#cowardice is the most terrible of vices

[lemonhemlock]

What are snapewives?

alright anons BUCKLE UP this is going to be a bumpy ride

i received this ask yesterday & externalised it to one of my friends who is a little bit of a, let's say, MEME HISTORIAN. an internet dilettante. a dabbler. and this is what she so graciously conveyed to me for you all.

"http://web.archive.org/web/20130311072442/http://www.journalfen.net/community/fandom_wank/1015949.html?thread=134116749#t134116749 ^okay this is honestly the best source if you want a quick and dirty nothing can explain it better than the post that started it all it loads slowly but it is the post I first saw :))) in fucking 2006 bc I've always been an asshole

there's also a journal article on this: https://www.researchgate.net/publication/276042424_'Snapewives'and'Snapeism'_A_Fiction-Based_Religion_within_the_Harry_Potter_Fandom :))))

also, as someone who's occasionally dipped into pagan tumblr, the way they used to talk about snape is the way some of them talk about their gods :)))

Lady Darkness: understand, I can only write when I can concentrate on my love for him. Indeed he feels so very close then, like he's looking over your shoulder to see if you do it like he wants it to be.. Sometimes I don't write for weeks, and then suddenly I am a writing machine..endless and full of ideas. Putting on some music helps though..if you know what he likes. Ever tried classical? It works really well, I think he likes it, just like he likes the dark music (not too fast, a little vampire rock style ) I hope he'll be telling you to keep making pictures, they're awesome! Some are so good I feel so moved by them I have to see them, and yes..he feels so close then sigh

https://fanlore.org/wiki/Snapewives ^the fanlore page is easier to understand, but it doesn't have the impact of the original

ETA: On October 14, Lady Darkness and Snapemaniac reconciled. Said Snapemaniac, "I have returned to the Master's Dungeons. My loyalties lie with Severus. As of today, they're talking about how it'd feel to be "caught full force in that glare" of Snape's.

insane :))))

ETA 3: Snapemaniac is just as nuts. "Severus Snape intimidates JKRowling. This is why she wouldn't want to meet him. She is afraid of him."

the comments are also a riot, if you can have a look at some of them (the webarchive LJ link)

Severus is looking over his shoulder at me and he seems suspicious of my laughter- "TELL ME, CAN YOU READ?….MY NAME IS SEVERUS SNAPE, THEREFORE, DO NOT TAKE LIBERTIES WITH IT!"- SNARLED SNAPE The things I feel Severus won't tolerate: 1) Being dominated 2) Disrespect (do not call him just Snape, he hates that.) 3) Prying into his personal life/disregarding his privacy 4) Being told to give up his grudges [talking about Potter] 5) Disobedience to his commands/advice/wishes 6) Being ignored 7) Undermining his authority to anyone else 8) Silly behaviour/childish behaviour 9) Being harrassed/made fun of/laughed at/picked on He really hates this /He sees laughter as nonsense and doesn't waste his time with it./ 10) Wasting his time and efforts 11) Half-heartedness/weakness of any kind/being thought of as weak 12) Shortening of his name and adding 'cutesy' words to it [UGH!!] 13) Improper use of language and misspelling words/vulgarity-constantly 14) Laziness of any kind [All Capricorn No-Nos] Imagine Severus standing at your back with his nose pressed to your ear, growling in that deep voice. Oh Mercy!!

'

you just don't get drama like this anymore

https://www.reddit.com/r/HobbyDrama/comments/d4wwir/harry_potter_fandom_married_to_severus_snape_on/ ^this post is also a primer of sorts :))

i'm sorry I couldn't provide the full lowdown, but I think this is good bc it's mostly primary sources :)))) you can't beat that"

[tamurakafkaposts]

Cowardice is the most terrible of vices.

Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita

[calliesmemes]

QUOTES FOUND ON PINTEREST

ASKBOX PROMPTS OF ASSORTED QUOTATIONS THAT I HAVE FOUND WHILE MAKING BOARDS FOR MY MUSES ON PINTEREST

CHANGE gendered words if necessary.

SPECIFY muse for multimuses.

“   Something in me wants more. I can’t rest.   ”

“   The sword of destiny has two edges. You are one of them.  ”

“   I don’t want worship. I want understanding.   ”

“   Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.   ”

“   The truth is, I pretend to be a cynic, but I am really a dreamer who is terrified of wanting something that she may never get.   ”

“   Your heartbeats set the rhythm for my heart.   ”

“   Because you feel like home to me. That’s why I love you.   ”

“   I feel my soul drawn to you.   ”

“   I have for the first time found what I can truly love. I have found you.   ”

“   I felt there was no point in telling anyone anything that was happening inside me.   ”

“   The world either breaks or hardens the heart.   ”

“   Am I supposed to be grateful to have survived this?   ”

“   You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering.   ”

“   It bothers me that no one has the patience to deal with someone who is just sad.   ”

“   I have never understood where the line is drawn, between sacrifice and self-slaughter.   ”

“   Sometimes suffering is just suffering. It doesn’t make you stronger. It doesn’t build character. It only hurts.    ”

“   The past beats inside me like a second heart.   ”

“   My soul and yours are the same. You appear in me, I in you. We hide in each other.   ”

“   You are always haunted by the idea that you have been wasting your life.   ”

“   I am not cruel — only truthful.  ”

“   No one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace.   ”

“   I am starved for tenderness and that is what is the matter with me and has been for months.   ”

“   You? What could one more splash of blood mean to you?    ”

“   Can you hate someone for what they have done, but still love them for whom they had been?   ”

“   I'm sorry you were not truly loved and that it made you cruel.   ”

“   I'd choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I'd find you and I'd choose you.   ”

“   I am not merciful, and I am not kind, and l am not afraid to make you wish that I was.   ”

“   It does me no good; violence has changed me.   ”

“   So heartless, yet so full of feelings.   ”

“   You blossom under kindness, don't you? Like a rose.   ”

“   All suffering originates from craving, from attachment, from desire.   ”

“   I look at you, and it terrifies me. It terrifies me what I would do for you.   ”

“   Forgive me, for all the things I did but mostly for the ones that I did not.   ”

“   Be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.   ”

“   "Sometimes, I feel the past and the future pressing so hard on either side that there's no room for the present at all.   ”

“   We all romanticize the people we adore.   ”

“   I've lived too long with pain. I won't know who I am without it.   ”

“   If you know too much, you’ll get old too soon.   ”

“   Cowardice is the most terrible of vices.   ”

“   I am tired of being brave.   ”

“   I have survived. I am here. Confused, screwed up, but here.   ”

“   There isn't always an explanation for everything.   ”

“   Everything will turn out right, the world is built on that.   ”

“   People do not see you. They invent you and accuse you.   ”

“   Never have I dealt with anything as difficult as my own soul.   ”

“   You are a woman marked for sorrow.   ”

“   Rise up, then. Mend your ways, start seeing what you are instead of calculating what you should become.   ”

“   Stop punishing yourself for being someone with a heart. You cannot protect yourself from suffering. To live is to grieve. You are not protecting yourself by shutting yourself off from the world. You are limiting yourself.   ”

“   Very early in my life it was too late.   ”

“   I want to change. I want to stop fear’s subtle guidance of my life.   ”

“   You misinterpret everything, even the silence.   ”

“   Lately many years have passed.   ”

“   You’ll bear it. You’ll last out. You will.   ”

[scattershotsaffron]

“If it is true that cowardice is the most terrible of vices, the dog, at least, is not guilty of it”

this is a bit of a weird one!! This is, of course, @canisalbus ‘s Machete! This particular piece is inspired by the aesthetics of The Master and the Margarita, which is a political commentary novel that was written under Stalinism that uses religious connections and some badshit insane deviltry involving Satan and his band of goons. Figuring out the colors on this one we’re a lot of fun

Anyways I fucking adore Machete! Finally worked up the courage to draw him, hope i did his likeness justice! I know this guy gets a lot of art but I do really hope you like this, since your art has inspired me so much! i don’t think I’ve ever actually drawn a canine before?? But I actually kind of like the idea of Vasco looking more dog-like and Machete having seemingly feline attributes as dogs are consistently considered kinder and more loyal and cats are often associated with spite and envy

[thornfield13713]

Rosie doesn't even trust the Emperor, and she's still asking, just because- She'd really like this not to be true, please, even though it makes- a disturbing amount of sense, actually. And now she's hearing it, all the pieces are coming together, and she'd quite like someone to tell her she's got things wrong. Even if she didn't really believe it, she could pretend to, and emotional cowardice has always been one of her vices.

This is also quite terrifying. The idea that she didn't just give into her Urge - this whole thing was her aware, conscious, acting of her own accord, possessed of the self-control she still struggles with...and choosing to use it for this.

I actually think her control over the Urge might've suffered a bit with her head injury - partly because impulsivity is a documented side-effect of TBIs, but also because of just how calculated pre-tadpole Durge seems to have been. Part of tis is just long experience, knowing how to keep the Urge fed without giving herself over entirely, but part of it is probably brain-damage-related.

And this is not helping.

Although.

I do think he's right, just not in the way he thinks. This is who Rosie is, without years of conditioning in the Bhaalist temple. It's a version of who she wanted to be when she set out to be a paladin. Not that it's her only true self, of course - the version of her he knew was as authentic an expression of her character - but...a guided one. It was who she could grow to be while on Bhaal's leash, having had all her idealism and everything she hoped she could be broken in the most terrible way imaginable.

There are aspects which are purely a result of the brain damage - brain injury often causes personality shifts, and certain of her capabilities have shifted a result. Her DEX score used to be rather higher, so did her INT, and she has a bit more trouble planning, even though her first instinct is towards caution and restraint. However, Rosie is...in many ways, a pretty pure expression of what she had once hoped to grow up to be, before Sceleritas came calling.

[justmybookthots]

Once Upon a Broken Heart / A Ballad of Never After

1.5/5 stars

What can I say about this series except that it was so terribly disappointing? 

The most vexing part was that I actually found the first book decent - not very good, but it was decent, and I enjoyed it. Also, a lot of people said that this book was much better than Caraval, so I’m kind of scared of / morbidly fascinated by how bad Caraval must be now.

But anyway, that is beside the point. The first book is decent, with a very pretty writing style and a simple but engaging plot. The writing was very redolent of a fairy tale; it actually reminded me a little of Enid Blyton’s writing in her children's stories. However, it did give me the feeling that the story was a little vapid at times - maybe I just needed more grit, blood and strife, and less focus on true love ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Not that there wasn’t any in the story, but the conflict rang kind of hollow, and I can’t exactly pinpoint why. I felt as if I were reading a series of tropes and mechanisms rather than an actual person going through all those things.

