a teen movie where she had to lie her butt off. She should be turning blue right now like in big fat lie Oh god, years from now she’ll go down in history like a liar who faked a relationship with Tom Holland, in fact they might make a movie about her and how she ruined her social status.

(Y/n) knew she was doomed. Well, that's what she gets for lying.

#tom holland x reader #tom holland #tom holland x zendaya #tom holland x robert downey jr #tom holland x oc #tom holland x you #tom holland x y/n #harrison osterfeild imagine #tom holland imagine #peter parker #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x oc #peter parker x you #fake dating #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland fic

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scarlettsabetlondongirl · 4 years

Photo

January 9th is:

Jimmy Page’s Birthday!

Capricorn

Excerpted from The Sex Files: by Rowan Davis

December 22 - January 20

He's told you before that sex to him is not knowing where you end and where he begins, and you're surprised that a man so self-contained allows his body to mesh with another's so completely. In fact, you've learned to pay careful attention to the small things with him—a glance, a touch, a shift in stance speaks volumes about what he's feeling. These little clues provide infinitely more comfort than a thousand words, because you know that talk is cheap. The simple kindness he gives you provides his feelings well enough, for when he fills you, he looks into your eyes and you know that you fill him just as completely.

Saturn, the Deposed King

Commander of the old holy order, Saturn ruled during the Golden Age of man, when all was a utopia and man was still pure. Eventually, Saturn was dethroned by his son, Jupiter (Greek: Zeus) and man sank to the folly and hedonism personified by Jupiter's many lusts and his desire for vengeance. The Capricorn himself always has the air of a man eternally stuck in the good old days. He's aware of the destructive changes men have wrought on themselves, and still he tries to maintain some of the original purity of the race of mankind through traditional values. He clings to his beliefs, maintaining a stoic, detached exterior. And he reacts to his patron's fall from favor by retaining some grace and attempting to achieve a measure of respect for himself through social and economic positions.

In astrology, Saturn governs self-control, responsibility, and the "thou shall not's" of life. The Capricorn male is not so much born to rule as he is a man who has already ruled and is having one hell of a time giving up the leadership position. In an effort to do so, he may become overly judgmental of others or over lax in his self-control, resorting to drugs and alcohol to help him relax his need to dominate a situation, or even as tools for subversively doing so. Saturn himself, in fear of losing his authority, ate his children as soon as they were born to ensure they could not fulfill the prophesy of one of them taking his throne. When Zeus attempted to do just that, such a war ensued as to nearly destroy the world. And, as many exiled rulers are, he became the scapegoat for everything that was wrong, while Jupiter, the new ruler, was heralded as the perfect king.

His Top Traits Explored

He's Repressed. The sign of Capricorn stands for restriction, self-control, social status, and generally any pursuit that takes a great deal of time for fruition. The Capricorn male faces a life-long struggle with his excessive tendencies, trying to package his larger-than-life personality into a more conventional bread box to make it easier for himself and others to handle.

As a somewhat pessimistic fatalist, the Capricorn male leans toward self-indulgence, especially of the illegal substance and sexual affair varieties. (After all, what's the point of being so self-controlled if there's nothing there that needs to be controlled?) It's uncomfortably easy for him to talk himself into betraying his lover or his health by reminding himself that everything's bound to end anyway, regardless of what he does at any particular moment. However, he could not be a Capricorn without rigid self-regulation, and in an attempt to control his raunchier cravings, many Capricorn men have a tendency to become fanatical followers of religion or societal traditions. Part of him believes that women were made to take care of men, and that it is his lover's job to make sure his home life is as comfortable and secure as possible, regardless of his extra-marital activities.

His fluctuation between steely repression and melting self-indulgence is a trademark of his sexual expressiveness in the bedroom. His sudden passions are followed by long periods of detachment—in a way, his abstinence is a means of penance for his previous hot and heavy behavior either because his religious attitudes make him feel guilty or because he has scared himself with his inhibitions and the power of his lust for you. If his partner becomes resentful over this ebb and flow, he's likely to take his sexual attentions elsewhere, letting her deal with one side of his personality and his mistress the other.

There's also a certain kinkiness hidden in the Capricorn's personality. It doesn't have to do with various positions, exotic accoutrements, etc. It has more to do with playing a few taboo masculine roles like simulating rape or incest, playing High Priest or Dark Official during sexual religious rites, or having sex with multiple women or prostitutes at the same time. Again, what's the point of repression if there's nothing to repress?

He's Emotionally Aloof. Does he want a relationship or not? Is he interested in you sexually? Is he in love or does he just barely tolerate you? It's hard to tell with this stoic man. Although it's tough to see on the surface, he does have feelings—quite a lot of them, actually, and they all run deep. His heart is remarkably fragile, and when he falls in love he does so with such abandon that it terrifies him; however, there's a good chance that the object of his affection knows little about his feelings for her.

One of the reasons for his lack of demonstrativeness is that he's always holding out for something better to come along and he doesn't want to make any commitment before he's sure that his lover is as good as he'll get. He enjoys the freedom of being able to move from one woman to another, even if it tears him apart. Being born under the sign of repression means that he's continually fluctuating between extravagant displays and total emotional detachment.

In order to find out how this man is feeling, it will probably be necessary to poll the people closest to him, and you can expect to get a small piece of the puzzle from each. He'll only rarely tell you outright, and any attempt to force it out of him will be met by either withdrawal or with an explosion of anger. Even after sex, his emotions are difficult to determine, and he's one of those men who will talk about previous relationships more than his current one without any regard as to which is more important or dedicated.

He's Practical. Each action is carefully thought out and every consequence examined in each facet. The Capricorn male is rational and practical; his life is measured and ambitious. His extreme practicality is a method of hiding his sometimes bizarre inner life and it also serves as a way to minimize the effects of his impulsive tendencies, which can devastate his finances and relationships.

Measuring every quality of his lover before forming any commitments can be a blow to his partner's pride. It is, however, a habitual Capricorn trademark. When he does commit, it's with the understanding that he'll leave if someone better comes along. Often, he attempts to soften the impact of this by telling his partner that she has the same option. The perpetual social climber, he prefers to marry for money and status rather than love, although if he stumbles upon the embodiment of his ideals (usually someone naïve and wholesome), he'll be willing to lessen the financial expectations somewhat—especially if his own situation is stable.

Although his approach to sex is practical, he has more than the normal amount of fetishes and far-out fantasies. His practical nature gets in the way of his sexual expression as he is bound by what he feels he is and is not allowed to do in bed. Eventually, this unspent energy has to go somewhere, and he'll either find himself in another woman's bed or drowning in substance abuse. His traditional mindset, the prescribed roles for women, his all-important social standing all link together to make it nearly impossible for him to find a mate who's as in to unusual sex as he is; although, he's infinitely happier if he's able to make such a connection.

Sex with a Capricorn Male

Being made of cardinal earth, this man is more than likely extremely good in bed. When not engaged in his aforementioned kinkier acts, he likes straight sex without the frills—on the surface, anyway. He has some naughtier inclinations that he might not feel comfortable having the "traditional woman" he's chosen to partner with satisfy. (Doing so would detract from her wholesome appearance.) He enjoys pleasuring his partner, taking firm command of her body. Capricorns tend to be born with the sexual knowledge of an experienced middle-aged man. As long as he isn't one of those deeply repressed or traditional Capricorns who tend to expect his partner to please or stimulate him rather than doing any of the work himself, he will take most of the accountability for the caliber of the sex in his relationships, using his ability to delay his own orgasms to both his and his partner's advantage.

He's often attracted to other men because they possess qualities he wishes he himself had. With his general confusion about the metaphysics of sex, he can turn this attraction or appreciation into sexual energy, wishing to be a part of the other man through sexual means in order to somehow share in his glory. Because of his typically traditional values, such feelings can leave him traumatized and distraught about his masculinity, and drive him to pursue ever more female conquests or religious purifications.

It's rare for the Capricorn to have a sexual experience that isn't well thought out beforehand—even his affairs are planned. Because sex has a lot of traditional and religious meanings, the Capricorn cannot and will not take it lightly, although he may take his relationships for granted. For this reason, sex with him can feel like a solemn event, full of dark looks and ritualism and lacking in any positive or joyous emotion. When his oppressive air is coupled with his tendency to cheat, the Capricorn's worst enemy is himself and his partners have a high risk of suffering negative emotional consequences simply for being involved with him.

Preferred Games

The Metrosexual. He knows how to dress to play his role to its best advantage. His shirt, pants, shoes, and woman are all in style and look fabulous draped around him. He's desperately interested in social status, and seeks ways of outdoing every other man in the room—he doesn't really take the competition from women very seriously. Everything is designed and arranged to best suit him and his ambitions; he isn't afraid to marry purely for money or status.

The Zealot. Whichever religion he chooses—probably the most popular one in his area—he's absolutely certain of its truth. He brings piety to a new level, and you'll find him in church whenever they'll let him in. Religion gives him a ready-made list of rules and restrictions, and an explanation for why each and every one of them is necessary and what to do to absolve himself of any indiscretion he commits. He won't always stick to the sexual rules prescribed to him, but he will at least feel guilty each time he violates them.

The Man. He's the man, and that means he's in charge. He's the breadwinner, wears the pants in the family, and makes all the major decisions. He can be as stubborn as an unruly child when he doesn't get his way, and he actually stomps his foot and pouts, perhaps even knocking over a few plates, until you give in. He firmly believes that women are scatter-brained, petty, catty, childlike people, who are there for his pleasure and should come and go at his command. He can be persuaded by them, sure, but only because he enjoys spoiling them and making them giggle. The truth is that he doesn't like competition and by undermining over half the population, he removes over half of his challengers.

The Master. As already noted, the Capricorn male loves being in charge and some of his favorite sexual fantasies involve playing the masculine role in some inappropriate sexual situation. He loves being in full control of his partner, and having her either obey his every command, or be in such a scenario where she has no choice but to acquiesce, such as blindfolded and gagged. When he plays with BDSM, there are no safe words involved. Playing with experienced, "well-worn" women makes these games easier in the end, and he isn't above hiring help.

The Corrupter. Few things meet his egotistical, misogynistic needs like corrupting someone who already has a higher status and is purer of thought and body. He enjoys wealthy, naïve women to whom he can introduce sex, drugs, and the dark side of society. Orchestrating an aristocrat's fall from grace, and being the maestro of her descent, is intoxicating for him and helps him affirm some of his beliefs that women should act as he thinks they should, or suffer the consequences.

What He Needs to Learn About Sex

Mr. Capricorn needs to find a means of strengthening his confidence out of the bedroom before he decides to bring his ego into bed with him. His traditional views of women can place undue restriction on both him and his partner, and true emotional fulfillment in a relationship occurs when both people are equal and equally appreciated. He would also benefit from learning how to experience joy in sex. Meditation and concentration on physical sensations rather than intellectual consequences could help him here, especially if the exercises are done with a partner he respects and cherishes.

Photo: Photographer Ross Halfin

#jimmy page #led zeppelin #Guitarist #rock star #capricorn #capricorn man #capricorn men #rowan davis

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riddledeep · 4 years

Photo

Poof’s Full Character Profile

Full disclosure / Soft spoilers / Your mileage may vary

[SORRY AGAIN I thought I cleared my queue but I guess not? Will finish later]

OVERVIEW

Full Name: Poof Nebula Fairywinkle-Cosma

Title(s): Youngest fairy in the universe (Temporarily) / Foop’s counterpart / The Red Ninja

Preferred Form of Address: Poof

Alternate Forms of Address: Fairy-Poof / Poof Prime / Puffball / Poofy / Poofster / Mr. Popular

Born: Winter of the Frozen Planet

Zodiac: Soil

Birthday: Third Monday of February (February 18th, 2008)

Hometown: Dimmsdale, California; USA (Later Petropolis, CA; USA)

Secondary Hometown: Faeheim, Central Star Region - Fairy World’s capital city, near the Big Wand

Came Into Adult Wings: 143,555 (Earlier than average)

Age During Frozen Timestream: Mentally 1-10

Age As of “Live For the Moment”: 147,425 (Mentally 13)

Age As of Devil’s Backbone: 163,254 (Mentally 14)

Race: Fae (Seelie Court)

Species: Fairy

Ethnicity: Mostly common fairy (Faedivus fae); ¼ will o’ the wisp (Faedivus lepidoptera); ⅛ brownie (Faedivus mundus)

Nationality: Ildáthachian (Obtained at birth); recognized as Jakokërian in Twilight Point (Hawthorn Haven)

Patron Insect: Orthemis ferruginea (Roseate skimmer dragonfly)

Mindset: Gyne (Subordinate)

Alpha Retinue Drone: N/A (See Prompt 129, “Happy Holidays”)

Previous Alpha Drones: N/A

Pheromones: Switched into maturity after pairing with Goldie in the Year of the Dancing Sunset

Counterparts: Poof/Foop (Equal core sync) > Poppy

Core: Searchlight

Core Color: Yellow

Core Trait: Vengeance-seeking

Anti-Fairy: Scientist, loner, and patient planner

Fairy Refract: Anime-obsessed pop diva wannabe

Stats:

Power: Below Average | Average | Above Average

Endurance: Below Average | Average | Above Average

Wisdom: Below Average | Average | Above Average

Adaptability: Below Average | Average | Above Average

Charisma: Below Average | Average | Above Average

Openness: Below Average | Average | Above Average

Conscientiousness: Below Average | Average | Above Average

Neuroticism: Below Average | Average | Above Average

Crown Lift: ~9 cm

Breathing Lines: Triple fishtail braid

Fagiggly Color: Purple

Preferred Shapeshifting Form: Cougar

Signature Tactic: _Name - _Description

Wand Type: Kitnut

Family: High status and wealthy (Whimsifinado)_

Creed: _ - “_”

Caretaker Spirit: His Glory Twryth (The wild hog)_

Permanent Residence: 123 Fishbowl Lane, Fairy World

Lives in the school dorms for much of the year - Rooms with Foop, Sammy Sweetsparkle, and Finley Hammerfall

Occasionally stays with his parents when they’re on the job.