I must say that I disliked Evangeline, even in the first book. Here is a picture of her:

Before I elaborate on why she looks like that, let's start with the early parts of her I disliked. She was naïve and stupid, and had some real Main Character Syndrome (to be fair, she is the main character, but she's not supposed to know that). I cringed when she entered the North and immediately dreamed of marrying Prince Apollo, when she didn’t even know him yet, all for the expectations of a happy ending for herself. The secondhand embarrassment was at its peak when Apollo stepped towards the girl he would choose for the first dance, and she stepped forward, thinking he was about to choose her.

He didn’t. 

:)

I should probably talk about Jacks, who is arguably the heart of the story. Or the broken heart, because he, uh, is the Prince of Broken Hearts. 

I hate him. 

See, it's a pity because I actually liked him in the first book; his characterisation was intriguing, clever and to my taste. I thought he still had a lot of untapped potential, though, because I’d barely scratched the surface with him in Book 1. And with BookTok wanking him to oblivion - someone chose him over a gazillion book boyfriends - I had hopes that the sequel would blow my socks out of water. (Yes, yes, my misplaced faith in BookTok's credibility is my own vice)

Well, it did! Without a doubt, the sequel certainly blew all my hopes that this story would ever be decent 👍

Jacks is a coward. That’s all he ever is, and does. How does one do cowardice, you might ask? Well, you run and hurt the person you’re supposed to love, over and over again. Because he’s afraid of hurting Evangeline, he, uh, hurts her. Yes. And he spends the sequel being an ass - he flirts with girls frequently, while rudely barging in the moment Evangeline strikes up a conversation with another man. My teeth were grinding when she caught him in that deserted corridor with that girl, about to kiss her after spending the evening constantly sabotaging Evangeline’s attempts to get over him with other men.

If you don’t want her, fine. If you’re too much of a wuss, whatever. But what you don't do is stop her from starting something with someone else. You can’t have your cake and eat it, too.

And Evangeline? She actually started the book writing a letter to herself as a reminder that she must never fall for Jacks because he was dangerous. And how does she spend the last half of the book? Spoiler: Mooning over Jacks and acknowledging she’s fallen for him (which I was… very unconvinced about because the build-up to their romance SUCKED) and telling herself she was going to save him from his fear of love.

My dear, you are not Bob the Builder. No woman should be for any man. I think you should go fix your head first.

The last nail in the coffin for me was when Jacks revealed that all along, he was planning to turn back time to be with another girl (whom he didn't even love, but hoped to score a second chance with). 😂 Hilarious. You could turn back time to before the curse befell you, and you choose to go back... for some chick you didn't like? I get his theme is wanting to find true love, but I always found that so frivolous, and of course, so insulting to poor Evangeline. And after she “died” and he decided to turn back time to save her life - which, by the way, does not redeem anything for me. This girl practically risked her life to help you get the stones to help you find your true love. This is the least you can do, loser - he was such a rude ass to her to “protect her”. 

For once, Evangeline grew enough balls (it lasted for about as long as the dialogue went before she lapsed back into Bob-the-Builder mode again) to tell him this after he yelled at her:

EXACTLY. 

Anyway, I have ranted enough about this book. I don’t want any part of it anymore, and will not be abusing myself by reading the next book. I MAY read Caraval, mainly because I want to see just how bad it is. And also, I want to be sure Stephanie Garber is really a lost cause before I write her off completely. 

- 15 July 2023

[7r0773r]

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, translated by W.S. Merwin

Gawain gripped his ax and heaved it up high. He set his left foot on the ground in front of him And brought the blade down suddenly onto the bare skin So that the sharp edge sundered the man's bones And sank through the white flesh and sliced it in two Until the bright steel of the bit sank into the ground. The handsome head fell from the neck to the earth And rolled our among their feet so that they kicked it. The blood gushed from the body, glittering over the green, And the knight never staggered or fell, for all that, But he stepped forth as strong as ever, on unshaken legs, And reached in roughly among the knights To snatch up his lovely head and at once lift it high. And then he turns to his horse and takes hold of the bridle, Steps into the stirrup and swings himself up, Holding his head in his hand by the hair, And settles into the saddle as firmly as ever With no trouble at all, though he sits there                   headless.           All around him the blood sprayed           As his gruesome body bled.           Many of them were afraid           When they heard what he said.

For he holds the head up high in his hand,  Turning the face toward the noblest on the platform, And it raised its eyelids and opened its eyes wide And said this much with its mouth, which you may hear now: "Remember, Gawain, to get ready for what you agreed to, And search carefully, knight, until you find me As you have sworn to do in this hall where these knights heard you. I charge you to make your way to the Green Chapel To receive a stroke like the one you have given—you have earned it— To be repaid promptly on New Year's morning. Many men know me as the Knight of the Green Chapel, So if you ask, you cannot fail to find me. Come then, or you will rightly be called a coward." With a terrible roar he turns the reins, Rides out through the hall door, his head in his hand, So that the flint flashes fire from his horse's hooves. No one there knew what land he was going to Any more than they knew where he had come from.                    What then?           Gawain and the King smile           And laugh about that green man.           All agreed that he was marvel           Enough for anyone. (pp. 31-33)

***

This wonder came as a gift to Arthur in the first Youth of the year, for he longed to hear of some bold adventure. Though their words were few when they first sat to table, Soon they had more to say than they had words for. Gawain was glad to begin those games in the hall, But if the mood grew heavy at last it was no wonder, For though after strong drink men may be merry in their minds, A year soon runs its length and never returns the same, And the end seldom seems to belong to the beginning. So this Christmas was over then, and the last of the year followed it, And the seasons went by in turn one after the other. (p. 37)

***

          Still, the knight spoke cheerfully,           Saying, “What should trouble me?           In the face of harsh destiny           What can a man do but try?” (p. 41)

***

“For that braided belt you are wearing belongs to me. My own wife gave it to you; I know the story About your kisses and everything that you did, And the wooing of my wife. I planned the whole thing. I sent her to test you, and I am convinced now That you must be the most perfect knight ever to walk the earth. As a pearl is more precious than white peas around it, So, in good faith, is Gawain among other fine knights. But here you lacked a little, sir, and failed to keep faith, Though not from treachery, nor my wife's wooing either, But for love of your life, and I blame you less for that." That other brave man stood for a long time in thought, So mortified that it cried out inside him. All the blood in his breast pressed into his face As he shrank back in shame at what the man said. The first thing that the knight managed to say Was, "A curse upon cowardice, and coveting too, For the villainy and vice in them that ruin virtue." Then he takes hold of the knot and pulls it loose And in a fury flings it toward the knight. "Here, take the treacherous thing, and bad luck to it. From the fear of your stroke, cowardice taught me To come to terms with coveting, forsaking my own nature And the openness and good faith that belong to knighthood. Now I am guilty and a liar, who was always In dread of disloyalty and lies. Sorrow and grief                     take them both!              I confess to you, Knight, here between us,             That what I did was all wrong.             Let me win back your good grace             And then heed what I am doing." (p. 161)

[thenihilistofthevoid]

Another one... Garp had taken an interest in. So he took an interest, naturally. Part of Saburo felt protective towards the others the silver-haired Vice Admiral took in, that included Luffy. He had no interest in fighting him, but merley observing his progress... Actually fighting the kid was for cannon fodder, it was his job to strategize and calculate probability. Sure, he could fight, but... He preferred directing from safety, not out of cowardice, but intelligence. No wonder Garp gravitated towards this kid. Small, kind of scrawny... Something else to fix, like Luffy and Ace and himself... His memories drifted back through time, to when he was smaller than the pink-haired cadet, a broken child on the coast of Devastation. His biological parents had died in a raid he didn't remember, Garp had found him and just plucked him away like a child might take a stray cat home. No asking around, just being picked up in those strong arms and taken.

And Garp was intense, like a shot of vodka for breakfast, sharp and piercing. He was a good hero, but a terrible parent. Sure, he and the others were good people, but Garp... His "Fist of Love" spoke volumes, so with Koby... Saburo felt protective. Garp was a sun, burning with brilliance and power, burning so hot he burnt the people he loved the most. Saburo would be the raincloud that shielded Koby, ensuring he got light still, but without the pain. He had to assess what had happened already.

Leaning the cadet into an office and looking for something, he took his coat off to reveal his muscular arms. Despite a thin frame, Saburo was strong. "Shit." He swore, before finding a chessboard and pieces. "Do you know how to play, Cadet Koby?" Saburo inquired, setting himself up as Black and the pink-haired boy as White.

Our War Game

(A starter for @bas0rexias Koby Muse bc he's a precious bean)

It hadn't taken long for rumour to reach his ears, it travelled faster than anything... Garp had taken an interest in one of the Cadets, a cadet who'd beaten him at their old game, which was impressive. The old man wasn't exactly a slouch at it, and curisoity was an insipid little itch that needed scratching. "I'm taking personal time off. You're in charge." The raincoat-wearing Commander ordered his subordinate, simply stepping out the window into the rain and just vanishing.

It didn't take long to find their ship, he knew the location of most in his area and soon appeared on deck, simply remanifesting from the droplets as he marched along the deck, his boots clicking against the wood as the droplets slid off his coat, his black hair a deeper shade due to being soaked with rainwater. "Commander on Deck!" One of the Ensigns stated.

"Cadet Koby... I hear you've been giving Vice Admiral Garp a hard time during games of Go and show interesting tactical prowess..." Kid was about his age when he started beating the old man at strategy games. The man was older and taller than Koby, having well-definied musculature. His coat had the emblem of the Marines on it, with the underclothing being white with gold drop-like symbols patterning it. "I am curious to see how you- W-What about me, sir?" Helmeppo began before finding the tip of the Commander's umbrella forcing his lower jaw shut. "I do not permit people to speak when I am speaking, Cadet. Go and swab the decks again, they're filthy." Saburo ordered, his tone ice before he pointed his umbrella at a mop and bucket in the corner, returning his attention to Koby. "As I was saying, I want to see how you play. Come with me." He requested, opening the question mark-handled umbrella to keep the rain off Koby.

[shadowedoracle]

Fractured Lullabies - Chapter 1

Summary: Season 7 Woven Beauty AU. The Gold family has been separated by Drizella's dark curse. Now Detective Weaver, a widowed father to baby triplets, hires single mother Clarabelle French as his children's nanny.

Rating: E (For eventual smut)

A/N: So @moonlight91 left a comment on my Fluffapalooza fic last year about Rumbelle ending up with triplets. That sparked a vague idea that somehow morphed and finally grew into this whole Season 7 Woven Beauty AU.