Occupation: Student; celebrity kid since birth; on-campus repairman

BACKGROUND

Self-Perception: _

Alignment: _

MBTI: _

Deadly Sin: Pride

Heavenly Virtue: Kindness

Love Language: Quality time

Reinforcers: _

Personality: _

Despite only spending his first 1,000 years outside of Fairy World, which isn’t much by Fairy standards, Poof is aware there are gaps in his experiences with Fairy culture and is constantly paranoid about him. He often compares himself to his peers and feels they’re all smarter than him.

Education: _

Spellementary School: _

Middle School: _Did well academically? Poorly? Sports?

High School: _

Further Education: _

Favorite Magic Subject: _

Least Favorite Magic Subject: _

Favorite Non-Magic Subject: _

Least Favorite Non-Magic Subject: _

History: _

Notable Likes:

Goals:

Beliefs:

Fears:

Upsets:

Comforts: _

Indulgences: _

EXTERNAL

Verbal Notes: _

Language: _

Physical Notes: _

Handedness: Right-handed

Body Language: _

Hair: _

Teeth: _

Wings: _

Gyne Freckles: _Average dusting on face and throat, light dusting on back of shoulders, heavy dusting on upper arms.

Scars: _

Tattoos: _

Style: Relaxed, with a preference for style over comfort. His hair is wild and scraggly, and he usually ties it in a low ponytail. Since Cosmo was designed with the 1950s in mind, Poof was designed with the 1970s in mind; specifically, some inspiration was drawn from beat and hippie stereotypes.

Regular Clothing: Sleeveless yellow shirt, black pants, and untied shoes. His green jacket is the Carl Poofypants equivalent of a letter jacket, so he only got it after lettering in saucerbee.

Casual Clothing: Poof also owns a lightweight striped purple hoodie- emphasis on lightweight, as it is not very baggy or warm. He still loves wearing his headband even when dressing casually, as it’s his signature accessory.

Preening Clothing: _

Nightwear: _ Unsurprisingly, Poof doesn’t wear his headband to sleep.

Ceremonial Clothing: _

Other: _

Height: _4′1″ (Tall for a fae)

Hygiene: _

Morning Schedule: _

Typical Day Schedule: _

Evening Schedule: _

Sleep Schedule: _

PERSONAL

Relationship Status:

He’s preen-repulsed; he’s willing to go through with preening to please a partner, but still thinks the whole concept is squick-inducing.

Ideal Relationship: Poof is a very physical person. He loves cuddles and hugs all his friends regularly (though gives Foop a wide berth). He’ll usually kiss your cheek when he arrives or leaves unless he knows you’d rather he didn’t. He wouldn’t do well with a partner who feels uncomfortable about how physical he gets, or who is uncomfortable with PDA. He meshes well with Goldie because she has no problem expressing affection in public, and also no problem with him hugging other people.

Poof grew up comparing himself to humans in the media, and despite his time in Fairy World, he still clings to ideals he imprinted on long ago. Those ideals have changed over time across many years (most obviously when Dimmsdale was wiped out and Petropolis was built on its remains), but he’ll fall for most of the movie clichés he grew up watching.

Sexuality: Romantically and sexually attracted to Seelie Courters

Attractiveness: Poof is considered quite attractive by Fairy standards... perhaps more than his fair share. He’s well-built, coated in freckles, has a crown that floats quite high above his head, charming, and popular both in and outside of school. It’s this attractiveness that really helps change Fairy World’s negative views of luz mala (magical beings brought into existence through magical means, like wishes) as he grows up; Poof's natural magic may be highly unstable and far too easily affected by his emotions, but he isn’t dangerous! He’s the sweetest, most ruggedly handsome pretty-boy type you’ll ever meet.

Poof is far less attractive in Anti-Fairy society. He’s widely regarded as a bumbling fool who’s only made it so far in his schooling because Foop’s been carrying his lazy, forgetful butt. Anti-Fairies value brain over brawn, so being the son of the infamous Cosmo Cosma, the grandson of Big Daddy, and captain of his school’s saucerbee team on top of being a massive goody-two-shoes doesn’t exactly catch an Anti-Fairy’s interest. In Pixie society, Poof isn’t considered particularly attractive either, but he isn’t considered unattractive. He’s respected for his strength, though his lack of organizational skills are a major turn-off.

Where drones are concerned, Poof is averagely attractive as a gyne. His subordinate nature makes him no one’s go-to, but his roles as saucerbee team captain, one of the most popular kids in school, and a celebrity since he was born do score him a fair amount of points. Physically his looks are intriguing so occasionally he gets lingering glances, but drones tend to favor his roommate Finley if they’re looking for someone to hang around.

Intimate History: Considers his first sexual experience to be with Goldie, whom he dated for most of her life, while they were both still young. Poof has extremely uncertain feelings about the whole thing because he was pretty high on peppermint at the time and can’t remember if he consented to taking things as far as they went. He loves Goldie and doesn’t want to believe she would hurt him, and blames himself for being too stupid to hold onto his memories.

The two had a messy conflict afterwards, followed by a long period of abstaining from intimate relations. They’ve continued flirting, dating, and kissing despite this. Even so, tensions run high between them. Neither truly wants to leave the other, but Goldie knows she inadvertently hurt Poof and Poof feels terrible for being distant with her. They’re working through a lot of things right now as they try to apologize and make things work.

Turn-Ons: _

One gyne stereotype is that they’re into boys who fit the soft, cute cliché. Poof doesn’t go for all the small cute guys he’s expected to, but he does go for soft and nice.

Father: Cosmo Julius Cosma

Grandfather: Robin Cosma Sr.

Grandmother: Florensa Cosma (née Lunifly)

Uncle: Robin “Anti-Schnozmo” Cosma Jr.

Notable Ancestors: Ky Braddocki (The first brownie); distantly related to the von Strangle family

Mother: Wanda Venus Fairywinkle

Grandfather: Dusty Fairywinkle

Grandmother: Kylia Swiftspark

Aunts: Wendy “Blonda” Fairywinkle

Notable Ancestors: Ilisa Maddington (The first will o’ the wisp)

Brother: Dusty Smoky Fairywinkle-Cosma

Met at age 1,007

Godbrother: Timothy Tiberius Turner

Met February 18th, “2008”

Godsister: Chloe Carmichael

Met May 8th, 2004

Pets: Sparky

Met March 8th, 2003

Sparky stayed behind when Timmy and his godfamily parted ways, but when Timmy “outgrew him” so to speak, Cosmo and Wanda took him in.

Girlfriend: Marigold “Goldie” Kelsia Goldenglow

Met _

Current Love Interest: Goldie Goldenglow

Other Important Relationships: He considers Foop’s alternate personality (Hiccup) to be his cousin, but they have a rocky relationship. He’s on good terms with Goldie’s counterpart, Anti-Marigold, although he considers her to be on the fringes of his friend group.

TRIVIA

Sometimes teased by his classmates for “breathing like a pixie” due to his triple fishtail lines; H.P. is the one who gave those to him.

There’s a lot of gossip among Fairies about his lack of additional core color layers, including speculation that he may be adopted, he may be illegitimate, or he may have been a godkid who was turned into a fairy (See also, “Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Pixies”).

Poof is typically associated with animal imagery while Foop is associated with plants.

Likes to build things. Tinkers and welds when nervous.

Fan of human culture, history, and movies.

Interested in acting; can throw his voice.

Went through speech therapy in his younger years.

Never quite outgrew his fear of the dark.

Terrible at communicating when plans change.

He’s a kinesthetic learner.

Guilt eats him alive and he can only hide things for a limited time. Very bad liar.

Struggles to empathize with those he doesn’t like.

If he doesn’t like you, he’ll straight-up avoid you as much as possible.

Flies everywhere; almost never walks.

Never ties his shoes.

Despite the fact that he and Chloe are both good, cheerful people, the two tend to rub each other the wrong way; Chloe is a loud and enthusiastic go-getter while Poof is quiet and laid-back. Against all odds, she gets along better with Foop.

APPEARANCES

Riddleverse Classic Timeline: Identity Theft > “Bells On Bats’ Tails” > Along the Cherry Lane > “Whenever Possible” > “Let’s Speak Vatajasa” > Hawthorn Haven > Devil’s Backbone

130 Prompts Timeline: “Open Your Eyes” > “Make You Proud” > “Second Chance” > “Teaming Up” > “Evolution Hopeful” > “This Is a Box” > “Take a Break” > “Frozen” > “Unwelcome” > “Tools of the Trade” > “Opinion” > “Live For the Moment” > “Watch and Learn” > “Temptation” > “Repeat” > “All I Ever Wanted” > “Flying” > “Revenge” > “Prisoner” > “Forever”

AU Appearances:

Dust to Dust

#RD Poof #RD canon characters #RD character ref #RD profiles

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annoyedfanfiction · 5 years

Text

Jim Kirk x reader (9)

The warm golden glow of the transporter beam shimmered back into life, and you materialised in Tixa’s stall again. “Hi, sorry about that,” you apologised, once again crouching below the tables as Tixa stared at you. “You said you’d heard from your daughter?” “Yeah, we have comms,” Tixa answered, recovering quickly from your sudden appearance. “Perfect, here,” you shoved a small piece of paper with your comm details into her hand. “If anything goes wrong or you need to get in touch, use that. I need to go get my friends, but we’ll be back as soon as we can be, alright? We’ve got people at Maidara already, working on fixing the outbreak, but we need as much information as we can get. If you hear anything about the situation in Maidara, get in touch with your daughter. If she tells the men there that (Y/N) sent her, they’ll listen, ok?” Tixa nodded, and you scrambled to your feet, peering out of the stall. “Thanks for all your help!” You stepped out of the stall, blending quickly into the crowd of content Betazoids as they went about their business.

Despite the maze that was the upper chambers, the basement holding cells were easy to navigate. Elaborate, brightly painted columns were replaced by simple, white columns and cold concrete-like floors. Small windows lit the path with striped sunlight, and you were thrown back to the iron bars and cold stone of ancient Earth dungeons. Footsteps echoed, but not as loudly as the loud yelling at the end of the corridor, Scotty’s distinct accent and colourful vocabulary echoing irately off the walls. “You’d think they’d have learned by now not to lock up the angry Scotsman if they valued their eardrums,” you mused, as you stepped up to the cell. “Lass!” Scotty exclaimed, ceasing his barrage. “How’d you manage to get away from them?” “Lots and lots of running,” you answered, pointing your phaser at the lock. “It wasn’t fun. I hate running. I’m more of a swimmer, myself.” “Aye, well I’m no’ a huge fan of dungeons either,” he huffed back, rolling his eyes. “What is this, the 13th century?” “I would’ve put it closer the the 17th,” you grinned, wickedly, dodging a swat from the Scotsman. “You’re bleeding.” You handed each of them their phasers and comms back. “Moderate stun. We’re trying not to enlarge the issue, so shoot only if you have to. And quiet.”

Tixa grabbed your arm the moment you stepped up to her stall, and the three men behind you drew their weapons. “Away,” you instructed, quickly. “Gentlemen, this is Tixa. She’s been helping me. Her daughter’s in Maidara.” “They’ve sent a battalion!” Tixa exclaimed, hurriedly. “Lixa said they’re just holding them off at the gate!” Your heart sank, thundering in the depths of your chest. “They’re all sick. What if they hurt them? My Lixa, she’s only eight! My little Lixa!” You lower the sobbing woman to the ground, gently, and crouched beside her. “(Y/N), we’ve got some pretty angry looking royal guards coming this way,” Jameson warned, lowly. “Listen, Tixa,” you soothed, letting her cling to you. “I need you to call your other daughter – Altrena, right? Now. We’ve got to get out of here, but I promise, if it’s the last thing I do I’ll get your Lixa out of there safely, alright?” She nodded, wiping her tears, calling Altrena’s name in a cracking voice. “(Y/N)!” Hendorff reiterated Jameson’s statement, loudly. “Quickly.” “(L/N) to Enterprise, prep for five to beam up,” you bit out, hurriedly. “Altrena!” You stood up, lifting Tixa to her feet. “Altrena!” “Momma! Momma!” the little girl raced over to you all, “You’ve found more StarFleets! Momma! Are you ok?” You snapped open your comm, as Tixa grabbed Altrena close to her. “Five to beam up, now!” The gold shimmer appeared around you all, and you stumbled off the transporter pad, phasers still pointing at an unseen enemy. “Sulu, you’ll need to put shields up,” you suggested, slamming the comm on the wall. You glanced back at Scotty’s bleeding head, and the two terrified Betazoids. “Medbay, prep for three. Surface injuries.” You turned back to your away team. “Jameson, take Scotty, Tixa and Altrena to the medbay, please?” Scotty opened his mouth, but shut it when Jameson took him firmly by the arm, and settled for glaring at you on his way out. “Hendorff, I need security to prep a team for beam down – a dozen, max. Don’t beam down until given a direct order. Ensign, beam me down to Maidara. Closest co-ordinates possible to away their last comm signal.” Hendorff exited the transporter room as you stepped back onto the pad, your phaser still in hand.

You materialised in a small, well lit building, made of mismatched marble and some kind of dark stone. The paint was faded, and most of the statues chipped or eroded. “(Y/N)?” McCoy demanded, behind you, and you spun. “What the hell are you doing here?” “Bones!” you exclaimed, almost knocking him over as you flung your arms around him. “Is it always like this?” “You’ll get used to it, kid,” he shrugged back, echoing the wisdom he’d cited in your first meeting. “What’s going on?” “I’m a diplomat, this is a diplomatic crisis,” you answered, with an almost delirious grin. “Welcome to the Enterprise, we might be starting a war with one of the Federation’s allies over their treatment of an R fever outbreak.” McCoy scoffed, clapping you on the back, and turned to introduce you to Atraxa. “It’s a pleasure,” you smiled, shaking her hand warmly. “Thanks for working with our chaos.” She smiled, brightly, her dark eyes lightening. “Zitaxna is all order,” she answered, easily, “A little chaos might be exactly what we need at the moment. I’m sorry about all of this.” You waved her apology away, excusing yourself and rushing out to meet Spock and Jim, with McCoy yelling that the cure was ready to be administered after you. “Jim! Jim!” The gate thundered, just as you reached Jim and Spock, at the front of the crowd of sick Betazoids. “(Y/N)?” Jim echoed, as you popped up beside him. “What are you doing here?” “I’m a diplomat, this is a diplomatic crisis,” you replied, checking him over for injuries. “Also, we’ve got a distressed Betazoid mother aboard missing a daughter.” “I assume that’s where you got the dress, then.” His smile was warm, even as the gate began to splinter under another surge. “Any ideas?” “Bones said the treatment’s ready,” you explained, calmly. “I doubt the Betazoids actually want these people to die. I was hoping Atraxa and I could reason with them?” You could see the cogs whirring through his blue eyes, before he sighed. “Spock, you trade places with Atraxa, ask her to come out here,” he instructed, turning to his first mate. “(Y/N) and I will start getting the sick into lines.” Spock nodded, brusquely, and disappeared back through the crowd. “I’m coming with you,” Jim informed you, firmly. You smiled, and both of you began ushering the Betazoids into lines.

By the time Atraxa emerged, the Betazoids were organising themselves. A group of the strongest were ferrying the bedridden closer to the clinic, while any medics were helping administer the cure. Jim released the latch, and the gate swung open. “Stop!” Atraxa’s voice rang out, halting the guards in their tracks. “By the authority vested in me as queen, I order you to stand down!” “And why should we, Atraxa?” came another voice, and you recognised Queen Deanna stepping out from behind the guards. “This is treason, working with outside forces against the High Queen’s orders.” “These outside forces are saving our people, Deanna,” Atraxa snapped back, instantly. “Look, they’re manufacturing the cure twice as fast as we could have on our own, and distributing it. Surely our people’s lives are worth more than pride?” Deanna faltered, taking in the scene around her, and the guards did too, lowering their weapons. “Ambassador,” she said, eventually, turning to you. “What does the Federation ask in return?” “As a member of the Federation, Betazed is entitled to our assistance, your majesty,” you answered, evenly. “Without exception, and without recompense.” “Don’t listen to her, Deanna.” Zitaxna disembarked a shining hovercar, her purple dress embellished with gold armour. “The Federation has no right to interfere in our internal affairs.” Jim stepped up beside you. “Quite right, your majesty,” you bowed, lowly, catching Jim’s hand behind your back before he could pull you back. “However, we have a responsibility to answer distress calls such as that sent from Maidara. Having carried out our duty here and administered the cure, all we ask from you now is permission to leave.” “And do what?” Zitaxna snarled, her delicate features ravaging across her face. “Spread tales of our weakness to your precious Federation, so that we lose all our negotiating power? No, you come here on a pretence, and masquerade as one of our own, and now you ask us to trust you?” “Queen Zitaxna, please,” a small voice begged, and you all turned your attention to the Betazoid child now kneeling beside you. “My High Queen, please. My auntie.” “Lixa,” Zitaxna breathed, as if the little girl was a ghost. “No, these outsiders cannot be trusted, step away from them, Lixa.” “No, auntie, they saved me!” Lixa insisted, wavering to her feet. “Please Auntie.” “I said step aside, Lixa!” Zitaxna bellowed, angrily, waving her phaser at you all. “Step away!” She hadn’t meant to press it, you were sure of that, even as you dove in front of the child, pulling her away.

“Lixa!” Her horrified cry confirmed the sentiment, you thought, blearily, through the stinging pain of a phaser wound in your side. “(Y/N)!” Jim shouted, racing over to you. “Bones! Bones! (Y/N)’s hit!” He pressed the torn fabric firmly against your wound, stemming the blood flow. “Seize her!” Atraxa commanded, above you. “Queen Zitaxna, you are now charged with attempted murder and assault against a Federation officer. Guards, take her to the cells.” Deanna hovered between approaching you, and following Zitaxna. Eventually, she settled on joining the guards in escorting Zitaxna back to the capital. “Bones!” Jim yelled again, louder. “Captain, (Y/N) will need to be treated in the medical centre on the Enterprise,” Spock reflected, calmly, appearing at your side. “Dr McCoy cannot do anything for her here. Spock to Enterprise.” You didn’t hear Uhura’s response, gripping Jim’s hand tightly as he helped you up, before you turned to the little girl beside you. “Lixa, right?” you asked, reaching your free hand out to her tear-stained face. “I think I met your mother, sweetie. Tixa, and your little sister Altrena?” “You know them?” Lixa asked, edging closer, her eyes brightening. “Are they alright?” “They’re aboard our ship, the Enterprise,” you answered, gently. “Safe and sound. In the best hands, I promise. We’ll get you all back together.” Familiar warm tingling engulfed you, and you staggered off the transporter pad for the third time. Jim caught you, taking half your weight, as Chapel and M’Benga rushed into the room, wheeling a gurney between them. “Chrissie,” you greeted, as she helped you onto the bed, stroking a gentle hand through your hair. “This is Tixa’s daughter.” Christine looked over at the small girl, who had latched onto the hand that didn’t have a Captain attached. “Welcome to the Enterprise, Lixa,” she said, scooping the child up and placing her next to you on the bed. “You’ll keep (Y/N) company on the way to see your mom, alright?” You were suddenly aware of a loss of warmth as Jim released your hand, and you reached back out for him, fingers barely brushing his hand. Christine smiled, gently. “Jim’ll be back with you soon, don’t worry, (Y/N).” You intended to smile back, but the engulfing wave of pain washed you into darkness before you could register whether you had.

#jim kirk x reader #jim kirk #james t kirk #christine chapel #geoffrey m'benga #m'benga #betazed #betazoid #leonard bones mccoy #spock #s'chn t'gai spock #mccoy #star trek #star trek aos #montgomery scott #scotty #hendorff #cupcake #aos

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homenum-revelio-hq · 5 years

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Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, Nutteh!

You have been accepted for the role of MARY MACDONALD, with your requested faceclaim change to Imogen Poots! I really loved the way you brought Mary to life! I could tell through your application that you truly understood what this version of Mary Macdonald, a character who often gets pushed to the side, is all about! I’m so happy to see you embracing her dark parts. I am so excited to have you as part of this roleplay!

Please take a look at the new member checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! Thank you for joining the fight against Voldemort!

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME: Nutteh

AGE: 26

TIMEZONE: CST

ACTIVITY LEVEL: I work full-time, but one para interaction per week is more than doable. When I get into something, I get really into it.

ANYTHING ELSE: No.

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME: Mary MacDonald

AGE: 20

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY: Cis-female, she/her. She is bisexual, if she had to identify herself, but truth be told the idea of placing her heart in anyone's hands - be they male, female, or anything in between - is a daunting proposition.

BLOOD STATUS: Muggle-born

HOUSE ALUMNI: Gryffindor

ANY CHANGES: I'd like to change her FC to Imogen Poots, if possible. She has a slightly softer look than Emma Mackey, but there's an underlying darkness - a potential for darkness - that I think is important for Mary's faceclaim.

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

PERSONALITY:

Mary MacDonald is good at “soldiering on.” She is adaptable, capable of flexibility when it means a better chance of achieving her goals. A hectic family life prepared her for such a thing. Navigating the streets and slums of Glasgow at a young age made her a direct-line thinker; when the only goal was survival, it was hard not to be steadfast in one’s endeavors. The Sorting Hat debated putting her in Slytherin for that reason, which is perhaps why she’s so close with Alice, but it’s not a trait that makes her particularly gregarious. She finds it difficult to be a devoted and dependable friend when she is wary of people’s intentions, and Mulciber’s attack only exaggerated that part of her psyche. It’s unfortunate, as her splintered relationship with her family has left her in desperate need of real friends. Always a worrier, Mary is used to thinking ahead; but, after she emerged from her fifth year with that long, nasty scar across her cheek, she was convinced she’d grown soft. Her need to be one step ahead of everyone else has morphed into a kind of high-functioning anxiety. She and fear are close fellows and she hates it, but at this point she has become quite good at using it to drive her.

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY:

Mary was born in Glasgow, Scotland to eighteen-year-old newlyweds Richard and Ruthie MacDonald. The pride of Mary's young life came from pointing at her parents' few grainy wedding photos - "That's me!" she screamed, jabbing a finger at her mother's swollen belly, straining beneath her wedding dress. Her elder brother Adam, however, was a more concrete installment; he stared blankly at the camera from his perch in Ruthie’s arms, not at all moved by the joyful occasion. Love ruled the MacDonald household - it had to, as they didn’t have much else. Two more children followed - Patrick and little Holly - and Mary knew nothing but family. All six MacDonalds lived in a three-bedroom flat above Ed’s Bakery, a rather seedy establishment with an owner whose heart was far bigger than he let on. Richard built ships and worked long hours, and Ed employed Ruthie downstairs. Mary’s childhood was filled with the scent of baking (and sometimes burning) bread, and it was spent leading hodge-podge football matches in the back alley. Underneath it all, though, was a kind of dutiful sobriety; she wanted to be like the other children at her muggle primary school, seemingly carefree, but there were things to be done and things to be taken care of at home and she didn't know how to not care.

That was why it was so jarring when her Hogwarts letter arrived, accompanied by a witch with square spectacles (who, it can be noted, took quite a liking to Ed’s biscuits). Mary’s magical abilities revealed themselves late and subtly; footballs seemed to do exactly as she willed them during games with her siblings, and any spats she had in Ed’s shop mysteriously set the baked goods to burning. The news that she was a witch, however, was somehow less unfathomable than the idea of being away from her family for nine months out of the year. She was used to being surrounded by them, by focusing only on their well-being and their survival; she didn’t know how to have thoughts that didn’t include them. Ruthie and Richard were proud and very supportive of their daughter’s new endeavor - at times, perhaps too supportive. Mary would never admit it, but she agonized over their eagerness and enthusiasm for most of her first year. Were they glad to be rid of her? Were they happy to have one less mouth to feed? She missed them and her siblings something awful, but as time went on she made peace with the anxious squall in her head. To this day it’s unclear, but if her mother and father did want to get rid of her she doesn’t blame them. Their family was a loving family, but it was also a hectic one; as Mary grew older and wiser (or perhaps more cynical?), she became inwardly critical of her parents. Why have so many children if you don’t have the means to care for them? She used to believe love was enough, but when her little brother Patrick was sent to prison for robbery shortly before her graduation, she wasn’t so sure. Perhaps this was why her relationship with her family, once so strong she could scarcely think of anything else, faded. It was gradual, but she was engrossed in a new world while they stayed engrossed in theirs - they had to. They taught her hard work and flexibility, but they both intentionally and unintentionally taught her to protect herself. Despite Richard and Ruthie’s example, Mary learned how to dodge missteps, how to keep from acting rashly and damaging any chance of her own survival. Of course, the more sinister and dire the war becomes, the further she strays from self-control.

OCCUPATION:

Mary was fifteen when she was attacked; she was fifteen when she was left panting against the wall of a third-floor corridor, clutching her face as portraits screamed and gasped around her. She was in the thick of her O.W.L.s when Mulciber, a boy two years her senior, unleashed his prejudice upon her, and she only wished he’d done it sooner. If he’d had the sense to do it before she started studying, she would have known what to say when asked about career choices. The attack had done everything it wasn’t meant to do; instead of silencing her, it made her bolder. Instead of making her shrink away from magic, it spurred her on, adding fuel to a fire she’d been allowing to smolder inside her.

Upon graduation, however, Mary was at a crossroads. She wanted desperately to be an auror, but the Ministry was beyond corrupt and she knew better than to expect anything from it. She idled, working odd bartending shifts at The Leaky Cauldron whilst scanning the Prophet behind the bar. That’s where Dumbledore found her, and his proposition to join the fledgeling Order of the Phoenix wasn’t one she had to think much about. Still, it wasn’t making her any money - organizing against dark wizards wasn’t a job, especially the slow, hum-drum way the Order went about it. As good as she was at getting by with very little, she needed something more.