Many thanks to the lovely @jackabelle73 for beta reading this.

If you spot any typos/ errors do let me know. Any other comments are always appreciated.

[AO3]

***

Weaver stared down at the pale yellow business card he’d been holding for over half an hour, wishing he had already gotten the energy together to call the number on it. But he couldn’t even seem to remember how to enter a phone number into a cell phone -- let alone remember how to hold a phone conversation. He ran his thumb along the navy lettering in a fancy old fashioned font on the business card reading: “Clarabelle French: Nanny”.

He felt moisture prick his eyes as he recognized it as the font Lacey used to use on her business cards. He groaned and tossed the card down onto the countertop, pacing the apartment’s small kitchenette trying to keep it together. He was not about to fall apart over a font, for fuck’s sake.

He knew he had been procrastinating, that he should have called the number immediately after Roni had handed him the business card. He knew too that this was not just a case of delaying the inevitable, but rather by waiting, he was sabotaging his chances of success and digging himself into a deeper hole. But despite that knowledge he hadn’t been able to persuade himself to make the call. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Roni’s judgment -- he did (her taste in partners aside). Indeed, she could read people better than many cops he could name. No, it wasn’t her recommendation that had him hesitating, had had him stuck in this loop for days now. No, he just didn’t want to have to accept that his wife was gone. Or that now his children only had him, a royal fuckup of a man without Lacey. He wanted to be able to stay here and look after them himself, but he’d used up all his leave and couldn’t afford to quit his job. Therefore he needed a nanny. But he didn’t want to need one, didn’t want to have a stranger in his home seeing what a terrible job he was doing of raising his children by himself. All week he’d been using variations of that fear and the accompanying paralysis to avoid calling. On the first day he’d been annoyed at himself, but had told himself it had been a long busy day and that if he rung first thing the next morning it’d all work out fine. Except he hadn’t called the next day either. He’d given himself a stern talking to that night and had resolved to call the following day. But again he’d failed to call. While it was true yesterday had been busy and exhausting, and that he hadn’t had a single quiet moment to himself until nearly midnight, that still didn’t excuse his delay. The situation was getting more urgent by the day, and it wasn’t as if he couldn’t have taken a few seconds to type out a quick text message. But he just hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it -- because to do that would be to admit he needed this woman’s help. He knew that thought was ridiculous. He and Lacey had been talking about hiring a nanny for a while. They just hadn’t gotten around to making a final decision about whether to go down that path before she died. But now, instead of being able to talk all this through with her --  to discuss what they both wanted, to interview the candidates and agree on who to hire, together -- he had to navigate this all. Alone. What did he know about nannies? Even after reading countless articles online, he still felt like the answer was “fuck all”. He still had no idea what he needed, beyond someone reliable and trustworthy to look after his children while he worked. But how the hell could he be sure he’d make the right choice? He trusted his judgment when it came to suspects and witnesses -- he was excellent at spotting bullshit and dealing with scumbags. But unless this woman was totally unsuitable, how could he be certain she was not just alright, but that mystical “right fit” that he’d read so much about online? He wished he could have the reassurance of Lacey’s opinions to make sure he made the right decision. No, he couldn’t to do this -- not by himself.

He paced the kitchen restlessly without seeing where he was going and stubbed his toe against a cabinet and swore. Maybe he should just not call this woman, or not today anyway. He’d just continue using the daycare centre, that’d be simpler at least. But even as he thought it, he knew that was only a temporary measure, at best. The triplets hadn’t been doing well in daycare even before Lacey’s death. Plus even with the daycare discount the Seattle PD gave him, a nanny would probably work out cheaper in the long term. So he ought to just knuckle down and get started.

Yes, it’d so be easy for him to put off this decision for another day, until he was “ready” (a word that suddenly seemed to be used around him all the time since Lacey had died). But this wasn’t about him, he reminded himself, limping back to sit on a stool at the kitchen island once more. It wasn’t about what was easiest for him; it was about what was best for his children. He was their father and just because this phone call seemed hard wasn’t a good enough reason for him not to do it.

Sure, they’d probably be all right in the daycare for a little while longer, it wouldn’t do them untold damage or anything. But eventually the same issues would come up again and he’d decide they needed a nanny. But then he’d have to try to hire one and do all the calls and interviews -- and whatever the hell else you had to do when hiring a nanny -- while juggling a full caseload and dealing with whatever was ailing the triplets that week. Anyway even if he didn’t hire a nanny, he’d need to find a babysitter for after daycare because his schedule was too variable. Even with the flexibility the force was offering him now, he couldn’t guarantee a case wouldn’t require him to work unsociable hours. Lacey’s schedule had been much more predictable and so she’d done the bulk of the picking the children up, as well putting them to bed when he was back late. He’d need someone who’d be able to do that on nights when his cases ran into the evening anyway. So he might as well hire someone who could be there all day and offer more consistency for the triplets. Plus it’d be a relief not to have to get all three of them ready for daycare and into the car each morning. . But even reminding himself why hiring a nanny was a good idea, didn’t help him pick up the phone because it didn’t change the truth: he didn’t want his wife to be dead and to have to make this big decision without her input. It wasn’t that he didn’t know some of what her thoughts would have been on the matter. She’d mentioned some things when she proposed the idea a few weeks -- or was it months? -- back. But they’d never discussed concrete specifics. Sure, some would say he was lucky to be free to make this decision independently: he wouldn’t have to compromise with her over something she valued more than he did or vice versa.  But he wanted to do just that, to discuss the details and argue over different candidates’ strengths and weaknesses. There was no way he could do this right without her. He was just an old cop who apparently still knew next to nothing about childcare, and even less about nannies. He trusted Lacey’s judgment and knew that, even though she didn’t know much about nannies either, together they’d have been able to work it all out and make the correct decision. Although... perhaps it wouldn’t matter anyway. Perhaps this whole call would be a dead end. It wasn’t likely that this woman would be free and able to take on his children at such short notice. So he was likely working himself up over nothing. Yesterday, the idea that this was likely a lost cause had made it easy for him not to pick up the phone. It had been so easy to convince himself that there was no point wasting either of their time -- even just inquiring -- given how improbable it was that she’d be available. But it had taken even more whiskey than usual for him fall asleep last night, and this morning he’d had to admit to himself that his cowardice yesterday was partially responsible. He couldn’t let that happen again. He didn’t want to be an alcoholic fuckup of a father. He knew what it was like to have one of those and he would never put his children through that. He took some deep calming breaths, and tried to focus on the fact that needing help with his children didn’t make him a failure as a father. Instead hiring a good nanny for them was actually him fulfilling his duty to do his best for them. He picked up his phone and found his favourite picture on it: Lacey, fresh out of the hospital, sitting in their bed cradling the triplets on her lap.  He stared down at the image of her smiling tiredly up at him and felt tears prick his eyes once more. The fact that Lacey, so full of life (even at her most exhausted), was gone was still unbearable. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the hole in his heart, or the feeling that he was missing a limb without her. A nanny was no substitute for a mother and, at the thought of everything his children and Lacey would miss out on, he felt a now familiar stabbing pain in his chest. She had believed and trusted in his ability to be a good father though, and he didn’t want to prove her wrong. He focused on the image of his children’s tiny scrunched up faces. They needed him to do this for them, Lacey needed him to do this for them. He couldn’t let any of them down.

Keeping those last thoughts in the front of his mind, he tapped open the phone call app. If she said ‘no’ that would be that. What did he have to lose? Maybe she’d even have some ideas who else he could try. He swiftly typed in her number and hit call before he could reconsider.

“Hello, Clara speaking.” A bright Australian voice answered.

Weaver swallowed hard, his practiced opening script slipping from his mind at the sound of a voice so like Lacey’s and sat in silence for a few moments, not even remembering to breathe.

“Hello?” The Australian voice said again.

For a moment an absurd hope that his wife wasn’t dead, but instead just had amnesia and had forgotten her family, bloomed in his mind and took root in his heart. He was just about to say her name, when the voice spoke again.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” It sounded so much like her and yet, the memory of Lacey on that cold slab in the morgue flashed before his eyes and pierced the bubble of his fantasy. His wife was dead, hoping otherwise didn’t change that. But if he didn’t reply now, he’d lose this nanny merely because she had the same accent as Lacey.

He shook his head and cleared his throat. “Yes, sorry. Hi...” He cleared his throat again, “Is this Clarabelle French, the nanny, speaking?” he managed, this time sounding a bit more like his usual self.

“Yes, speaking. Are you a parent looking to hire a nanny?”

With those extra words, he began to hear the differences between the voices. The nanny’s accent was almost identical to Lacey’s, that was true -- but it wasn’t Lacey’s voice. It was off somehow. The cadence was wrong, for a start, and there was some other dissonance that he couldn’t quite place. The train of thought sobered him, bringing him down from his fantasy. He remembered how to speak, how to call upon that air of confidence he used when dealing with suspects and witnesses. “Yes, I was given your business card by a mutual friend... Roni. I need to hire a nanny for my young kids quite urgently, and she mentioned you might be available.”

“How urgently are we talking?” She replied, crisp and businesslike.

“Ideally next week, Monday, if possible. But I understand if that’s too short notice for you.”

“I see...” She paused, thinking, “Well, I am available in theory, but it seems quite a short timescale to get through the whole hiring process.” He felt a thread of hope, perhaps this wasn’t a dead end after all and sat up straighter (even though she couldn’t see him). “I know it’s probably unusual. But I need to be back at work then and I don’t have anyone else to look after my children while I’m there.”

“Ah, so it sounds like you are looking for a live-out nanny, if you only want me there when you’re working. Is that correct? I’d need to give you the names of some colleagues if you’re looking for a live-in nanny, I’m afraid. And is your job full or part-time, may I ask?”

“Yeah, it’s a live-out position. It’d be full-time too but my own hours can be somewhat variable. Is that a problem?”

“No. Well... at least not in theory,” she said. “Also is this just a temporary arrangement you’re looking for, or a longer-term one? Because I only work longer term contracts.” “Well, ideally, it’d be a long-term arrangement, but that’d obviously depend on your availability as well as how well the children adjust to the new arrangements.” “That’s reasonable. Luckily for you, the client I had lined up recently moved away from the Seattle area so I could take on a longer-term contract right away -- assuming you decide I’m the right fit for your family. We can then assess how it’s going after 30 days, which is the standard trial period.” He nodded, remembering a second later she couldn’t see him and calling himself an idiot, said, “Yeah, that sounds fine.” “And can I ask what ages the children are?” “Right, of course. They’re triplets actually, 10 months old next week. Is that something you think you can handle?” She laughed. “Wow, baby triplets! Definitely must keep you on your toes.” “Yeah.” He smiled. “And triplets aren’t a problem for me -- I’ve worked with multiples before.” He could feel relief beginning to churn through him. This might just work out. “So would you be able to meet me later today to discuss the role in-person?” “I can’t do later today, at such short notice, I’m afraid.” She did sound genuinely apologetic. “But I could do any time tomorrow morning or early afternoon?” He nodded. “Sure, say tomorrow at noon?”

“That sounds perfect.” He could hear the vague sounds of her making a note of the time.

He tapped his fingers against the countertop, what was he supposed to say next? Right, meeting time and place.

“How about we meet at Roni’s? It’ll be quiet at midday. Then if we think things’ll work out, take it from there?”

He supposed it was probably an odd look to interview a potential nanny at a bar. But he didn’t have a sitter he could call on, and at that time of day the bar would be quiet enough he could probably persuade Roni to watch the children for a while, if necessary. “That sounds great!” She said brightly, not giving any indication she thought a bar was a strange place for an interview. Was that a good sign of her professionalism or a bad one? “But I, er, didn’t catch your name?” “Right!” He forced a laugh, even as he called himself a fucking idiot for forgetting to introduce himself. “I’m Detective Weaver…” He paused as he tried to think of what he’d read online about hiring a nanny. Was he forgetting anything major? He didn’t think so. “And now you have my number, in case you need to contact me about anything.” “Great! I’ll see you noon tomorrow at Roni’s. I look forward to meeting you,” she said.

They finished off the conversation and he hung up, dropping his phone onto the counter with a thud. He gripped the counter edge tightly as he tried to steady his breathing. After he’d gotten over the initial shock of her accent, that hadn’t been so bad. She might actually be available, so this might all work out despite how long he’d put off calling.

He looked around the kitchen to the sink full of dirty dishes, he ought to do those now he supposed. But just then a cry came from down the hall, so he pushed away from the counter and hurried to the nursery.

Brandon, the youngest of the three and furthest from the door, seemed to be working his way up to a big screaming cry. His face was red and crumpled and if Weaver didn’t quieten him quickly, the other two would wake up too. He picked up his youngest son, rocking him and crooning softly, “There, there now. Daddy’s here. What seems to be the trouble, lad?

But Brandon’s cries just continued and grew even louder and Weaver’s hopes of this being quick were dashed when heard a grumbling cry from Melissa, the oldest. It was going to be another one of those afternoons, he already could tell.

[iwoulddie4-poetry]

“Cowardice is the most terrible of vices.”

~ Mikhail Bulgakov (The master and Margaritas)

[jackuswritus]

Hidden Places

Everybody had a hidden place when they were younger, right?

Those overgrown clearings that laid off the beaten path of other parks, past all those manmade mulch pits and nauseatingly bright plastic playgrounds that always overheated in the summer sun. They were hard to find, and always required a bit of finesse to travel through, but the sense of ownership and independence that they came with was always worth it. It was like unearthing something sacred, something that nobody had ever laid witness to.

Ours was a little less picturesque, of course. The various blunt wrappers and capri sun pouches that were strewn about quickly dashed our fantasies of being grand explorers mapping out uncharted territory. On top of that, the actual scenery wasn’t particularly beautiful on its own. The only thing resembling a source of life was the thin trickle of brown, diseased-looking water that cut through one of the ditches we jumped across. You got the sense that it was an area left unexplored for good reason. None of us were particularly picky about that, though. As teenagers, we were just glad to have some semblance of independence.

As well as a discreet place to get high.

Looking back now, the fact that we managed to keep it so well-hidden was pretty impressive, especially considering that our activities down there were anything but. We mostly just sat around, picking at various bits of dead and decaying nature, laughing at whatever dumb shit had happened earlier that day. It was typical teenage boy behavior, just moved to a more rural location. The only thing that really changed was that we didn’t have to worry about keeping our voices down quite as much. After all, we all felt pretty secure in assuming that we were the only ones out there. Still, there was one reoccurring trend that I couldn’t help but notice:

No matter what, everyone always seemed to leave before the sun went down.

It wasn’t one of those cliché unspoken rules, mind you. Most of the kids that frequented the spot usually just had other stuff to do, whether it was studying for a test the next day, worrying about upsetting their parents, or just plain wanting to go home. Everyone always seemed to find a reason to leave before the golden hour was up. I’m sure that a handful of us were genuinely afraid of staying there after nightfall, but nobody would ever admit to something as shameful as that. Not to a group of vicious adolescents, anyway.

There was only one kid who pointed it out. That was Mark.

He was a weird one. The sort of guy that exists on the fringes of your friend group, not really tethered to any particular person, coming and going as he pleases. The only other place we saw him outside of the meeting place was school, and that was it. He definitely made his presence known, though. His fixation on the dark and morbid gave him something of a reputation with his classmates, teachers, and (especially) guidance counsellors. He would always draw a crowd in the school computer lab, playing videos with titles like “REAL GHOST FOOTAGE CAUGHT ON TAPE” and “CRYPTID SIGHTING NEVER BEFORE SEEN” with a barely restrained sense of glee. He seemed to revel in the discomfort of others, the same way that teenagers often enjoy getting an immature rise out of people. It followed, then, that he would be the first to suggest exploring the meeting place at night.  

Everyone he tried to rope into his expedition responded with either indifference or outright disapproval. It seemed that everyone had some kind of excuse to avoid going back after night had fallen. Some were able to mask their fear with a façade of aloofness and casually dismiss the whole thing as a waste of time, while others couldn’t help but let it slip. He didn’t seem to mind, though. If anything, he felt a sense of distinction, a sense of pride, at being the only one brave enough to do what the others couldn’t. It was all he could talk about, spouting off disjointed conspiracies to anyone that would listen, or anyone unfortunate enough to walk too close. I still remember him pulling me aside the day before he was supposed to venture out. By that time, the whole school was aware of the reputation that he had. It followed him around, dispersing whole crowds of people and reducing boisterous conversations to barely audible whispers. His eyes were sunken and hollow, but you could still see something behind them. It was like he was being possessed, compelled by something greater and more awful than even he could comprehend.

“Somethings out there, man.” He whispered, as if guarding a terrible secret, “And I think I’m supposed to find it.”

That was the last thing he ever said to me.

I think that, deep down, everyone knew what had happened when he didn’t show up to school the next day. It was just a matter of who wanted to believe it. Some struggled to keep up a sort of misplaced optimism, while others simply refused to accept that something terrible had actually happened. Nobody wanted to shoulder the burden of witnessing a tragedy unfold, knowing that they might have been able to do something to stop it. A quiet sort of tension gripped everyone, and the pressure only mounted with every passing day. Rumors were spread, fights broke out, kids had to be dragged, weeping and hysterical, out of class.

It wasn’t until the last search party was called off that things started to die down.

The police chalked it up to an avoidable tragedy, using it as leverage to keep impressionable teens from causing trouble at night (as well as impose a strict curfew). Nobody wanted to argue, regardless of whether they agreed with the decision. Of course, it wasn’t like there was an eager queue of explorers ready to follow in Mark’s footsteps. For most people, the collective trauma surrounding his disappearance was enough of a reason to never look back, to move quickly and stay under the shelter of the sun when traveling. I wish I could say the same. I wish I could say that everything that happened was enough for me, that I could put Mark’s memory to rest and come to terms with the fact that he was gone. But I had my own separate burden to carry, my own terrible, secret reason that I could never hope to forget.

It was that he was right. There was something in those woods.

A week after Mark went missing, I found myself back at the meeting place. Even with the vice grip of fear beginning to tighten around the town, I still couldn’t pry myself away from the memories that resonated there. Even back then, I knew that nothing would be the same, that the sense of community that this place once provided was about to be torn away. In a way, I guess I was there to say my last goodbyes to all those memories; To lay them to rest before they became too painful to hold on to. The tears flowed freely. Loudly.

The sunset seemed to sneak up on me, despite being so gradual. As those rusty colors began to drench the world around me, I was confronted with the bittersweet reality that they had lost their meaning. What once struck fear into our hearts and left us scrambling for the safety of home had only a sliver of its former power. As depressing as it was, it was a fitting close to that chapter of my youth. I was almost ready to leave those ghosts behind, to dump them with the rest of the waste and refuse that had been scattered through our makeshift meeting place.

It only took several minutes for night to fall. While I had the advantage of being familiar with the various ins and outs of the clearing, that thick, murky blackness was all it took to leave me fumbling my way through. I could still make things out, vaguely, but the unfamiliar shroud of the night rendered them completely alien to me. The first pangs of anxiety were beginning to set in, as well as a distinct sense of annoyance. All these years of coming back here, and they still somehow weren’t useful here? Against my better judgement, I found myself nervously laughing at the idea that the real reason why nobody stayed out past dark was because of how damn hard it was to navigate. I stayed there for a while, chuckling as I tried to quiet my nerves.

Something shifted in the bushes beside me.

I wish I could say that I hadn’t seen it, that it had been a product of my own cowardice and paranoia. After all, in the unfamiliar murkiness of the night, anything could have been out there. It could have just as well been a stray animal or broken branch that sent me running. Still, no matter how much I wish that were the case, I wasn’t afforded the luxury of unknowing, of blaming my imagination for what had happened.

I don’t think my mind was capable of imagining what I saw.

It walked like an animal, made to stand on its hind legs for someone else’s cruel amusement. Every step seemed to cause it pain, forcing its body to contort and twist in different directions, directions that living things weren’t supposed to bend. It was emaciated, gaunt, pale, as if there was just enough life in its body to keep it staggering forward. Bones jutted out, barely covered by its own horrible, pale skin. I didn’t dare look at its face, but the faintest trace of a gaping jaw could be seen dangling and flapping with every movement. I was paralyzed, every part of me freezing up in anticipation of the fate that awaited me.

It wasn’t until a noise escaped its mouth that I started to run. It was a wail of agony, a cry brought on by the inherent pain of its own existence. No matter how far I ran, it still seemed to echo through the trees. Every muscle in my body burned as I flailed my way through dead foliage. I didn’t dare to look behind me, both for the fear of being slowed down and for the fear of seeing it again.

Thankfully, I didn’t see it again. Not when I stumbled through a clearing and found myself back on the trail, or when I was questioned by the police for being out so late, or when I finally got back home and collapsed into my own bed. No matter how certain I was that it would come back, it never did. Some days, I think that the dread and paranoia that it left me with are worse than anything it could have actually done to me.