The first time she heard his name was during an Order meeting, said with an air of discomfort and slight distaste. He was one of those radicals, one of those militant rebels who found murder a perfectly good way to deal with Voldemort’s regime. Both confirmed and suspected Dark Lord followers were turning up dead all over Europe, and Mary’s skin prickled. The Order did not endorse him, but she met with him in secret; if anyone were to find out or ask her about her current employment, she’d maintain that she has to make a living somehow. It’s an excuse that doesn’t quite fit, but working underground as an assassin, for lack of a better word, keeps her out of the public eye and in a stream of steady income (sometimes more than steady, and in Mulciber’s case, sometimes out of the goodness of her heart).

ROLE WITHIN THE ORDER/THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ORDER:

The speed with which she rose through the ranks came as a surprise, though not to Mary. It was poetic, really - a muggle-born barrelling her way into the “inner circle” - but she didn’t allow herself to think about what it all meant. Every now and then she wondered if her recruitment was meant to be more of a statement than an actual tactical move, but in the end it didn’t matter. If it started as a statement, fine. If Dumbledore recognized the need, the hunger for revenge eating her from the inside out, that was fine too. How she got there wasn’t as important as what she was doing now that she was here, and Mary clings to that thought. She isn’t blind to the Order’s setbacks, but she is comforted by all they have done - all she has done. After the attack during her fifth year, she often wondered why Mulciber didn’t kill her. He had the chance, didn’t he? Why hesitate? Well, she didn’t hesitate, and sleep comes quicker now than it has in years.

SURVIVAL:

Preservation is a strong instinct for Mary - she’s good at surviving. Glasgow was in a period of economic decline while she was growing up in its underbelly, and she learned how to avoid trouble, how to avoid being robbed (not that she had anything of value). This was why, as much as Mulciber’s attack drove her forward, it also shocked her and gave her self-esteem a firm shove backward. How did he sneak up on her? Why didn’t she expect anything? Why wasn’t she ready for him? Since then she has worked hard and resolved to be more prepared, more perceptive; it seems all well and good, but she has heard the term “trigger-happy” thrown around more than once. As much as her vigilance has helped her, it’s also made her somewhat of a liability.

RELATIONSHIPS:

At this point, Mary’s relationships with the rest of the “inner circle” are strained. She’s been successful so far, hasn’t she? So why do these men (save for Alice, and what the fuck is that all about?) seem so keen on dismissing everything she says? She’s taken Death Eaters down before, likely more than her peers know, but they’re so focused on outwitting and outmaneuvering the opposition that they’re forgetting the merits of just going for it. That’s why the methods of the newest recruits have her straining to hear their conversations, glancing sideways at them as she heads for “inner circle” meetings. Dorcas, Emma, and Benjy are people of action, and Mary respects that. It’s only a matter of time before she offers her help, especially if things keep slogging along like they currently are.

Her relationship with her family is all but nonexistent. It’s been a year and a half since she saw her parents, and Adam doesn’t write to her anymore - that stopped before her fourth year. The distance became too great to bridge with friendly letters, and now Mary doesn’t know how best to do it. Besides, she doesn’t have the time, and sometimes she feels that the farther away she is, the better it is for them.

OOC EXPLORATION:

SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS: I ship Mary/Chemistry. It's hard to know exactly what her relationships to other characters entail at this point, but if accepted I am happy to discuss those in depth with my fellow players.

WHAT PRIVILEGES AND BIASES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE?

I suppose Mary has had the luxury of seeing the muggle and wizarding worlds as two separate entities. She isn’t totally naive - she knows muggles aren’t immune to the unseen war raging among them - but given her experience as a muggle-born with a more or less indifferent family, she can’t help but see a stark line between the two. So far her parents and siblings remain unaffected, and that makes it difficult for her to understand the plights and fears of her fellow muggle-borns, especially ones with strong, lasting familial bonds.

When it comes to wealth, she has a gigantic chip on her shoulder as well; she appreciates the Potters’ and McKinnons’ generosity, but she never allows herself to stay at their estates for long. Seeing the sheer scale of their fortunes sometimes makes her sick, nevermind that they’ve been nothing but kind to her.

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO?

I'm looking forward to dabbling in Marauders' Era again. It's been ages, and there might have been some light peer pressure involved in my applying at all. But now that I've done it I'm really excited! One thing that I think always turned me away from Marauders' Era was the fact that there was a concrete endgame. We know what happens to these characters, so exploring the bits in between seemed silly to me. Now I'm starting to understand the draw, and I think this roleplay being AU is opening a lot of doors and making me feel less constricted.

PLOT DROP IDEAS:

I’d really like to play with Mary’s questionable occupation. She has focused on targets with stark, black-and-white, obvious loyalties to the Dark Arts so far, but I think it’d be fun to have her confront a gray area - perhaps being sent for someone who is good and does good but doesn’t set themselves firmly against Voldemort? Perhaps someone within the Order? I want her job to become a source of contention within the Order if/when the other members find out.

ANYTHING ELSE? Nope!

#homenumaccepted #marauders era rp #harry potter rp #harry potter rpg #harry potter roleplay

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goldentailedmermaids · 5 years

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Let’s be Danes: Opening ceremony: Aethelrik edition! (for @ceridwenofwales and @aethelrik)

I can’t sleep. Can I stay here?

Erik stood, basked in the dim moonlight of her stifling cell. Her pale complexion lit by merely the night granted her the allure of an enchantress, an elf even, such as there was back home, as her hair rippled on her narrow bed from which she awoke in haste, fearful of any rape or abuse. The last time, she managed with a stool and a night bucket to repel the men who tried their way with her and was saved only by Erik’s coming and rampaging. Her fear dwindled as she recognized his tall figure in the dark, a mighty tower of muscles and wit, cunning enough not to let the door ajar, wise enough to know the value of secrecy.

“I can’t sleep.” his deep voice echoed softly into the room. “Can I stay here?” he took his breath, awed at the way she moved. She was a princess. Every twitches of hers were proof of it.

She frowned. “Do you wish me to sleep on the ground?” her voice was hoarse and soft. Erik shivered.

“For fair lady, dirt is no fair bed.” he said and felt his heart flutter as she smiled. He was too much of a scald not to flatter her. “I will sleep on the ground. It is nothing I can’t take.”

He was about to set himself down her bed, sleeping below her grace when she clasped his hand. “Erik.” she whispered bashfully. “I can make space.”

He choked on his breath but tried to give it the ring of a satisfied groan. “You are a lady.” his words meant hesitation.

“You are my captor. You could do whatever you please. You could have your way with me. Why so hesitant?” her words reeked of bitterness. She tested the limits of his will.

“You are precious. I cannot.”

“Your men had less concern than you. So precious I am, it does not prevent my husband’s hand to land on my cheek.” She smiled a faint one. “Others are not so reverential, let alone considerate. What is to say, then, about my worth?”

“You are cunning and witty.” Erik’s voice rang with a smile. “It makes you all the more precious. If your husband is so blind as not to see you are an indispensable asset, then your father must. Now I see our fortune in capturing you. You are indeed a priceless leverage and any king would do well to make you their counselor. It is a wonder you must be Saxon. Christian women aren’t usually as shrewd and fierce. Had you been a Dane or a Norse, I would have claimed you are Freya incarnate.”

“You flatter me.” she said, drawing him to set himself on her bed. “I am cold. Take me into your arms.”

He gave a faint smile, hardly visible in the dark. “My fists still bear the blood of your husband. I wouldn’t dare to soil you with this turd’s shit.”

Aethelflaed hid a smile, laughing silently. Suit him well, she thought, to abuse women. Her pride was avenged and if she could, she would have taken Erik’s place. “Wash your hands, then. I will not abide by your sleeping on the ground like an animal. Your words hold too much poetry for you to lower yourself to that.”

“I am a scald enough to sing beauty where there is one.” he said, pleased with himself as he complied to her orders.

“Twice.”

Erik frowned. “What are you counting, lady?”

“Your flatteries and the compensation.” she said. “Is that not the way it is with you Danes?”

“Is that what Uthred has taught you?” he was a bit jealous of the man but respect beat it with all the might of a shieldwall. Uthred was important enough for his name to be spoken with acknowledgment. None in England - rather, Saxland - ignored his feats and swordsmanship.

Aethelflaed nodded. “I have heard about weregild and laws of hospitality. You see, I have studied them with Uthred as a teacher. I am quite fond of the tings, I must say.”

Erik gave a soft gasp. “You are a queen, lady.” he sat by her side and cupped her chin as to delve and drown in her blue eyes. He brushed her cheek and placed a kiss on her forehead. “A queen in a country lorded by blind men. Let us hope that your father has at least one eye open. Wisdom from Odin would do him well.”

“Under the yoke of your gods, no good can befall him.” she grew cold and aloof. “I suppose that is why he must cast you Danes out of Wessex and East-Anglia. Why did you all came here? Why not go back?”

“Would you wish me to go?” he sounded hurt and vexed and if one listened closely, one would hear his sobbing. He took her hand in his and kissed her warm, soft palm; a princess’s hand, fair and pristine. “Lady, do you wish me away?”

She shook her head.” No.” she breathed. She brushed his beard, smiling. “I wish to understand. That is all.”

Erik sighed, his shoulders brought down by the weight of the world, his world. “Too many kings burning. To many kings rising. Too many kings battling. Too many kings fleeing. Too many kings. It feels like wealth has turned piss and mud and there is none anymore, not even for jarls. Here, there is wealth. There is land and they say anyone can be a lord or a king, why not try our chance there?”

“A king does not slaughter those he lords.” Aethelflaed said. “Besides, if so many kings died, why not try your fate there?”

Erik laughed as he slipped under her bedsheet. “You misunderstand me. Many king dies for others to rise. There is talk of a king in Norway that shall unite the whole of it. Word has it that he has already set it in motion, burned some petty kings in their halls, taken their lands, given them to his allies while other kings prefer to sail to Iceland to avoid war. Not that our Dane king Hardaknut is any better. Three high kings rise, crushing others in an iron gauntlet.” he gave her a look, smiled as he noticed how close her mouth was to his. “High kings, just like your father.”

Aethelflaed set her jaw. “My father does not-”

“He does. Ask your husband. Ask kinglets around and they’ll tell you the same.” Erik groaned as he let go of the spell of her moon-like face. “The old days of legendary kings, of raids, of Ragnar Lothbrokar seems so far away now. The kings of old are dead, the sons of the boar vanished, the barrows of our ancestors stand low, halls burned for town to grow. Everything changed. New lands sprang out of the ocean’s mist, new deeds are begging for songs while we are sailing to warm lands south. The world is bigger than ever and not to be lost we choose to come here and settle where we know what we did took roots. Our ancestors roamed those slopes, those plains and forests. When lost at sea, cling to a rock; that rock is your anchor. It is everything; your world.”

Aethelflaed gulped and nodded. “I wish I had been there to see you punch my husband into the mud.”

Erik laughed. “He whined. He looked like a fancy boy whose father would have slapped. Your father chose his ally well, lady, but I think it a poor choice of a husband. He reeks weakness.” there was mockery in his voice, protectiveness of the most uncontrolled, wild way. It pleased her as much as it frightened her.

“Women have no say in the matter. I did what I did for my father and for Wessex. I am a princess. I must abide by it, no matter the insults, the slaps, the pain; no matter the cost.” mechanically she rose her head high. “I will not let it unpunished, though, and if I must, I will do what I need to keep my pride. I am the daughter of a king and I will not be treated like a whore.”

Erik set his jaw, gritty. “Good.”

She nestled in his arms, coiled hers around him, relishing his warmth in the cold of the night. His chin rested on the top of her head and she smiled, hearing his heart so close, feeling his breath, so fresh, smelling the satisfaction on his lips; satisfaction that she had smitten her the way she had him. Had he had less respect for her, he would have taken her here, now and be done with it, but there was something about her he couldn’t name; she was a treasure, a most prized hostage and had been raised to many as almost divine unseizable as she was. She was a gilded statue standing amidst a throng of barbarians who would recoil from fear of her and her might.

Erik almost wanted to sing her that song; a lullaby most sweet for the infatuation to meet. He gulped, afraid to break the silence reigning in the room. She was close, so close to him, but it felt as normal as if they had been man and wife. In other time, if she was someone else, he would have wed her and they would have had sons and daughters, but she was married and he owned his brother his life and more. He could not betray Sigfried. At least he hoped he would come to understanding and acceptance.

“Had you any choice, who would you be?” he croaked.

She stirred in his arms and shifted as to see his face. “I would be me.”

“You would be chained.”

“I have been my whole life and now it seems I have taken a liking in those. My mother taught me well.”

He chuckled. “If she knew what you were doing, what would she say?”

“She is not here. Here is you and here is me. That is all I need to know.” she rested her head on his chest again. “If you could be anyone, who would you be?”

“I would be me.” he shifted as to see her. “I would wage war and conquer. I would make a kingdom for myself and my brother and I would take you and make you my queen.”

“What of my husband?”

“You would ask for annulment. He has not given you sons or daughters to bear. Isn’t it that way with you Christians?”

She smiled. “It is. But my father cares too much about this alliance with Mercia to let me annul this.”

“Then I will be your man. I will follow you everywhere and swear my oaths to you and you only, and when the time is right, I shall rise a lord.”

“What of your brother?”