Enough time has passed now for me to know that those memories will never truly leave. The things I’ve seen, the things I’ve heard, they’ll be with me until the end. There’s a sort of peace to that, I suppose. A kind of quiet acceptance in familiarizing yourself with the burdens that you have to carry. Things don’t get easier, but they certainly don’t get any more difficult. Maybe me writing all of this down is part of that acceptance, that familiarity. For all intents and purposes, it seems to be working.

I can almost get to sleep at night now.

Still, there will always be times where the dam breaks. The memories, fear, and trauma surge back in full force, uncontrollable in their potency. Some nights I wake up as terrified and drenched in sweat as I was back then. Some nights I find myself feverishly checking outside, certain that it will lurch back into view at any moment. Some nights that awful sound rings in my ears, drowning out any futile attempt to ignore its presence.

Some nights I swear it sounds just like Mark.

But I know that can’t be.

-end.

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, LISSA! You’ve been accepted for the role of BENVOLIO. Admin Minnie: Our Bellamy has come home at last, and I am so excited to welcome you as well, Lissa! Your application was, in a word, gorgeous. I could viscerally feel Bellamy’s heartache and his struggles with every line, and you mapped out a beautiful peacemaker who has yet to find peace within himself. While I read and reread your prose several times, it was your passion for Bellamy that really made this an easy decision. The level of thoughtfulness and care, Lissa, was next level, truly. It became very clear to us how deeply you loved Bellamy, and I’m so excited to see Bellamy blossom on our dash. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER .

ALIAS:

Lissa.

AGE:

21.

PREFERRED PRONOUNS:

She/her.

ACTIVITY LEVEL:

My time is limited because of university and my part-time internship. However, I’d say I’m able to pop up twice/thrice a week, more or less!

TIMEZONE:

GMT -3.

HOW DID YOU FIND THE RP?

I found this RP some time ago, so I can’t say for sure. Probably through the tags, though!

OTHER RP ACCOUNTS:

https://dantesinfcrno.tumblr.com/.

IN CHARACTER .

CHARACTER:

Benvolio as Bellamy Santo Domingo.

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER?

“ WAR-BEGOTTEN. ” ╱  “ HIS KICKING A MEANS OF DEFENSE FROM CRUELTY. ”

NATURE VERSUS NURTURE, an undying question with no solutions, a concept with a spectrum that falters and crumbles in the hands of Bellamy: a boy, born amidst carnage, picking flowers in haunted fields and gifting beauty upon the world like a stolen flame only pertinent to deities. He wears no crown of laurels upon waves of untamed hair, but every spring spats thorns before his feet. Bellamy cradles them, plunges them against his veins, his chest, his neck, puncturing his flesh with words whispered by fated winds. Kindness is dangerous as a sharp blade, if wielded with enough precision. He refuses, time and time again, this visceral call from the woods, from the ivory castles that know of corpses and festering. He refuses, vices and sins unbecoming of him –– but they are already there, lurking in the shadows since air reached his lungs for the first time. Bellamy pretends not to see it, but those who stare deep into his eyes can recognize the Stygian darkness that swims underneath honeyed warmth. A flame is still scorching, no matter how domesticated.

IN AN INTERLUDE, he swears there will never be carmine stains in his fingers. He lays awake at night, however –– the blood his heart pumps might as well not be his own; might have been harvested off the bodies buried beneath Verona’s sacrilegious grounds. Bellamy wonders, a heavy conscience his first determining trait, if he is not punishment from the heavens to the Santo Domingo lineage, if he is not a life sentence determined by God to appease the remnant lambs saved from slaughter. As he moves through the Montagues, through his own people, Bellamy looks in a mirror, and sees nothing. He has always been a ghost, meant to carry what no one desires to hold close.

BELLAMY IS NOT A SLAUGHTERHOUSE of the likes of his father: he is a morgue, eerie place of eternal unrest. Battlecries do not linger in his tongue as prayers do; his knuckles suffer a lesser offense than his guts once a punch is thrown. Violence is a betrayal to the murdered saints that crawl through his spine, and once again–– Bellamy refuses to bow before his birthright. In a world of dog eats dog, he opts to remain alive until his last breath is stolen from his lungs, his canines and claws kept safely hidden underneath trained porcelain touch. To be made out of steel, and not crush all tender things that take root in his soul –– is it foolish, or is it admirable? The looks of pity are the only answer he has ever gotten.

“ POETIC AND PHILOSOPHICAL SOUL OF THE ANCIENT GREEKS. ”  ╱  “ CURSED WITH GENTLENESS. ”

KINDNESS & WEAKNESS, he learns, are not the same. Mercy is a weapon like any other, and Bellamy learns how to use it. They do not see it ; and dismissal becomes a habit for this ruinous shrine Bellamy dares call his body. He supposes, amidst war, it’s a privilege to have surprise by one’s side: no one expects the quietest of children to strike with such ravenous fury, hellfire blazing against raw flesh. Bellamy doesn’t speak of grief, of this century-old wound that has found a nest inside of his lungs, of this monstrous butterfly learning how to morph itself into anger.

I YEARN FOR PEACE. I yield. I must provide diplomacy for a world eager to end in flames. He repeats such verses as if they’re the poetry he is so fond of –– because the truth is, gentle elegance is a decision he has taken much before he could stand on his own legs. He is an absurdity, an oxymoron, an anomaly. Is that such a terrible thing to be? Is he in the wrong, to still mourn over those who wished to see him dead? He prays, quietly into the dead of night. He prays, and the world listens, but only for a moment. This is all the hope he has, and is it not an exit wound worse than any other? Relentless wishing upon a star, begging for a deity to descend from paradise and provide salvation–– in the end of this path, Bellamy forces himself to become Pariah & Messiah (if not him, who else would find reason amongst blasphemous madness? who else would shamefully bow their head before the cross, and beg for their sins to be forgiven?).

THE CURSE THEY SPEAK OF IS A BLESSING IN DISGUISE, for Montagues & Capulets alike are far too consumed by the fiery flames of murderous passion to understand the gravity of each battle they initiate. Bellamy has run out of ways to explain the weight of the blood that paints cobbled streets red ; decides to act as a fortress for his people (this entire city, plagued by a tale of two selfish families). PEACEMAKER, they say, as if it’s an insult –– as if his loyalty doesn’t lie deeper than any other soldier’s ; as if he has not sworn down his life for the chance Verona might see the sun rise in shades of joyous amber ; as if he hasn’t halted his existence to serve & protect.

BELLAMY DOES NOT offer words enlaced with poison to those who subdue him –– his throat aches with screams locked in for too long, but he dares not speak unless he delivers alluring arguments that might lead all out of danger. This is what he has never chosen for himself, and yet–– he bears it. For his father, for his brothers, for Roman and Marcelo, for the warriors that spit on the paths he follows with religious diligence, for the mothers in this nightmarish town that provides no comfort to their sons but death.

THE MIND HE HAS CULTIVATED, albeit mocked by many, is a powerful companion to the tender heart he has crafted with mangled hands. Innocence is vulgar in a world like this –– but Bellamy’s good will is not one borne out of naiveté. This is what both armies do not understand: Bellamy is not moved by his kindness, nor is he propelled by volatile emotions –– what blooms underneath the tender facade is a deliberate choice he will take, time and time again, funded on principles that have raised Athens from the ground up. This is what he will not abdicate. This is what no one sees, for he is more ghost than man, more mind than matter: amidst wicked and tempestuous men, Bellamy raises himself above raging waves, an unmovable marble tower.

HE, OF COURSE, STILL PICKS UP A DAGGER  ╱  a gun, infiltrating loveless troops in order to conquer peace. There is no other way, he has realized. Perhaps crumbling is necessary for rebirth ; perhaps some sins can only be washed out with blood. As Francis Butler once said, “the nation that will insist on drawing a broad line of demarcation between the fighting man and the thinking man is liable to find its fighting done by fools and its thinking done by cowards,” so Bellamy goes to the front lines ; not with the blind desire to create chaos  ╱  but to make change. If the weight of the pen is not enough, he will find a way to be heard.

“ SINS OF OMISSION. ”  ╱  “ PUT OUT THE FIRES. ”  ╱

“ SELF-LOATHING. ”

BELLAMY DOES NOT REST, his mind unable to encounter a moment of quiet. When will this end? He could only ever sleep once he turned his back to Verona, bloodshed no longer marring his door –– but still, he woke up in a cold sweat at least once a week, and it felt like betrayal, deep down in his bones. ATLAS could never hide his true nature, for the Earth would still weigh heavily down his shoulders. He wasn’t missed, of course, too much of an oddity, with idealist visions that somehow disturbed the choleric landscape they lived in. And yet, as he traveled around the globe, as he became renowned for his grasp of law & justice, insatisfaction was in the back of his mind. What if–– they died? What if–– Marcelo disappeared one night? What if–– Roman could not handle life on his own? What if––. No amount of change was capable of drowning this out, when the city that has birthed him was still ablaze. You have become selfish. He would stare at open windows, and the desire to book a flight would bellow inside of his every vein. Embrace your fate, for cowardice is unbecoming of a Santo Domingo.

BITTER ONCE HE LEAVES, bitter once he returns. Is there anything he could do, to prevent this miserable tale of a prodigal child coming back to a nest they’d long forsaken? No matter how many books he has memorized, there are no words that can explain this feeling –– no one can comprehend him, for his scars are invisible to most. He stands, tall and proud, but darkness comes for him, and he howls to the moon, for it is the only being who understands his pain. You, too, fester in ruby shades against your will. You, too, become eclipsed by a purpose much larger you could ever hope to be. You, too, are still following the footsteps of the sun. Bellamy can no longer abstain from this war, so he wears adamantine armour (a brilliant mind, a beautiful smile, poignant words). Some days, it’s easier to pretend he is no longer holy. Some days, he drowns the taste of copper from his tongue with wine. Some days, he cries –– for those he killed ; for his own spirit, mutilated. Most days, he becomes a sacred image made out of steel: I am no angel, but I can try, I must try.

“ BELLAMY MAY BE BORN INTO WAR, MAY HAVE BEEN BRED INTO IT, BUT THAT DOES NOT MEAN HE WILL HAVE TO SUBMIT TO IT — NO, HE WILL FIGHT. ”

( ADDENDUM . )   In the novel, Benvolio is a static character, lacking much depth beyond his diplomatic role, as he is often the only voice of reason amidst a vicious crowd led by a herd mentality. I aim to translate his wish for peace as his primary motivation, but root it deeper –– the system in which Bellamy was raised in should have, in theory, destroyed all tenderness his nature would have provided him with. So where does it come from? How has he protected this piece of himself, even when surrounded by death? Bellamy is a strong character –– not only because of his physique, but because his mind is a fortress. I believe his philosophical spirit has always pushed Bellamy to see life beyond the walls of his own home. I believe the love he felt specifically for Roman and Marcelo urged him to value humanity much more than any other soldier of his kind. His gentleness has always been a choice: not always a conscious one, but a choice nonetheless. But no one has only one principle to follow, and morality is a grey and temptatious thing. Bellamy might not be easily led to a fight, but he has always been a protector –– his self-loathing and the ingrained idea that his life is worth less combine to form this selfless persona, sometimes to the point of toxicity, to the detriment of his own being, willing to do it all for whomever is in need.