Erik gave a pained smile. “I shall conquer for him and when we are done, I will bid him farewell.”

“I am sorry.” she breathed.

“Don’t be.” he kissed her hands again. “A parting in peace is better than a lifetime of quarrels and battles. Brothers should never fight each other.”

“Sons of kings do.”

“Then power corrupts the best of bonds. It is that way with kings; they sever everything they can, turn brothers against brothers. There is something about crowns that do not meet family. Is your brother really your brother if he seeks you dead? Is your mother truly your mother is she prepares you to be obedient? Is your father really your father if he marries you off to some wife-beater, as fair as his white royal arse is?”

Aethelflaed stiffened. “Please, don’t.” she shook her head. “I need not hear that. I know my duty. I am loyal to my family.”

“That is what you say, and they know it.” he sighed. “I am satisfied, though, that I got to see your husband’s fearful face. A pretty boy, your husband; a boy still.”

She laughed. He loved her laugh.

She moved as to face him and was welcomed by his satisfaction to see her so close. She could not make out his eyes, not his fair rough features in the dark but still, he bore that usual calm, as though everything was planned all alone. He did not recoil, he did not blushed, he did not set his jaw; he was calm as summer, letting only a soft gasp or a quiet sigh when awed by her. It was all Aethelflaed needed; someone calm, someone whose silent was eloquent, someone who kept his wild strength, his bloodlust at bay until battle or necessity arose. Real power wasn’t boisterously boasting, it wasn’t noise, but that silence; a silence that told of confidence. Had he been king, Aethelflaed would have married him.

But she had no choice in the matter. “Should I be something more, I wish I would be strong enough to wield a sword.”

Erik gave a groan of agreement. “It suits you, lady.” his lips spreaded into a faint smile. “The stool and night bucket were but play-swords.”

“Could you teach me?” she asked.

“If I can read, you can fight.”

She smiled, thinking of him learning the craft of monks with a much reverential care when it came to words. Erik was a fast learner. She wished she would learn half as much as he did.

“Remember never to turn your back on a foe, defeated or not. Remember to be wary of any threats and remember to keep your ground. With any luck, when this is all over, I shall come to you and give you a Frankish sword.”

“That advice is good enough.” her smile grew softer. “It fits queenship.”

“Your husband is a poor king, indeed.” his voice was cold, as always when Aethelred was brought up. “He does little but plot and scheme. I have never seen him leading his army through us. He is a man-lender and that is all. It does him well having you as his queen. You seem to be the strong one. With your wit and your fierce spirit, you could conquer kingdoms ruled by gods.”

“Again, you flatter me. Are you singing to lure me into your arms, when I already am?” Aethelflaed giggled. “He is no king and I no queen. He is a lord, abiding by my father, and I am but a lady.”

“A lady with a moon-like beauty.” he added. “After this, when I will be lonely and crave for you, a glimpse at the moon will help me remember you by.”

“Crave for me? What if I long for you?”

“Then call, and I shall ride to you, lady.”

“Erik.” she whispered. He hummed a ‘what’. “Call me by my name, please. Just this once, just here. Call me.”

“You are a princess. I can’t.”

“Then I order you to.”

Erik gave a smile, pleased with himself. He felt her tense, yearning for his answer and left her hanging for a calculated time. He could feel her breath, her heart, her breasts. He had never desired her with such eagerness.

“Aethelflaed.” he said, her name a weird pleasing spell with his foreign accent.

“Say it again.” her mouth whispered, grazing his.

He cupped her face, brushing her lips, groaning a low moan at how soft they were. His touches were light, so light it looked like a feather was caressing her. How odd for a man with such calloused blood-soaked hands.

“Aethelflaed.” his voice went deeper.

“Again.” her lips grazed his.

He could almost feel her warmth. He pulled his mouth closer, closing the gap between them, feeling her flutter and startle as his lips brushed hers. “Aethelflaed.” a whisper, barely a thought.

“Again.” she was panting, gripping his hair, knuckles white as the whole of her body seemed to have been set aflame.

Erik groaned as she drew him closer, holding tight on his hair like she was some kind of wildling; a wildling with the face of the moon. “Aethelflaed.”

She kissed him harder, with all the hurry of an army and Erik drew her closer, roaming her lips with his tongue, with his fingers, feeling her kiss the whole of his hands until he was hard enough it made him sore. “Aethelflaed.” he groaned again, removing her skirt as she hastily removed his breeches.

“Erik!” she moaned.

“Say it again.” he growled in her ear.

“Erik!” she cried.

With a quick move, he was over her, quickly removing his shirt as to see her dazzled face as she saw his bare chest covered with markings and scars. Her hand traced the lines of his former battle in awe that he survived them all. Erik was strong, she knew it. Erik would survive anything.

He gave a quick glance at her dress, asking with his eye a question only she knew the answer. She nodded. He removed her dress, recoiling at her nakedness. She was a hostage and a princess, he suddenly remembered, and grew cold. She was to be worshipped, not humped like some common whore.

“Lady..” he was out of breath.

She went up to him, taking his chin in her hand, reaching for a kiss. “The first compensation.” she kissed him again. “The second.” and again. “The third. All your praises have been met.” she smiled. “Now kiss me, love me. That is compensation enough for my nakedness.”

Erik grinned. “I will love you lady.”

“Call my name.” she set her lips between his, hoping to entrance him again, relieved to notice he was hard for her.

Erik moaned. “Aethelflaed.” a whisper, a moan, a spell for desire.

“Erik.” a whisper, a cry of ecstasy.

She trailed kisses on his lips, on his neck, on his eyes, he roamed her waist, her hips, her legs with his hands, claiming her throat with his lips as her breasts pressed against his chest. Erik was sore already, but she wasn’t wet yet. He laid her gently on her back, kissing her, pressing her tits, hering her gasp and breath for air as low groans of pleasure seemed to burst from her chest. He circled her clit with two fingers while the others were busy easing the path of his cock inside her.

She cried as he slid his fingers, but he tried as much as he could to make it good for her, kissing her again, on her throat, on her eyes, on her lips, on her ears, until she relaxed and gave but low moans of delight, responding to his own groans of pleasure. He bit her hard nipples as she gripped his hair, clinging to him, begging him to continue, so far from release.

“Erik.” her voice a plea. “Please.” her eyes glimmered with brewing tears, as her back arched, her groin reaching his. Her whole body waved, increasing Erik’s volume.

He grabbed her arse, drew her to him, straddling her as his hands grasped her waist seemingly about to break it, holding tight on it as though his life depended on it. He stopped for a second and she fluttered to him, biting her lips, crying out of a sore cunt.

Erik gave her a pleading look, showing a weakness he had never shown to any women. She was the first he fucked face to face.

“I love you, lady.”

She rose her groin closer. “Call me by my name.” she bit her thumb sultrily. “Call me.”

Erik gave a sharp breath, sliding inside her with a low moan of pleasure. “Aethelflaed.” he cried as he saw her breasts bounce. “Aethelflaed.” he said again, thrusting, relishing her moans and gasps of ecstasy. “Aethelflaed.” harder. “Aethelflaed.” louder. “Aethelflaed!” on the verge of coming.

Her breasts bounced with every moves of his. She moaned and gasped and arched her back, nipples hard, lips red, face magnified by the pleasure of his body, scratching, gripping in sheer pleasure as she was rewarded with his crying her name, coming and devotion to the tone of his voice. She pulled herself to him, clinging on his neck, relishing his soft eyes before she jerked her head back screaming her name at the same time he came.

The rythme grew slow. They fell back on the bed, Erik, covered in new scars and sweat that would be hard to explain, Aethelflaed, whining and smiling.

“By Freya, lady, you love like you fight!”

“Did I hurt you?” a hint of pride filled her voice.

“Never.” he panted. “There is no hurting me. There is no killing me so long as I am with you.”

“Then stay with me.” she said.

Erik closed his eyes. “You love like you wage war.” his voice grew sleepy. “Moon goddess… so fair a sight, you crying out for me. I hope Sigfried will not be mad.”

“I know he won’t. Even so I’ll negotiate with him and if he does not want to, I will fight him. I will levy men and you will be with me always.” she touched her womb. “You were gentle, Erik, gentler than the best of Christian men. You are fairer than the sun itself.” she nestled around him. “Love is gentle and kind. I want you to be that love.” she waited for an answer by was only given a calm soft breath, brewing to a snore.

She chuckled, and tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear. His hair was gold as summer wheat. She kissed his sea-eyes, his forehead, almost feeling him smile. Her hand roamed his features, carving them in her mind never to forgot who he was, how fair he was, how gentle he was. Even if their path separated one day, she would always bear him close, though she wished to live as long as he did, to savor his presence some more.

She coiled herself around him, savoring the quiet of the night, his moon-lit beauty, thanking him for the freedom he had given her as a hostage, following the lines of his scars, hoping never to find any more, praying to God to spare him in battle so that she would see him smile some more.

“How good must it be, Erik, to sleep a lifetime in your arms.” a whisper, a prayer.

#my writing #let's be danes: opening ceremony #the last kingdom #aethelrik #aethelflaed #erik thurgiilson #aethelflaed x erik

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turtlestanfirst · 5 years

Text

When they first met, it was apparently night. Artemis has a hard time with, well, time. She can't see the sun or moon, the changing of the sky as the day wears on into night. Her favorite way to guess the time is to just listen. As night comes on the house becomes much quieter than during the day. And the house really can get busy. He was called Baron Draxum, after all. He's got status, and status means people come in and out of your house all day, talking about the affairs of Mystic City. Artemis is old enough to handle some of these things when her father isn't around. And he'd been gone for most of that day, so she'd been fairly busy.

Finally the telltale sound of evening had settled in and she'd settled in the kitchen, sipping on multiple mugs of tea until her nose picked up on the scent of Draxum's cologne. His footsteps reached her ears moments after- two pairs of footsteps. The other person had a smell too, one considerably less appealing than her father's. Her first guess was an enemy, someone he would likely take down into the dungeon.

But they weren't headed to the dungeon. Artemis turned her head towards the kitchen entrance as the pair approached, an easy smile on her face despite her curiosity about the person next to him. "I was starting to worry I'd have to sleep without saying goodnight to you." The smile grew as Draxum approached and planted a kiss on her head.

"Busy day, my little munchkin," he explained. Artemis nodded.

"Who's with you?" The girl couldn't see it, but she heard something like pride in the yokai's voice as he replied.

"This is Donatello, he'll be staying with us from now on." Her face moved towards where she'd last heard his footsteps and waved.

"Welcome, Donatello," she hummed, and grinned once again when she heard his quiet reply. The familiar clop of Draxum's hooves moved away from her now.

"He has had a long day as well," her father explained. "I am going to show him to his room. Will you put the kettle on for me, dear?" Artemis nodded quickly and slid out of her seat to do as she was asked.

"Shall I send a cup up for you, Donatello?" she asked over her shoulder.

"I- yes, please," he replied after a pause. Artemis nodded once more and picked the kettle up, listening as their footsteps retreated down the hall and moved up the stairs on her left side. By the time Draxum returned, she was perched on the counter, the water slowly working its way to a boil on the stove.

"How'd you get one of them to come with you?" she asked, almost as soon as he entered the room. Clip clop, clip clop, she heard him settle on the chair she'd occupied earlier. He didn't answer right away, and the weight of his temporary silence told her there was a lot on his mind.

"He was alone," Draxum offered. Artemis sat forward, fingertips clinging to the counter beneath her. "He says he feels like his... his family doesn't value him as highly as he would like."

"And you've offered to show him his worth?"

"Yes. He is incredibly talented, he deserves to know this. If he needs someone to tell him that I have no problem doing so." Her brow furrowed slightly. It sounded like the turtle hadn't been happy with his family. Draxum had told her about the turtles and Lou before. Why would the man take them only to mistreat one enough to convince him to leave?

Donnie had a question for her too, one that popped into his head immediately after laying eyes on her. It burned and burned and burned until the door to the room he'd been given opened up and a head of brown curls appeared. Her smile was oddly comforting, and the turtle relaxed on the bed.

"I got mint tea, hope that's alright," she hummed as she set the mug down on the nightstand. Donnie shook his head.

"Perfectly fine." The mug was warm, soothing to his whole body. "Thank you."

"No problem! I'm the resident tea maker around here, so if you ever need some just holler." She offered a smile and almost stepped away, but Donnie's question tumbled out of his mouth and stopped her.

"You're his daughter?"

And she understood exactly why he would ask. Draxum didn't like humans. He was actively looking for a way to get rid of them all. And yet his child was human? It was confusing, she could acknowledge that. Turning towards the bed, Artemis gave a nod.

"I am. He adopted me when I was very young," she explained. There was silence for a few moments.

"You know he's... trying to kill off all humans, right?" Her smile was still genuine, but it carried a hint of something different as she replied.

"Never met a human I liked anyway. Goodnight, Donatello."

___________________________________

To Donnie, Artemis was an enigma. She was impossible to figure out. She used his full name for a long time and acted with all the polite civility in the world. Her guard was present at all times and he didn't know how to get over it.

To Artemis, Donnie was an open book. She read and reread him, studying the turtle as well as possible. Upon learning he was a softshell, she came to the decision that he could be more than an ally. Whether they liked it or not, both had an undeniable... hindrance in their lives. She had learned to accept it. He had not. She would help him, but to do so she would likely have to make herself vulnerable as well. Once the choice was made, she informed him calmly that because they technically shared a father they were now siblings.