What is most intriguing to me, concerning Bellamy, is that he is a paradox in more ways than one, which creates a multitude of paths he could take. He strives for peace, but is still fighting a war. In his core, he believes this conflict is useless and only acts as a catalyst for more pain, but since he desires to protect his loved ones (which includes the mob he was raised in, his family and friends, but might as well include a stranger in trouble)  & honor his name, he came back to Verona as soon as he was summoned. He has been altruistic for so long it has worn him out, and now selfishness claws at his bones (he has left once, and perhaps he still thinks too often about doing so again –– Bellamy dreams of forgetting this city, wakes up and tries to repent for wishing to find an identity that goes beyond his occupation inside the Montague ranks). The kindness he chooses to exude is in high contrast to the anger that boils on his blood like a second skin –– he is tired of this game, he is exhausted of worrying and burying everyone that has once made him smile (and what does it take, for a guardian angel to turn his back on his people? What does it take, for a god to abandon his creations to bloodshed, and finally allow forgetfulness to consume his brain? I feel like Bellamy is constantly on the edge of an abyss, staring into the void, the point of no return daring him to step further). It almost feels like his body and his mind are disjointed, and his own wishes have been suppressed in order for him to fill in the shoes his family needs him to.

I don’t think Bellamy is moved by passion and intense emotions, even though his biggest motivators are linked to the people he cares about –– in fact, he cares so much about them, that he has always been willing to die by the sword if it meant his father and mother would be safe, if it meant Roman and Marcelo could enjoy a longer and happier life. He is not a cowardly man, never had the chance to be, even when the world became his home –– I envision that Bellamy has seen and lived many tragedies, probably had his hands on a few of them. It will weigh down on his back, on his shoulders. This type of character will always carry an omen on their bodies, no matter how hard they try to wash it out. I think this is a cycle that shackles Bellamy down and he still isn’t sure if he can break free from it (or even if he wants to do so, for being selfish has brought him unbearable guilt during his travels  &  Bellamy can’t forgive himself for straying away from the path delineated for him since birth): he was raised to be lethal, and he remains in this dark setting where flowers can not bloom, trying to force the petals to come out anyway, trying to grasp the sun and gift it to Verona, and the inevitable failing of this turns him disgusted by his own reflection, desperate to prove himself and justify his existence by doing his duty for the name Montague.

WHAT IS A FUTURE PLOT IDEA YOU HAVE IN MIND FOR THE CHARACTER?

GODHOOD. Verona is a city of sinners, and Bellamy’s hands are not devoid of their own –– however, in them, there is a gentleness carved out not from the absence of violence, but despite it ; a temple raised in the name of Agape, as Bellamy becomes a god, ready to purge & forgive, to kiss the feet of those who have walked upon a dirtied path & purify them. Odin Bello is not the first to use the Santo Domingo’s ears as a confessionary, and he certainly won’t be the last –– there is something in his eyes that prompts people to open up ; to make offerings and sacrifices in exchange of honeyed prayers, for it’s the holiest thing Verona has to offer (a boy still, whose halo is faded  ╱  whose body’s a litany of mysteries and nocturnal waves). This is the closest to peace they can get, half-angel at their doorstep, wings bled dry, gunpowder on his hands –– it is sublime as it is terrifying, and some can not bear it (Rafaella, for one, seems to be terrorized by his very image, insistent on driving him away as he pleads for her to see the light: where in God’s name is the child I’ve met, don’t you wish to forge a kinder ending to us all?). In his search for peace, Bellamy has long forgotten his own humanity –– he’s always had to bury it in order to fulfill his role as a son, as a warrior, as a scholar, as a peacemaker (there is no space for him to simply be, and he often wanders around Verona, searching for an exit  ╱  the world has not given him an answer, neither has the mob). What is he, but a weapon? What is he, but a forsaken deity? Bellamy has crossed oceans and continents, and still–– he isn’t seen. Is there one to embrace him fully, vices & virtues, blood moon & sunshine? Is there a way for Santo Domingo to dissolve himself of his own existence, but without guilt? The thoughts often haunt him –– but alas, he has to rise in the morning, for his own life is not the heaviest weight he has to carry.

 ( ADDENDUM . )    Unlike the two other plots I will lay out in the next sections, this one is directed inwards. Bellamy, in my perception, has always seen himself in relation to others –– how he can help, what can he do for them, how his existence can be a tool for others to improve their own lives. He has always filled in a role: his motivations are genuine, but how does one push forward, when dedicating all of their energies to everyone but themselves? I think Bellamy had his time away from home  &  from the traditional boxes he had to fit himself into, but still–– it was marred by so much guilt and the constant stress of receiving dire news, because Bellamy had always been aware Verona would not change its ways, especially not with him gone. So many of his frustrations are still boiling underneath his skin –– he is out of place, he hasn’t found himself, he doesn’t feel like he can fully pursue his dreams &  wants because it would mean letting someone else down. He is still the soldier that put all of his desires on hold in the name of honouring his ancestors, and while he takes pride on this, on his family–– it is oh, so unfulfilling, to aim for peace and come back to war, to raise your voice and not be heard.

I’m very invested in my character’s psyches, and I fully believe every character has many layers that deserve to be explored with utmost dedication –– no one is merely one thing, and it would be quite sad to portray any fictional being as such. I want to explore Bellamy’s vision of the family he so loves, and for which he has given up so much for, how adoration balances itself out with the bitterness he tries to drown so desperately, how he dedicates himself to his job  &  position even though he feels disgusted by posing as a bodyguard, when the loyalty of those he protects is bought with money and not with the respect he preaches all living creatures should be deserving of. I want to see beyond his quest for peace –– will he ever let his guard down? Will there ever be someone he trusts, beyond the feud that extends over Verona? Will Bellamy find understanding, someone he can speak to, someone that crawls underneath his skin and finds he is so much more than a peacekeeper? Most importantly, will Bellamy discover himself? Will he find his strength to power through this reality he never wished to come back to? Where will he find it? How will it transform him? Is love capable of holding him up, moving him forward? Will the hunger for more break his heart, will the ugliness of bloodshed turn him sour at last?

BROTHERS IN ARMS. Bellamy is a man of the past –– his core survives on sweet memories of a flourishing spring that will never come back. Laughter, juvenile & booming, was something he could only share with Roman and Marcelo, the two friends he feels actually belong to him, with him. Bellamy has never dared to utter his adoration aloud to either of them, has never admitted he’d rather die than see them perish. The love he has given them was perhaps lukewarm, when compared to these two feisty demons with hellfire for hearts: Bellamy’s affection was a tender kiss to the temples, soft massages to erase their aches, a moment of quiet as he wiped the sweat from their foreheads. He never promised to remain by their side, but in his chest–– he knows his place is right beside them, perhaps below them, but still close. And Bellamy has thrown that to the wind once he up and left, consumed with a selfish desire to live as a person, and not a warrior born out of a patronym. He loves them, will always love them most of all –– but maybe that is not enough. Maybe there is an abyss in between them, an ocean separating their souls. Lucky for them, Bellamy is willing to cross it with undeterred determination –– anything to safely tuck them away inside his rib cage ; his drive to protect grows stronger when near them (is there anything he wouldn’t do for these remembrances of boyhood? He is scared of discovering there isn’t, so he blinds himself once Marcelo comes by, once Roman’s cologne reaches his nose). The tally of his sins would grow & grow, and the only ones that would make such fate bearable would be his brothers.

 ( ADDENDUM . )    Bellamy’s friendship with Roman and Marcelo is one of the things I’m extra eager to explore! First and foremost, because I am sure, beyond Bellamy’s immediate family, these two are his most important people  &  there is very little he wouldn’t do for them. And, boy, would I like to discover what the limits of this friendship are! Is there a line Bellamy, the loyal Patroclus to these two Achilles, would not cross, even when concerning the people closest to his heart? Would he ever forsake them in the name of his morals? Alternatively, what absurdities would he commit on their names? What lengths would he cover, to see both of them living a long and happy life?

In the book, Benvolio is in a lower position than Mercutio and Romeo –– which is mirrored here, so it opens up a myriad of possibilities. Italian mafias are known for a strict code of conduct  &  sense of hierarchy, and they also work as famiglias, obviously. So I picture that, although they were raised together, there was always a thin line separating them: Bellamy always considered himself less than Roman and Marcelo, and was satisfied to occupy this lower rank  & serve them in any way he could. It interests me in the sense that, even though they’re his closest friends &  probably the few people that have always accepted him (because this is another one of his struggles –– both his “softer” personality and his gender identity are probably strange concepts to his traditional family in the same manner, and acceptance is not something Bellamy has ever had plentiful of), I still think Bellamy tries and holds himself back with them –– there are parts of him that are occulted, and purposefully so, from the ones he loves most. So I’m thinking, once he left, it was probably a huge shock for Roman and Marcelo –– no one saw it coming. Of course Bellamy did his best to remain in contact, but still, dissidence is dissidence. So how do they receive him back? Have Roman and Marcelo ever actually seen Bellamy with the same eyes he sees himself with? How much of an abyss has originated in between them, after these four years of distance?

BLOODHOUND. Loyalty and obedience, when combined, are quite a dangerous threat to one’s honesty and commitment to good deeds, especially when an involvement with the mob is concerned. His continuous absence has not gone unnoticed –– and many have frowned upon his return. Bellamy, a soldier? he has heard them laugh. Bellamy, a fighter? he has felt their scorn from the weight of the stares that follow him as he steps into a room. It brings him sick nostalgia ; one that leaves his stomach turned upside down. The children that used to sneer at him for taking care of stray dogs & cats are now his companions in this senseless war (and yet they all seem too eager to see Bellamy fail –– they doubt him, untrust creating a wall between them. More than isolating, it’s demeaning to a man who is willing to give out his life to honor his father’s  ╱  a man who has slashed all of his hopes & dreams to fulfill a path that does not belong to him). The bellicose bickering within the ranks, however, does not disturb him –– Benvolio does not get the credit he is deserving of, for hiding so well underneath porcelain features. These soldiers have nothing on the silent storm that builds inside of Benvolio –– his heritage has always been written out in shallow graves, tainted by fate ; by the numerous gods of Death. Now, he is forced to reach for it, to hold it (it scorches his fingers, it gifts him endless agony, but he lets it have its rightful place next to his beating heart). How far into umbriferous rivers can he sink?  ╱  What is the limit of this painful allegiance to his own name? Bellamy does not sleep, for all his nights are wasted away in wondering –– what will I become? And that is perhaps the only murder he is not ready to commit.