Donnie had scoffed. "We're not even in the same phylum." She had grinned.

"The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. I'm choosing you to be my baby brother." Which was ridiculous because he was seventeen and she was sixteen. But she had repeated herself and Donnie hadn't felt like fighting.

That had been the night before, and the turtle had stayed up all night thinking about it. Growing up with siblings meant that their absence was hard on him. Accepting the girl as his new sister wouldn't be replacing them, right? Because even if he had left, they were brothers. Right? Of course, he was sure none of them were pleased with him. He couldn't blame them for that. He shook his head. It didn't matter; just like with Artemis, they weren't biologically related- not real siblings. He could choose anyone in the world to fill that spot, he didn't have to stay loyal to the three boys.

Right?

It was morning now and Donnie realized sleep wasn't coming for him, so he forced himself out of bed and tugged his mask on before going for his battle shell. Then again, he'd worn it nearly all day the day before and his shoulders were still a little sore from the heavy object, so he opted instead for clothes. He vaguely noted that one of his hoodies had been removed from its hanger but pushed that thought away to deal with later. The purple hoodie was chosen and moments later he meandered down the steps.

"Mornin' Donabon!" She was already in the kitchen, cooking away. "Coffee's already in the machine."

"You are a goddess." The turtle made a beeline for the referenced machine while Artemis chuckled.

"I know, consider it a thank you present."

A 'thanks for letting me steal your hoodie’ present, he realized. The dark blue material absolutely enfulged her, but she looked rather pleased about having it on and he didn't see a point in arguing.

"I was awake all night!"

"You were occupied all night, and I'm good at being sneaky." She sounded so smug. Almost like Leo. For a moment he wondered if she'd like him, what kind of chaos the two could cause if they joined forces. He didn't like that though so much and instead reached around and stole a piece of sausage from the pan she was cooking with, hissing at the burn of the hot food and chuckling at her complaints.

He spent most of the day in the makeshift lab he'd claimed as his own. He missed his old one, it had been decked out just the way he wanted, but he could work with this. He could make it his own. Artemis wandered in and out, but at some point came in with a book and a giant blanket and settled in the corner, not too far off from the softshell.

She was good company. Never asked too many questions, showed just enough interest in his work to get a thorough description of what exactly it was. Praised his talent, never pushed questionable buttons or tried drinking anything in his beakers. She sat and read, mostly quietly. He loved that.

After a few weeks of that comfortable silence, Donnie began rambling. Emotions were difficult for him to relate, he hadn't been able to talk about them with his brothers and he couldn't do so with Artemis. But he'd ramble about his projects and his general thoughts on things and even though her eyes didn't work they stayed facing his direction the whole time he talked. Her little hums and occasional interjections told him she really was listening, and that made him feel even better. Draxum was still someone he remained cautious about, but Artemis? He was forever bound to this girl.

A sister was different from brothers in many ways. Brothers got into wrestling matches and taught you how to fight hard. A sister came at you with a broom and taught you improvised weaponry and fighting smart. His brothers had always been obnoxious with affection; she was more subtle. Perhaps the biggest difference though was the way Artemis treated his shell.

For once, Donnie could say he understood why they'd been so worried. Maybe it was because he now had a disabled sister. Any time he saw her stumble, or bump her hip against the counter on the way out of the kitchen, or trip up the stairs, his heart fluttered anxiously. Watching her train made him worry because those weapons were sharp and she couldn't see and if she miscalculated even the tiniest bit...

"Let's make a deal," she panted one day. They'd been sparring and she'd tripped over his foot in close combat. He'd felt bad and ended up checking her for injury twice. Now Donnie's head tilted in her direction, brow furrowed curiously.

"A deal?"

"That's right. We're a team of hindered warriors, we've gotta look out for each other. But we aren't disabled so we won't check too much, get it? We're both capable of a lot, just... we need help sometimes. Everyone needs a little help sometimes."

Which was a weird thought. The logical part of his brain wanted to argue that blindness and a weak shell both definitely counted as disabilities, hers especially. And she might have known he wanted to argue because she spoke again. "Disability is a state of mind, Don. That's all." So he kept the argument to himself. But his mind didn’t change.

And she couldn’t blame him. Artemis had heard him ramble before about how his brothers had been so careful with him, like a fragile doll. Their intentions were clearly good to her, but they had allowed Donnie to grow up believing he was disabled. As his new sister, she made it her job to prove it wasn’t true. Choosing how to do so was more difficult than she’d anticipated, and the idea that stuck most in her mind did come with a little bit of worry, but a week after that conversation when the two met up for training, she decided to just go for it.

Training with actual blades had been frowned upon when she was younger, and Draxum’s mind hadn’t been changed still. So she trained with several fake kunai and throwing stars hidden on her person and worn down kakute on her fingers. Her trusty tachi was the only metal she had on her. To keep it fair, Donnie refrained from using the technological advancements he’d made to his bo. Artemis was glad, because it allowed her to gauge how good he was at fighting. And he was good. He was impressive. The turtle could defend himself- and this was what comforted her when she began to really fight, not just spar.

“Artie, what the hell?” the turtle grunted after receiving a fairly harsh blow to his plastron. The kunoichi set her jaw and focused. Donnie narrowly missed taking a foot to the face, but froze momentarily when the tachi hit his battle shell. His frown deepened. “Artemis...”

Ignoring his confusion (and perhaps annoyance, she was fairly sure that was the other emotion she was sensing), she continued. She’d learned to fight by feeling the situation; the vibrations of her enemy’s feet on the ground, the sound of their voice and the whistling a weapon makes as it slices through the air. She let herself fall into her rhythm, dodging Donnie’s attacks and going for his weakness again and again.

It was working, she knew, because his normally precise moves were becoming sloppy. He was angry, she heard it in his growl. Artemis began pushing the envelope.

“Come on, Donatello,” she chided. “I know you can do better than that.” The bo was coming on her left. The hit was deflected and she landed a kick on his shell.

“Stop it.”

“You can take it, Don.”

She tumbled out of the way of a hit and jabs her tachi hard against his shell.

“Artemis, stop.”

“Make me.”

She maybe should have anticipated his lunge. A squeak escaped her as the full force of the turtle’s body collided into hers and the two began tussling on the ground, weapons forgotten completely. It scared Donnie, how easily she’d actually managed to unlatch the battle shell. His body tensed and he waited- for what, he wasn’t sure.

Nothing happened.

Donnie slowly looked up at his sister. Her face was more serious than he’d ever seen. For a moment, neither spoke. The turtle struggled to catch his breath and calm his nerves. Then he sat up slowly and tucked his legs beneath his body.

“You better have a really good explanation as to why that just happened.” The girl’s lips turned into a deep frown.

“You’re better than that, Donnie.”

“Than what?”

“That!” Her arm gestured around to nothing in particular. “You’re a ninja, a damn good one. And when we spar I know you can take me without a problem. I know if I fought you with everything I got you’ve got the talent to compete. And I think you know that too. So why does that change when I go for your shell?” Donnie didn’t answer her question, and Artemis let out a soft sigh. “I have never been able to see. My whole world’s been this darkness. I don’t what stars are like or what color my own hair is- and don’t try and tell me, I don’t know what colors look like anyway.” The turtle, who’d been about to do exactly that, shut his mouth.

“I’ve got a problem, okay? And I had to accept it. I’m blind and that’s fine. I don’t like it, but I’m not letting it stop me from doing anything. I can use a damn sword, I can steal your clothes from under your nose, I can cook. I can live, Don. Even if there’s something different about me. And so can you. So what your shell’s soft? You’ve got the brain to create those incredible shell cover thingies! And they do more than protect you, they help you do all sorts of things! That’s fucking amazing!”

“Yeah, and you managed to get it off of me without me knowing,” Donnie grumbled. His sister’s face softened.

“You can make a fix for that, genius,” she huffed. Her hand reached out and moved against his plastron to find his chin. Then she tilted his face to look towards her own (she didn’t get the calculation quite right, but Donnie knew what she was going for and stared into her face anyway). “And you can get over the shell thing too, okay? If I did it, so can you.”

“It took you how long?” Artemis furrowed her brow.

“...A while. But you’re a faster learner than me. And you’ve got the added benefit of having me around to help! I can bring you into the dojo and whack you around a few times if you need it.” She could hear the smile in his voice now.

“Give me warning next time, okay?” he huffed. “I thought you had finally snapped for a minute there.” He chuckled as she whacked his arm lightly.

“What do you mean, finally?”

“You’re a crazy girl, Art.” Her grin was bright.

“Ah, but you love it!” His was much softer as he shook his head.

“That, I do.”

#uuhhhhh 98% of this was written at three in the morning so it's hella messy but!!#i wanted to do a thing about donnie and his new sister?#they love each other but she's a hoodie thief and he's gonna have to find a way to get her back #rottmnt #rottmnt au #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt #tmnt #tmnt au

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jimgim-blog · 4 years

Text

Striving

As always, I begin with an apology. It doesn’t matter who or when. “Sorry, but--” is how I always begin any dialogue, whether it’s with my best friends who I haven’t called in over 2 months or with me, because everybody has to figure out which version of himself he wants to side with.

First, prose. Paul Kalanithi in “When Breath Becomes Air” sparked again, my love for literature. Perhaps unfounded, based on the fact that I’ve tried to read “Crime and Punishment” over five times, but still, a love that remains. His prose can only be described as leaping off the pages. It’s music. Especially towards the later chapters, when the “urgency of racing against time” is evident. He really poured his life out in the face of certain death. Although the vocabulary, syntax, structure and fluidity of his sentences elude my Reddit-level capacity to really appreciate them, I can tell its potential, similar to a tone-deaf drunkard happily sounding out half-flat drum beats because he can attest to the feeling the music produces.

There’s a list of quotes that I bookmarked but two that carry importance.

You can’t ever reach perfection, but you can believe in an asymptote toward which you are ceaselessly striving - pg. 115

Lucy and I both felt that life wasn’t about avoiding suffering...Darwin and Nietzsche agreed on one thing: the defining characteristic of the organism is striving - pg. 143

During COVID-19, one prominent lesson I’ve learned is that life hangs in a precarious balance between suffering and pleasure and that our job is to find out where that tipping point is for us. If you’re good at reading people, you can see where their limit is and can carefully guide them there (that’s what a good manager does). It came at a point when I was watching an episode of The Top Gear with a glass of beer. I thought it well-deserved since I had just finished a coding project that took way too long of a time. But by the time I had finished it, it was 2 AM. And I just felt this tremendous wave of sadness. It’s as if I had crossed the point a tad too much and the yin-and-yang of my personal universe was whipping me back into shape.

But, I argued back. Didn’t I deserve it? Isn’t the whole point of crunching numbers to relax afterwards? I mean, who actually likes writing out reports to projects that have no real value? (The premise that engineering at the Master-level study program has no real value, I probably should confront at some point, preferably before I delve into a career). Isn’t life all about the reward?

Besides the rush of dopamine which evolution has carefully produced to enable the continuation of the human species, I’m starting to realize the answer to the question lies in my upbringing. The Christian life to any person with a basic knowledge of the Bible is a life of delayed gratification. Confess now and you can go to heaven. Resist the temptation and you shall receive reward in heaven. Well, that’s incorrect. The Bible reveals the Christian life as one lived with Christ, in Christ and out of Christ. It’s a life of loving Christ, having Christ love you more than you can possibly imagine, and simply telling that to anybody else you know. But, to realize that--and even the more, live that out--requires maturity.

It helps that I went to a Bible seminary, but there are stages to a Christian life. In the initial stages, you find out what it means to deal with outward things like sins, the world, unrighteousness--things that most people can easily identify as those evil in the eyes of a Christian. But, at some point, you read Romans carefully and discover that God never expected you to perfect your resolve to never sin again. In fact, that was never His intention at all. His intention is that you would get to know Him more. To love Him more. To care about Him. The end game is when you realize that there’s really nothing more that pleases Him than Him giving Himself to you, and you allowing that.

There’s many obstacles like, your thoughts about what God is doing, who God is, or why God made things the way they are, but the point of the Christian life is to let those things go so that you would know Him.

That’s why the Bible doesn’t have any explicit answers to the problems of world poverty, hunger, unfair suffering and general illogical and incomprehensible ways that each individual life turns out; that’s not His focus. Neither does He actually owe it to you to solve all those things.

And here comes the point. Suffering is a part of human life because Adam fell. Christians suffer (arguably more than the unbeliever because of the fact that now he’s aware of not just one person, but several persons who lives within him--Satan, God and himself) and it’s just a part of life. Whoever came up with the idea that the good Christian goes to heaven has probably given Christianity a lot of thought. Philosophically, it's a satisfactory explanation for the impossible lives certain Christian biographies attest to. Politically, it’s a great tool for crowd control (Caesar Augustus). But it fails to hide the meaninglessness of it all that cloaks its happy ending. And look at the consequences! It’s become categorically almost taboo for a Catholic priest to be convicted of child molestation or some other gross sin for which he would be by the Catholic addendum to the Bible, responsible for help purging at the confession altar. The walls of Sardis and Thyatira echo with words of twisted teachings. How frustrated God must be that we’re just not getting it!

I think I’ve arrived at the cusp of understanding it. Not the point of it all, but why it’s meaningful to live in the faith. And what part suffering has in all of it. Because it’s not dissimilar to what I consider a life worth living outside of the bounds of Christian law. It’s exactly what Dr. Kalanithi wrote. Striving. That’s the whole point. Or, in layman terms, the pursuit of happiness.