 ( ADDENDUM . )    Concerning this point, I’d like to explore a few paths. Firstly, how was Bellamy received back by the Montagues? He was never a figure on the receiving end of much respect, since his quest for peace turned him into a black sheep of sorts, but surely leaving amidst a war was not an act appreciated by many. Are there suspicions of him? Is he a victim of something similar to military abuse from his peers? Trust was certainly lost, and Bellamy is willing to take the steps to conquer it back –– not for himself, but in the name of his poor father, who deserves as much. The point is, how far is he willing to go for this acceptance? Better yet, in order to show the loyalty that he has always cherished for his parents &  for the Montagues, is Bellamy willing to go against his principles? Of course, he is wearing their armour while vouching for peace, but this is not a plan that can be considered definitive.

He is merely a soldier, but would he go against the hierarchy he was raised to respect, if he felt the orders given were unjust? Spoiler alert: I think he certainly would, which would only make the trust he is desperate to regain even more of a distant perspective. I think Bellamy would struggle to try to maintain the scales even, to find a balance between obedience and his principles –– but that won’t work forever, and, at some point, he will have to decide what reigns (and that is one more inner turmoil for him to face). This is something that will always be at the core of his development, in my opinion, and it can fluctuate.

For example, Bellamy is a scholar. I see him as the observing type, listening before he speaks. He tries to understand people to the best of his ability. So, of course, he will interact with Capulets and, instead of seeing them as the enemy, he will more likely take a humanist approach. These are individuals, with their own families  &  struggles, not beasts to be slaughtered –– this is where Odin Bello comes in, for I think he’ll be a very important piece for Bellamy’s development in this sense, because the Santo Domingo willfully trusts people, no matter their background (everyone should have a second chance, should they not?). He is not ignorant or unaware of how this can end, but he is certainly a character with the most disposition to understand someone coming from a different place than he is.

If the time comes where he has to end one of them (and I’d like him to –– whether because it’s a request from Roman or Marcelo themselves, or a decision Bellamy comes to in order to defend them, because his protective nature is not just for show, and it definitely has darker roots), it would be a large blow to his constitution as a person. I don’t think Bellamy would ever forgive himself, and guilt would consume him –– it’s a great source to explore the underlying shadows he has, his self-hatred, and where would those things lead him (would he leave? Would he consider himself, at one point, far too gone &  take a leap into war? Would he take his own life? Would he ever betray the Montagues to save another?).

I think this is intriguing as well, because Bellamy’s motivations are directed outwardly –– to achieve peace for the city, to save his loved ones from pain, so on and so forth. So his relationships to others will be determinants to the paths he’d take –– because it’s an instinct of his, to think of others before himself. But, then again, can he be convinced to embrace his selfishness? Can he turn his back to them all, if enough buttons are pushed? Everyone has a breaking point, and Bellamy seems to outright neglect his needs and limitations in order to step in for others –– which means a breakdown is in order, but also that it will take plenty of build-up!

ARE YOU COMFORTABLE WITH KILLING OFF YOUR CHARACTER?

Yes, for sure, if it serves a purpose!

IN DEPTH .

IN-CHARACTER INTERVIEW:

› WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE PLACE IN VERONA? ‹

CARAMEL-HUED IRISES meet the ethereal roof of the Cathedral of Verona –– it used to be his favorite place, even when the Capulets reigned over it, for it raised Bellamy closer to a God he could hear  ╱  could understand better than he could a war that tinged his family with nonsensical losses and burials, hollowed out spaces carved on their roots as the sunset started resembling more a battleground than a kingdom of beauty. Bellamy recalls the singing that used to echo inside luxurious walls, filling his heart with choirs of warm voices (the boy swore he could feel an angel’s grasp touching his hands, inviting him to reach higher  ╱  he never did, terrified of the consequences of holiness, but perhaps he was gifted with a martyr’s heart, and was that not much heavier?). Now, however, the Montague mark has erased memories of saints & softness alike –– there is always a dulled tud to be heard ; a silent ache overflowing from his bones. Bellamy taps his pen against the question he posed against himself: it was a heavy blow too soon since his return, but the Santo Domingo only knows kindness to wounds that do not belong to him. There is a heavy sigh as mulls over his options –– even his home is a lie, one that bears a dismantled innocence he’d rather avoid. In the corner of his notebook, Bellamy writes down, cursive letters delineated with delicacy: “ the library. ” It is no different than the church, for the countless shelves boast about the Montague heritage –– in Verona, there is nowhere to turn, for every piece of the city tells a story not in ink, but with blood (he tries to tell himself he does not hate this, that a part of him does not fester once he walks outside, breathes in the air soaked with death). When Bellamy sinks into immeasurable knowledge, however, it’s easier to forget the reality that awaits him outside the Montague’s fortress –– even as a man, as a soldier, Bellamy lingers in empty rooms, a stack of books by his side as the hours come and go (he does not distract himself with the noises outside, with the possibilities with sharp claws, as poets and philosophers and theorists feed him sublime words). What else could he ask for, but this make-shift serenity?

› WHAT DOES YOUR TYPICAL DAY LOOK LIKE? ‹

IT IS PATHETIC OF HIM, to gather the unstopping questions he received upon his return & write them down to pin answers proper enough (underneath his skin, however, the truth lurks as a viper: you can only spit out honesty to yourself, face half-eclipsed, in secret  ╱  no one desires to hear you once the pleasant river that flows down your tongue stanches ; once the corpses start floating up from the depths of your soul to the shore of your lips, disfigured & dismembered, like the crude words you never let out). His handwriting seems to stare into his soul, calloused fingers trembling as his mind splits –– the facade, his candor, the middle-ground that is as unsatisfying as what Bellamy has to offer. He is twenty-four, a degree in law under his belt with a specialization on international relations –– but he is a bodyguard  ╱  a soldier (it all depends on who asks) ; and his most prized possession is no longer his mind, but the strength of his brawl. Bellamy finds it strange, even, that they trust his hands to protect –– most days are accompanied by the weighty stare of his peers, as if he is not a pacifist but instead a grenade. It is almost demeaning, for a man of the law to stand by people, but only for a price (as if any life can be monetized ; as if that is not a sin by itself). His mere stance inside the Montague ranks make him a corrupted figure, unclean –– it’s worth it, he mumbles under his breath, it’s what I was made for (his heart seems to rebel with the strength of a caged bird as he steps further into this organization).

His days are spent idly, almost –– his fists are always clenched ; bile is always clinging to his throat, acidic & nauseating. There is no beauty to uncover in Verona, no enthralling tales waiting to be discovered. –––– I spend all of my days trying to be heard, even though I am well aware soldiers are not supposed to have mouths. –––– he whispers to himself, a tender smile forming on his lips (it’s an instinct, more than a reflection of joy). One day, perhaps, his fight will be worth it –– at least, that’s what he tells himself, in order to have half an hour of rest every dawn.

› WHAT HAS BEEN YOUR BIGGEST MISTAKE THUS FAR? ‹

IT’S A QUESTION THAT HAUNTS HIM SINCE CHILDHOOD, for Bellamy often wonders what he could’ve done differently –– is there any choice he could’ve taken, that would spare him of these results? No matter the frequency with which he falls into these pits, the conclusion he comes to tends to be the same: fate would have been kinder only if he had been born under a different name, far away from the plagued streets of Italy –– but since he is a Santo Domingo, the list of his mistakes extends itself much further than the date of his genesis, going back to the first man to shed their skin in the honour of a Montague and not their own. Bellamy’s nails dig through the palms of his hands –– it throbs, but it’s the subdued ache that he is used to welcoming with open arms (he does not pity himself, for his low worth is a fact ingrained on the insides of his thighs and his teeth). –––– What mistake have I not made? –––– he wonders aloud, and his voice echoes and shatters inside this chamber of forgiveness (but even God has abandoned him, no glories to be bestowed upon Bellamy’s solitary altar). His eyes are closed once he starts scribbling, uninterrupted consciousness as he lists his regrets: tearing apart my mother’s womb ; surviving the trials humanity forced upon a frail child’s body ; laughing when I shouldn’t have ; refusing to smile when I should’ve ; abandoning the city that gifted me all I have ; returning to the place that crushed my hopes ; being too tender  ╱  being too harsh ; simply being –– not a fleshed warrior, not a kinder deity (just Bellamy, a fine friend, and nothing more).

› WHAT HAS BEEN THE MOST DIFFICULT TASK ASKED OF YOU? ‹

TO STOP VALUING LIFE, is what he writes down, without much thought. As a combatant, one must first learn how to fall (how to perish) before picking up a sword or lifting their fists. As a protector, Bellamy grew up listening that his life was no more than a shield to his king –– and perhaps, he never truly learned how to give this up, this desire to become more than these red threads of fate ordered him to be (more than carnage, this was his reason for leaving, was it not? To find the parts of Bellamy Santo Domingo that extended beyond mob ranks & fancy nomenclatures for murderers). His dilemma was a sword with multiple edges, and it ended nested inside his chest, puncturing his heart –– no one seemed to mean a thing for the war that raged on, no matter how beloved ; entire families could be wiped clean and left without a proper ending ; kind strangers could become his next target (and, oh, perhaps the smile Bellamy had given them was more ominous than an act of docility ; perhaps he has more claws and canines than he wants to admit).

› WHAT ARE YOUR THOUGHTS ON THE WAR BETWEEN THE CAPULETS AND THE MONTAGUES? ‹

I WANT IT TO END, and the words are furious, burning against paper –– his pulse seems to strike with force against his jugular (Bellamy feels every beat, and in his mind, there’s always the awareness it might be his last). –––– It has gone for far too long, it is not worth it –– it has never been. –––– he is a preacher to no one but himself in this moment, solitude providing him an outlet for the emotions he so adores to bottle up, muttering under his breath as the light inside his eyes flickers (it can’t go out, but God –– how to keep a candle ablaze when the winds blow harsher with each new day? How to maintain the warmth inside his muscles when winter consumes him whole? How, how, how?). Bellamy pushes against the current, but his legs are paralysed and frozen  ╱  phantom limbs, as he tries not to succumb to the ghostly nature that has followed his every step. Bellamy writes, and writes, and writes –– he has also ran away, he has also tried to become someone else. But now, he is determined to fight –– he isn’t sure of the how or when, but the gun already weighs in the palm of his hand. Time is ticking ; eyes bore into his back. I WANT IT TO END, AND I WILL END IT (and, oh, Lord, what is the cost of this one more choice?).