When I watched Will Smith explain it to his kid (oh please, that scene was basically made for him and his actual kid) that nobody should strip his dreams away, I could resonate as an immigrant because that’s what my parents embodied in their ever-sacrificing life for me. They never said it, but I could tell. And striving was simply a part of it. They never questioned why they should strive because it was ingrained into their bones as they did everything they could to survive in the teenage stages of the miracle on the Han. But me, I have the pleasure of enjoying the fruits of their labor, never having to worry about having enough to eat. Instead, I have to re-discover why I should strive at all to find a meaning in life that they never had to question (presumably. I never asked them). But, it’s finally start to click: the pursuit is the happiness.

Like donkeys, we need the carrot at the end of the stick. I generally agree with the capitalist notion that humans need incentive to progress (or to work, for that matter). North Korean defectors have the hardest time integrating into South Korea because working is purely a status from 9 to 5, not a gateway into a better life. And look where North Korea is today; isolated, whining and throwing a tantrum every couple of months so people would notice them. So, we desperately need the idea of perfection. We admire those who have seemingly achieved it. We cling to the ideals and lift them up because it incentivizes us. “A perfect life exists and I’m going to get after it.” And, that’s really what the economy thrives on. Without grandeur ideals of a large house by the lakeside with a collection of supercars in the garage, Wall Street would collapse. Sure, some are more driven by the fact that their childhood was deprived of any sense of normalcy. I can’t say anything to that. But, the point is that normalcy is the ideal of “perfection”.

But if you see any interview of the person who’s “done it all”--I recommend for all the Asians, Johnny Kim (it hurts because my name is so similar)-- you never get the sense that they are exuberant beyond measure. Least of all, there is rarely a sense of absolute pride that they’re done it the way they wanted to and that was the end of it. The common thread is sacrifice and a bit of luck. The more they gave for their goals, the less they had time to think about if they’re happy at the moment. It’s in that precise moment of the present, when no thought of anxiety over the status of their happy-barometer is looming, that they’re actually, happy.

Perfection doesn’t exist. But if you don’t strive for it, there’s hardly any meaning at all. A perfect Christian life isn’t a life without suffering. It’s a life with, in and through Christ. But it’s unattainable, impossible. And maybe that’s the whole point.

p.s. There’s another dimension to the concept of “striving” in the Bible. It’s usually in a negative light because the entire medium through which we can live the normal Christian life is through faith and striving, on the contrary, implies work of our own merit. Here, striving is meant in a positive way, in the sense of pressing forward, of devoting serious energy into a matter that is near to the heart. Instead of a perfectionist foolishly striving for a goal that to him is naively reachable, I think of Luganksy playing Rachmaninoff Concert No. 2 in a recording that undoubtedly is one of the greatest performances of his life but riddled with miss-hits and asynchronous crescendo into the cadenza. It captures the beauty of irony; that only imperfection can bring solace to the troubled soul, keeping it afloat amidst the chaos of life. There is no perfect anything, but striving for it, whatever it may be or to whom the conceived idea belongs, is undoubtedly the greatest blessing to life.

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theguineapig3 · 7 years

Text

“The Renegade”

While the Desian defector had at least hoped to get farther than a few kilometers from the ranch before he met his fate at the hands of one of the Four Seraphim, he was willing to accept his punishment. But when he found himself receiving sympathy rather than judgment, he couldn’t help his suspicions. Why would someone in such a high position risk his status for the sake of someone else’s vengeance?

Tales of Symphonia Week, Day 5: Judgment Characters: Botta, Yuan Ka-Fai Words: 2,901 Rating: T (for graphic violence, because Magnius is a JERKFACE)

[Hi, hello, here’s my obligatory Botta/Renegades story because I love the Renegades brotp and I also love to invent horrible heart-wrenching backstories for characters who, like Botta, don’t get a tragic backstory in canon. Because every Tales character deserves their own Tragic Backstory™.]

Word traveled fast within Cruxis. Botta knew that. He knew that word of the riot at the ranch and the subsequent events would be relayed all the way up to Yggdrasil within a few hours. By then he’d hoped to be on a ship, somewhere out at sea beyond the reach of their surveillance. But it wouldn’t be easy. Magnius had not been happy, and his other minions would surely be making their way to Palmacosta as well.

Funny, how the comrades that Botta had come to rely on were ready to punish him for his misbehavior with no thought to the reasoning behind his actions. Why had it taken him so long to realize how thoroughly Cruxis had brainwashed them all?

Unfortunately, Botta seemed to have underestimated his injuries. He was dragging behind, struggling to clamber back down the mountainside and considering stopping in Thoda to rest before moving on. He was still wearing most of his Desian uniform, after all, and could order the locals to provide him with any medicine and care he desired. But his pride got the better of him and he decided against it. It would delay his arrival in Palmacosta too much, and Thoda’s “fleet” consisted of nothing but washtubs with makeshift oars- unsuitable for a runaway wanting to disappear into the sea.

But Botta never made it to Palmacosta. He never even made it to Thoda.

Instead, after tripping on a patch of unsteady gravel on the hillside and beginning to pick himself up, he heard a voice from behind him. It surprised him, only because he hadn’t heard any sign of movement nearby. Whoever it was must have appeared out of thin air.

“Need a little help, there?”

The mana he felt indicated a half-elf, but it wasn’t Magnius’ voice, or the voice of any Desians he recognized. Botta turned his head, unable to turn the rest of his body in his current condition, and the first thing that caught his eye was the pair of luminescent wings shining behind the figure. This was no ordinary half-elf. This was an angel.

And not just any angel either.

“...Lord Yuan?”

Yuan stared, raising an eyebrow. “I asked if you needed help. Or do you just want to die out here?”

Botta cringed and squeezed his injured arm. “Did Lord Yggdrasil send you here after me? I can’t imagine Magnius having any power over one of the Four Seraphim.”

To Botta’s surprise, Yuan actually sat down next to him. “No one sent me here. Magnius reported on the riot, the casualties, and, of course on your little outburst. You’re in real hot water, you know that? No matter how recently Magnius might’ve been appointed, picking a fight with any Grand Cardinal is a major offense.”

“So are you here to punish me?”

Yuan let out a pensive hum. “Are you looking for punishment?”

“If I were looking for punishment, do you think I’d be running away?” Botta replied with a pained laugh. “But I don’t suppose that matters now that you’re here. What is your objective? Are you going to take me back to the ranch? Or are you going to go over Magnius’ head and take me straight to Lord Yggdrasil?”

“Eh, I still haven’t decided,” Yuan answered with a shrug. “What would you prefer?”

“You’re asking me what I’d prefer? Doesn’t that defeat th-” Botta started with a rebuttal, but he was stopped by a cough and took a moment to catch his breath. He tried to hide the blood that he’d coughed onto his hand, but it was likely Yuan saw it anyway. “-d-doesn’t that defeat the purpose of punishment?”

Yuan shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps. But sometimes we are far crueler to ourselves than others are to us. With that in mind, I challenge you to pick your poison. Be as kind or as cruel to yourself as you want.”

Botta was intrigued by the question, but he could feel his breathing dampened by what he could only assume was blood in his throat and lungs. Part of him was wary to speak, not wanting to let on just how injured he really was. But as he considered his answer to the question, he realized that it was himself he wanted to keep it from, not Yuan.

It didn’t matter if Yuan knew. Botta had already made his decision.

After taking a moment to clear his throat, he finally responded to Yuan’s question. “I would rather die than return to work for the Desians right now. Leave me to my fate or kill me yourself- I don’t care. But that’s my answer.”

Yuan’s eyes widened in surprise. “Well! If that isn’t a melodramatic reply. You hate the Desians that much?”

Botta glanced away. “I will no longer obey the orders of an organization that does not- not-” He stopped to cough. “-value its members’ lives.”

There was a moment of silence, and a sparkle of recognition took hold in Yuan’s eyes. “I see. That’s how it is. Makes things a lot easier for me.”

Botta opened his mouth to ask what Yuan meant, but he couldn’t get a word out through his clogged throat, and by the time he finally realized what was going on, Yuan had pressed a hand to his forehead.

As his consciousness faded, the last thing that passed through his mind was the name Harun.

The earlier events replayed in Botta’s mind, feeling both as though they were in slow motion and yet all passing in a blur.

When Magnius had arrived as the new leader of the human ranch, none of those in interim command there knew what to expect. There was some talk from Botta’s comrades that he had been unfairly passed over for the recently vacated position of Grand Cardinal, but Botta was too proper a soldier to question Lord Yggdrasil’s decisions. And while Magnius’ practices put the ranch in disarray for some time, Botta felt no ill will toward his new commander. On the contrary; it was Magnius’ arrival that had brought Harun to the ranch as well.

Magnius had arrived with a posse of new recruits, skilled but inexperienced fighters. Harun was the shortest one, with an innocent face that hid a quick temper and a penchant for responding to high-ranking commanders with sass. Magnius treated such behavior with the same arrogance and disdain he held toward the insubordination of inferior beings, assuring Botta that this was something that could be “beaten out of” Harun. But as the attitude persisted, Botta’s curiosity towards it grew... and so did his interest in the soldier to whom it belonged.

It shouldn’t have worked. There was the gap in status, the gap in age, the professional environment, the nature of their work, and a host of other factors to consider. But no one stopped them. No one scolded Harun for openly flirting with a commanding officer. No one scolded Botta for playing favorites among the lower-ranking soldiers. Even Lord Magnius, who kept a sharp watch on everything that went on at the ranch, seemed to turn a blind eye.

Everyone accepted it. And Botta grew complacent in their acceptance.

But where several years under Magnius’ control had seen the Desians more comfortable in their routines, it saw stricter control over the prisoners. The humans at the ranch, at least the younger ones with more energy and will to fight back, became more and more unhappy. A riot was inevitable. What wasn’t inevitable, however, was the way that Magnius handled it.

Initially, Botta had accepted Magnius’ apparent plan. Low-ranking soldiers were sent outside to where the prisoners had gathered, under orders to bring the prisoners back into the buildings. Naturally, the prisoners fought against the soldiers to the best of their abilities, and as the humans used their numbers to overwhelm the Desian soldiers before they could call for backup, the rioting group formed into a belligerent cluster.

That was when Magnius’ strategy became apparent to Botta. Unfortunately, it was already too late to stop it.

Magnius’ laughter echoed off the buildings as the area was engulfed in flames. Botta could feel his face turning pale, as he saw the other commanders’ doing as well. Screams of terror and pain filled the spaces in between Magnius’ laughs, and persisted even when the flames began to die down. Botta was the first one to set foot on the charred earth, shuffling through the bodies, his panic growing more and more fervent as he searched through the scalded remains for a familiar face he knew had been in the middle of the scuffle.

It was a horrible way to die. Harun’s face was scarred and contorted almost beyond recognition- only enough so to elicit a wail from deep in Botta’s throat. Before it could turn into a scream, he felt a hand reach out and grab the hem of his cloak. One of the humans, just barely clinging to life, tried to beg for Botta’s help. But terrifyingly- or perhaps mercifully- Magnius’ boot landed on the human’s neck with a hollow cracking sound.

“Now you see what happens to inferior beings who misbehave! If any other insolent humans want to step out of line, I’ll be happy to watch you burn as well!”

Botta took one last glimpse at Harun’s pitiful corpse. The face that had just been smiling at him hours before was now sickening to look at. “L-Lord Magnius, there were our own within that crowd! You... you... murdered them!”

Magnius turned to look at Botta, his eyes narrowing. “I didn’t send anyone into that crowd who wasn’t replaceable and you know it. We all have to make sacrifices to show these inferior beings who’s boss. If you aren’t willing to do even that, what pride do you have in being a Half-Elf?”

The cracking and popping of embers around them punctuated the silence. Botta waited for some kind of back-up from his comrades... but none came. Not a single fellow Desian stood up for him.

It wasn’t like they didn’t know why Botta was so disturbed. No one could miss the way the usually stern captain would soften his voice when giving orders to a certain cadet. No one could miss the way the usually rebellious little soldier would forego any smart-aleck remarks when orders came from Lord Botta. No one could miss the way Botta and Harun regularly disappeared on “evening guard tower patrol” together, despite it being obvious that there was no such thing.They knew. They all knew.

They knew, and yet they said nothing.

It was Botta’s voice alone that shot back at Magnius. Botta’s fist alone that found its way to Magnius’ face. Botta’s sword alone that was drawn when Magnius invited him to fight.

No matter what the others felt, it was Botta alone who openly mourned. And Botta alone who faced the consequences.

There were still flames racing through Botta’s mind as he returned to consciousness. He glanced around him as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. The walls were modern and clean-looking, as though he were back in a Desian facility. His stomach churned and he started to sit up, but a pain shot through his chest and he collapsed back onto the pillow.

“I wouldn’t try to move too much if I were you. Just because the bleeding has stopped doesn’t mean your wounds are fully healed.”

The voice was familiar enough that Botta recognized it. “Lord Yuan!” he gasped, catching sight of the man watching from the corner. He looked smaller and less intimidating without his wings, but being stuck in bed, Botta had no room to talk. “Where are we?” he demanded.

“Near Triet,” Yuan replied. “This old warehouse was used back when Sylvarant was still flourishing, but it’s since been abandoned. I’ve fixed it up a little- given it my own sort of flair. What do you think?”

Botta frowned. “I think your interior decorating skills leave much to be desired.”

Yuan let out a ‘tsk’ sound and approached the bed. “Harsh words to be saying toward someone who just saved your life. How about a ‘thank you’ for stopping your massive internal hemorrhaging?”

“What’s wrong with you? I asked you to kill me, dammit!”

“If you keep up that attitude, I just might.” Yuan sat down at the foot of the bed and wagged a finger. “You said that you’d rather die than go back to working for the Desians. But since you didn’t seem to understand that there are more options out there for you, I thought you should at least live long enough to make an informed decision.”

“Other options? Besides doing the bidding of Lord Yggdrasil?” Botta replied. “I’m skeptical, but curious.”

Yuan stood up again, holding his arms out with a flourish. “Well, here’s what I’m thinking. There are, of course, the options you’ve considered- dying and returning to the ranch to accept your punishment. But you could always find a place to live here in Sylvarant. Sure, it might be difficult to find a village that would even let you in, much less accept you, but hey! If death is preferable to working with the Desians, then living as an outcast might sound like fun to you.”

Botta frowned, but said nothing. He wondered where Yuan was going with this.

“Then there’s always Tethe’alla. Living conditions are always better in the flourishing world. You’re very smart, so I’m sure they’d give you some sort of laboratory job. Sure, you’d be chained to a lab desk in some underground facility for the rest of your life, but you’d be doing important work... or so I’ve heard. Or...”

“Or?” Botta repeated.

“Or you could stay here and help me with a little pet project I’m working on.”

There. That was it. Suddenly Yuan’s rambling made more sense.

Botta turned his head away. “I see where this is going. You’re coercing me into doing your dirty work. I apologize that you went to all the trouble to bring me here, but rest assured, I stand by my earlier decision. I will never again be a Desian’s pawn-”

“There you go again, not even waiting to get all the information,” Yuan responded with a sigh. “This is strange for you. Your superiors always reported that you were calm and collected, even in dire situations. But I suppose that shock and grief can do this sort of thing to you.” He stopped and moved to the end of the bed, leaning over to look Botta in the eyes. “How would you like to avenge your friend’s death?”

“...excuse me?”

“Do I have it wrong? Friend, family, lover? What exactly was your relationship with the soldier who died anyway?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Botta quipped, turning his head away. It might’ve been a secret that everyone at the ranch knew, but a secret was still a secret, and he had trained himself to deny it.

“You must’ve had some relationship with one of the soldiers who died in today’s riot,” Yuan explained. “I know raw grief when I see it. Trust me. Now who did you lose? A friend? A sibling? A love-”

“A lover.” Botta interrupted.

“I see. And what was this lover’s name?”

“Why do you need to know?!”

Yuan didn’t answer right away. He paced back and forth along the end of the bed a few times and then sat down again, looking toward the other side of the room.

“Martel.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mine was named Martel. We never married- we were engaged when she died. What was your lover’s name?”

Botta felt a lump in his throat, and this time it wasn’t from any sort of injury. He spoke lightly, almost frightened to be too loud.

“Harun.”

“That’s a nice name.” Yuan’s voice was quiet in return, an oddly respectful tone coming from someone who had been so disrespectful so far. “How would you like to help me avenge Harun? To undermine the Desians from the inside, to destroy their plans before they can ever come to fruition? I’ve heard a lot about your skills from Yggdrasil when he was considering who to promote to Grand Cardinal. It’s a shame he picked that brute Magnius over you. With my genius and your strategic planning, we could be Cruxis’ undoing. What do you say?”

Botta finally gathered the strength to sit up, and he did so with a grunt of pain. “Why?” he asked. “Why in the world would one of the Four Seraphim help me with a plan of vengeance against his own organization?”

Yuan shook his head. “It’s not my organization. Not anymore. Yggdrasil has lost sight of what he’s doing- or, rather, why he’s doing it. This is not what Martel would have wanted. Not for either of us.” He looked up again, directing his gaze back at Botta. “But I’m technically still one of the Four Seraphim. To go against Yggdrasil openly would be absurd. It would never work. That’s why I need someone else to be the face of the rebellion. I need an obvious choice- a renegade... and who better than you?”

“A renegade...” Botta clutched at the blankets of the bed, considering the words. “I can’t say I’m sold on the idea just yet. But I am intrigued.”

A satisfied grin spread across Yuan’s face.

“That’s all I need to hear.”

#my fanfiction #tales of symphonia #tosweek2017 #yuan ka fai #botta #theguineapig3

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fireandgloryrpg · 7 years

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Congratulations Kcat and welcome! We’re so happy to accept your application to play Wesley Austen Novak with the faceclaim of Matthew Clavane in Fire & Glory RPG! We can’t wait to begin roleplaying with you so please remember to look over our checklist!

!! tw: death mention, bullying !!

OUT OF CHARACTER INFORMATION

Name: kcat Pronouns: she/her/they/them Age: 21 Timezone: EST

ORIGINAL CHARACTER APPLICATION

BASIC INFORMATION

Name: Wesley Austen Novak Age and Birthday: 18 (to be 19 shortly), 25 October 1998 Faceclaim: Matthew Clavane (preferred because closer in desired age), Ezra Miller Heritage: Child of Thanatos Affiliation: Fifth Cohort Legionnaire

ACTIVE ABILITIES:

Necromancy: can communicate with the souls of the recently deceased; can raise the spirits of the dead for a brief period of time – raising the dead continuously drains their energy and must be used carefully, but if spirits are already present (i.e. hauntings), speaking with them takes no toll despite the fact that it might appear odd to watch them chatting with thin air.

Touch of Death: while the children of Thanatos can’t actually kill anyone via touch, they can drain a bit of their opponent’s life force – this ability at its maximum can render others unconscious, but while it may charge the child of Thanatos for a short time, the obtained energy will eventually wear off and the power won’t be available again until at least a few hours’ recharge.

Invisibility: Thanatos is known to carry out his reaping duties while invisible and his children have inherited this ability, but can only hold it for a maximum of about five minutes at a time with at least thirty minutes in between uses.

PASSIVE ABILITIES:

Can sense death nearby whether human, faunal, or monstrous.

Can handle Stygian iron weapons.

HEADCANONS:

Wes literally lives for Halloween. They’re usually more on the quiet and reserved side of things, but come October, their mood can switch to bright and bubbly at a moment’s notice. Halloween itself is that one rare day in the whole of the year that they don’t feel the label of “freak” clinging to their back. Wes has been finding comfort in graveyards since well before they were aware of their godly heritage, and they have often made better friends out of spirits than the living.

Wes is a solitary practicing witch. They don’t have powers like the children of Hecate or Trivia, however. Their status as a witch is purely spiritual and the craft they practice is a matter of reverence and regard to natural energies. Being thrust into the world of Greek and Roman gods has not changed their beliefs, but, in fact, widened them. Wes makes use of Temple Hill to send prayers and/or requests to the gods.

BIOGRAPHY:

!! tw: death mention, bullying !!

Imagine if you died and met your second dad. Sounds crazy, right? Well, then I guess that makes me a fucking lunatic.

Wesley Austen Novak met their godly parent en route to the emergency room. Lying there in the ambulance, they found themself blinking up at a Mr. Tall Dark & Handsome as he briefed them on two realities: one, that accepting Trevor McClane’s dare to swim across the pool in the middle of a thunderstorm was about one of the most idiotic things they’d ever done, and two, they were the demigod child of the god of death, aka. the “grim reaper”, which was one of the very few reasons why they’d be coming back from this dumbass stunt.

Wes always knew they were a little odd, but a demigod? Talk about a plot twist.

Wesley’s unbeating heart started up again seemingly on its own, to the shock and befuddlement of the Landen paramedics. As soon as they snapped up on their stretcher like something out of a horror movie jump scare, Thanatos was gone.

Wes was adopted and they were never told otherwise. Their single father was a lawyer who would be a hypocrite if he raised his kid on a lie while he preached the value of honesty. However, Wesley struggled to be honest with their father from a young age. Christopher Novak had always wanted a son. It was evident in his encouragement for Wesley to play sports, join Boy Scouts, play video games or go exploring with the other guys in the neighborhood… Wesley was good at all of these things, but they didn’t see why it was frowned upon when they invited the girls to play with the boys or why they were being lame when they wanted to do arts and crafts instead of staging an army mission on the playground. They didn’t understand, but they didn’t argue.

Wesley’s dad was everything to them. They wanted nothing more than to make him proud, and if that meant being the son he had always dreamed of, so be it. Landen, Ohio was a small, conservative, Midwestern town. Terms like genderqueer and nonbinary were practically unheard of in a district supported prominently by private religious education. Classes were tight-knit and theology was woven into the class material whether the students followed the faith that sponsored the institution or not, but the parents often paid this spiritual discrepancy little mind. The private schools held the highest ratings in the region, and who didn’t want that esteem for their child?

Wesley wasn’t the only child in the private school system who didn’t conform to the schools’ ideals. When they were admitted to their father’s Jesuit alma mater – an all-boys academy – they were just as thrilled as he was. The pride Christopher attributed to his high school had won Wesley over to the desire of attending it early on, but as the months went by, Wes started to realize that the glamour built up around St. Xavier Academy wasn’t all it was chalked up to be.

High school came with the opportunity for Wesley to start branching out and becoming their own person, but rather than drifting towards those who could have been their true friends, Wesley allowed their father to herd them with the boys of his own high school companions. Christopher had been a rather popular figure in his day, so it didn’t come as much of a surprise to Wesley when his friends, and thus their sons, also turned out to be popular among the student body. Wesley got swept up in their tide, pinned by a seemingly indomitable force of peer pressure and the need to please their parent. They pretended to be someone they weren’t, and it ended with them electrocuted in Trevor’s backyard swimming pool at a party that he wasn’t supposed to be having.

After Wesley met Thanatos, everything changed. When they say death changes a person, they aren’t kidding. Finding out they had a god for a parent turned Wesley’s entire world upside down. Suddenly it made so much sense why they spent all of their after-school study sessions in the cemetery and why they were drawn to a spirituality that dealt with balances between life and death. It also explained why their classmates in theatre kept giving them bizarre looks when they started chatting with the attractive young guy that hung around in the rafters, who, according to them, wasn’t really there.

Wesley started doing research on their parental deity (as one does when they suddenly find out they’re a demigod) and soon became hooked on the repeated theme that death has no gender – which makes perfect sense, when you think about it. Everybody dies at some point, right? Everybody mortal, anyway. Race, sexuality, gender– in pretty much every representation around the world, Death didn’t give a fuck. And oftentimes, Death didn’t have any defining identities either. So Wesley thought, ‘If death has no gender, why should I?’ Finding courage in the history and nature of their parent finally prompted Wes to step up and release the feelings they had kept caged nearly all their life.

Coming out as genderqueer at a conservative, religious, all-boys high school didn’t go well for Wesley. They lost the fake friends their dad had matched them with, and worse, suddenly they were the one bearing the brunt of their teasing. They tried to make new friends, but having hung around with the school terrors, even on the passive fringes, meant that their name was permanently tarnished within the halls of the academy. The administration, too, struggled with how to handle their declaration when certain parents called in in an uproar. Eventually, Wes made it easy for the lot of them: they dropped out.

Christopher was furious. Wesley was mortified. He urged Wesley to return to school, assuring them that they’d work something out, but Wesley couldn’t bring themself to do so. What’d been done, was done. The child of Thanatos had seen their last of private education. The day after dropping out, while Christopher was out at work, Wesley woke up to someone’s unrelenting knocking at the front door. When they finally dragged their ass out of bed half-awake to answer it, they found a pretty little satyr quivering on the step with a folded note and a small box in hand.

The note came from their father and spoke of a camp up in New York State where they could be free to express themself away from the threats of the mortal world. The small box contained a gift – a simple necklace with a black, crescent moon pendant hanging on the string. ‘Not to be rude,’ they told the satyr, ‘but this is all starting to sound a little far-fetched to me.’ Wesley kept the pendant but, with their apologies, sent Sage – the satyr – away. Not even her hooves had yet convinced them out of their gloom. It wasn’t until they took a walk over to their favorite cemetery that afternoon to think things over that Wes came abruptly face-to-face with the fact that they weren’t actually going crazy. One doesn’t exactly unsee a young, grieving widow transforming into a bloodthirsty empousa, nor do they forget their necklace expanding into the form of a large and very very sharp scythe at its owner’s sense of danger. The scythe bit probably would have been cooler if Wes had had the slightest clue how to use it; but alas, it was Sage who saved the day.

The satyr led them to safety and further to the sanctuary of Camp Half Blood. Wesley didn’t get to say goodbye to their father and he was never enlightened about their true parentage. For his own safety, Wesley has not contacted him since their departure.

Wesley arrived at Camp Half Blood when they were sixteen years old. In April of 2017, they transferred to Camp Jupiter and joined the Legion in hopes of improving their combat skills and someday taking up classes at UNR. Their aloofness, lack of recommendation, and lax attitude toward authority has placed them in the Fifth Cohort, but Wes doesn’t pay any mind to labels. They’re still figuring out their place in this world of gods and monsters, and being a graceus in Roman territory doesn’t make it any easier.

Para Sample: skipping because I’m eager and you already know Adri soooo ♡

#accepted #Wesley Novak

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