IN-CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE:

EXTRAS:

Pinterest board.

[the-golden-ghost]

Ooooooh these are good! How about primes for Davy, and multiples of 5 for Hope?

This is gonna get long and Suffery, so here we go!

Davy:

2. What is the thing they feel the most guilty about?

Losing his original ship along with the crew. He still feels like he caused the deaths of those people by being too rash, which is not good.

3. What is the worst pain they’ve ever experienced?

Physically... his father broke his wrist a few times, so maybe that? Emotionally, probably the death of Osric Lamarck. 

5. List 3 fears; one “surface level” fear, one “repressed” fear, and one “deep dark” fear.

Harm coming to his crew members

Being touched

Losing his freedom and safety

7. What feature (physical or otherwise) do they hate most about themselves?

His eyes. They look just like his dad’s, same shape and color and everything. 

11. Do they have any vices?

Lots. Cowardice, callousness, passive-aggressiveness, aloofness. Not to mention, you know... theft and property damage? 

13. Which of the 7 Deadly Sins best describes them?

I would say maybe lust, as in a lust for his goal that he won’t yield from and which sometimes causes his crew harm and strife. 

17. What sound always gives them a headache?

The sound of a radio playing in the next room.

19. Do they consider themselves ugly?

Not ugly, but he hates looking in the mirror and seeing his father’s features so clearly defined. He doesn’t keep mirrors on the ship due to this, and so there’s rumors about his being a vampire. 

23. Have they ever been assaulted/abused/raped?

Yes, many times. His father was not a good man.

29. Does what they cannot see scare them?

Not really. To some extent, he prefers not being able to see certain things. There’s safety in not knowing.

31. Do they have self-confidence or self-image issues?

Kinda, yeah. He’s fairly confident in his abilities since they’ve been proven, but his self-image is still a little odd. He’s always seen himself as a fundamentally bad and awful person due to the way he was raised, and now he... actually kind of is an awful person? So self-fulfilling prophecy I guess.

37. Have they ever had their freedom taken away?

Not really. 

41. Do they get sick often?

No. He gets anxiety attacks from time to time but mostly his crew does not notice and he can just get over them on his own time. 

43. Do they wish that they could change their pasts?

Absolutely. He’s always wanted to come from a happy and supportive family, with parents who loved him.

47. Have they ever gone so far as to attempt suicide?

Yes, when he was eighteen. It caused more trouble than he wanted. Also he survived against his better judgement. 

Hope: 

5. List 3 fears; one “surface level” fear, one “repressed” fear, and one “deep dark” fear.

Losing her babies (and her pets. And her sisters)

That Faith will never forgive her

That everyone she knows will come to realize what a terrible person she actually is and abandon her 

10. What is their greatest mental weakness?

Probably how she falls in love in like a matter of seconds and then gets depressed when it doesn’t work out.

15. Who do they hate the most?

Probably Jarvis. She doesn’t really hate anyone, though.

20. Do they consider themselves unloveable?

At this point, a little. She has never had a relationship that went... well. Indefinitely, at least.

25. Have they ever been betrayed by someone they thought they could trust?

No but she’s betrayed people who thought they could trust her and she’s had to live with the guilt, does that help?

30. Have they ever been bullied?

Not a ton since she’s the child of the Gods of the Winds, which makes her not a Great target for bullying, but she’s always been treated as inferior due to her blindness or as rebellious and improper due to her gayness and that’s made a mark on her.

35. If they could change one thing about themselves, what would it be?

She would actually opt to not be blind. It’s part of her, and she accepts it, but it would definitely make things easier. Besides, she’s always wanted to do things like see the stars and play I Spy.

40. Do they often blame themselves for other people’s problems?

Yes. Constantly. She’s troubling like that.

45. What is the emotion they most commonly experience?

Pure and Unfettered Love and Adoration

[puzzlepcice-a]

𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙍𝘼𝘾𝙏𝙀𝙍 𝙎𝙃𝙀𝙀𝙏.

————  repost, don’t reblog !

𝙗𝙖𝙨𝙞𝙘𝙨.

FULL NAME.    clementine marigold wright. PRONUNCIATION.    kl-em-en-ty-ne. NICKNAME.    clem. “sweet pea” --- ( exclusively from lee. ) GENDER.    cis female. HEIGHT.    5′2. AGE.    17   ZODIAC.   scorpio. SPOKEN LANGUAGES.    english

𝙥𝙝𝙮𝙨𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙨.

HAIR COLOR.    dark brown. EYE COLOR.    hazel. SKIN TONE.    olive. BODY TYPE.    lean, athletic. ACCENT.    american. VOICE.   sweet in pitch, but mature, leveled ( ref. - melissa hutchison ) DOMINANT HAND.    right. POSTURE.    hands on hips, or arms crossed, but slouches when she sits. SCARS.   a bullet wound on her shoulder, an initiation burn marking on her left arm, a wound on her cheek from a whizzing bullet. TATTOOS.    a symbol on her left arm. BIRTHMARKS.    none. MOST NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S).    a ratty, dodgers baseball cap atop her head, petite features permantantly in a scowl.

𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙙.

PLACE OF BIRTH.   atlanta, georgia. HOMETOWN.    suburban, atlanta. FIRST WORDS.   apple, doggy, and mama!  SIBLINGS.    only child. PARENTS.    ed and diana wright. PARENTAL INVOLVEMENT.    with her dad being an engineer, and her mother being a doctor, their demanding jobs had occasionally left clementine either in the care of her grandparents, or with her personal babysitter, sandra. and due to her increasing loneliness of not having another sibling to bond and play with, clem often asked sandra to play games with her in their backyard, specifically “secret sisters”. but from her loneliness grew independence that would follow her throughout her life, and she took to using her imagination to make-believe stories with her treehouse as her own headquarters, so much so, even during the free days her parents had at home, clem would prefer to color, or play outside.

𝙖𝙙𝙪𝙡𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚.

OCCUPATION.    survivor-co leader, supply-runner, fisherwoman, formerly patrol-woman, hunter at wellington, and  “paid” scavenger at prescott. CURRENT RESIDENCE.    ericsons boarding school for troubled youth. CLOSE FRIENDS.    aj, violet, louis, omar, willy, tenn, ruby, aasim, marlon and mitch. RELATIONSHIP STATUS.    single. ( verse dependent ) FINANCIAL STATUS.    middle class, pre-apocalypse. CRIMINAL RECORD.    none. post-apocalypse - murder, robbery.  VICES.    has a tendency to become too defensive and harsh in her conversation sometimes, too serious, overprotective, prone to having an attitude, a smart-mouth. 

𝙨𝙚𝙭 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION.    bisexual. ROMANTIC ORIENTATION.    biromantic. PREFERRED EMOTIONAL ROLE.    submissive |  dominant |  switch. PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE.    submissive  |  dominant  |  switch. LIBIDO.    average. TURN ON’S.    sense of humor, someone who is also not afraid of laughing at themselves, empathy, compassion, loyalty, confidence, but also likes someone who is more on the shy and modest side, feistiness = someone that's not afraid of standing up for not only themselves, but their friends and loved ones, loving gestures, kindness. you also cant go wrong with someone who knows their way around taking out a couple walkers. TURN OFF’S.    disloyalty, cowardice, ignorance, recklessness, showing a disregard for other lives, arrogance, a sense of entitlement, rudeness. LOVE LANGUAGE.    requesting to spend quality / alone time, sneaking lingering glances over and looking away when caught, trying to make terrible puns in order to make them laugh, pinky-holding / hand holding, leaning into their space. RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES.   as affectionate as she is, clem’s really shy when it comes to pda! but is not opposed to cheek-kisses/forehead kisses. when on one-on-one time with her s/o, she loves cuddling up with them, playing with their fingers/hair while she or they talk, asks them on “date nights”, spooning them, or go out of her way to make them something homemade --- as her way of showing how much they mean to her. or wanting to find something for them, instead! she likes giving.

𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙚𝙤𝙪𝙨.

CHARACTER’S THEME SONG.   waiting around to die — be good tanyas. HOBBIES TO PASS TIME.  archery, hunting, reading, gardening, drawing and playing card games with her friend. MENTAL ILLNESSES.    ptsd, depression, anxiety, survivors-guilt. PHYSICAL ILLNESSES.    none. LEFT OR RIGHT BRAINED.    right-brained. PHOBIAS.   aquaphobia --- fear of great bodies of water. cynophobia --- fear of dogs. ( dependent ) SELF CONFIDENCE LEVEL.    moderate. she doesn't think of herself as confident person a lot of the time! generally, she just thinks she's outspoken, and steps up to make sure her voice and intentions are heard and utilized if someone recognizes her as a valued member of a group, not so much for herself., but for the people she cares about and sets a “tone” for how she carries herself that most people don’t initially see as welcoming---as far as she's been told. VULNERABILITIES.   her immense fear of being alone eats her up inside and almost sends her into panic-mode, because she knows that when shes alone, bad things tend to happen--- which is often the trigger for her nightmares. it renders her into self sabotaging herself and pushing people away ( save for aj + who is on the other side of that coin with how much emotional weight and dependency she's put into him ) who wanna try and get close to her. on top of enduring through countless people that's betrayed her, its given her a cynical and sometimes aggressive approach of groups and trust issues.  following that is her own guilt about the past deeds she’s done to ( unbeknownst to her ) innocence people that she hasn't confronted, and actively tries to avoid it. its made her self-esteem take a complete nosedive, and doubt her self-worth to the point where she thinks she doesn't deserve strokes of luck, or the love and care people have for her. but her taking responsibility over their deaths, telling herself that she’s to blame and that shes a murderer is the biggest weight on her shoulders, and is the only thing that can really get under her skin that makes her completely emotionally, and mentally break her defenses down. tagged by: @merceditaes! (ty a bunch!) tagging: the dash!

[thepunktheory]

Quote of the Day #138

Quote of the Day #138

“Cowardice is the most terrible of vices.”― Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita

[fuk-iu]

“Cowardice is the most terrible of vices.” - The Master and the Margarita by Mihail Bulgakov 🌼 . . . #bookquotes #bibliophile #bookish #cititulnuingrasa #eucitesc #cecitim #cititoridinromania #citesteocarte #booknerd #bookworm #booklover #bookstagram #bibliobibuli #tbr #wanttoread #igreads #instabook