#he’d probably only customize weapons that he has some sort of attachment to

[natewithacake]

More info on my inkling!! Time for some weapon stuffs ( ´ ω ` )

Because alot of the stages are supposed to have practical uses outside of matches, it makes sense for the more commercial/buisness related stages to have some merch to capitialize on the locations being popular!! (Stages like Barnicle & Dime, wahoo world, lemura hub, and meuseum d’alfonsino)

Also no stickers on Slosher because the gradient thing is already super cool and adds enough flair to the weapon as is

[irene-sadler]

Sir Reynard and the Red Knight

(aka 'The Tournament')

special notes:

the vibe i chose for this imaginary fair/holiday is a mashup of pieces from medieval christmas and new year's eve celebrations. ofc as I mentioned before most of those were Christianity-based, but some of them had a distintly pre-Christian Anglo-Saxon pagan flavor. now my source material here is from 1827, but the author makes sure to let us know which traditions (he thinks) are older than Christianity. the book (books actually, there's 3 of them total) itself is also kind of a fun read, it's sort of a combo of an almanac/calendar/reference guide/gossip column.

a n y w a y, so, specifically i want to mention (b/c i stole them for this story and i don't want to do that without letting ppl know these are or were real traditions that real people observed) serving a boars' head on christmas day (Essex, England, observed "from time immemorial"), the wassail bowl/toast (a new year custom very definitely from before Christianity and apparently present in various parts of Europe altho I don't have the specific expertise to explain why), and an interesting/weird/gruesome Christmas parade (Kent) which the book describes: "A party of young people procure the head of a dead horse, which is affixed to a pole about four feet in length, a string is tied to the lower jaw, a horse cloth is then attached to the whole, under which one of the party gets, and by frequently pulling the string keeps up a loud snapping noise." This is called a Hodening and whether or not ppl still do it I don't know but, uh, i hope so b/c awesome.

also theres only 1 chapter left if u stuck with it this whole time or, idk, it's 2024 and u read the whole thing at once thanks for bothering love u

----

9.

     “Yes, hello,” Gascon said, pretending not to notice Meve’s displeasure. “Good afternoon, ladies,” he added, as the Baroness and Giselle turned to look curiously down at where he stood in the shadows. The Baroness frowned and pursed her lips judiciously; Giselle considered him and glanced uncertainly at the older women.

    “Anyway,” he continued, an edge of urgency buried in his easy tone, “Do you have a minute to spare?”

    “No,” the Queen said stiffly, turning back toward the empty lists. “I’m busy; whatever it is will have to wait until later.”

    “Oh,” he replied, growing very faintly annoyed, “Because it’s about that thing you wanted last night; just thought you’d be interested t’ know I’ve done it.”

    She hesitated, ignoring the Baroness’s raised eyebrow and Giselle’s uncomfortable confusion, struggled momentarily between curiosity and base pettiness, and finally said, “Yes, fine; I have a few minutes, I suppose.”

    “Fifteen minutes,” the Baroness said, pointedly.

    “No time to waste, then,” said Gascon; he winked at Giselle, who took her cue from the Baroness and frowned disapprovingly back at him, and they hurried off.

    “So, what is it, then?” Meve asked bluntly, as they turned into the town’s streets at a rapid stroll. “I assume you’ve caught the saboteur, else you wouldn’t have bothered me.”

    “Well, I caught Gaheris; he may be the saboteur, or may not,” Gascon said, disregarding her tone. “Gaspar thinks he is, though, and he’s th’ only one who saw th’ intruder close up last night, so odds are good he’s your man.”

    “Really?” She abandoned her moodiness in favor of mild surprise, and then asked, “When did this happen?”

    “Oh, only about an hour ago. Less, even. Seemed like there was no real need for a public scene, so I just had him snatched off the street and, you know - stashed somewhere convenient,” Gascon explained, leading the way down an alley and into a butcher. The owner nodded and smiled to him as he passed through the door and headed toward the back, spotted the Queen, and instantly looked away at nothing in particular. Pug and Gaspar waited in the yard behind the shop, standing guard over a man with a bag on his head and a bandage around his left ankle. Gascon nodded at Pug and she yanked the bag away; Gaheris squinted in the light and surveyed his surroundings - two large, brightly interested pigs in a pen, his sinister pair of captors, and, finally, Meve and Gascon. He sighed.

    “Got ‘im in one piece, as you wanted,” Pug announced in her gruff voice; a dubious claim, as Gaheris had a black eye and a split lip, but Gascon nodded approvingly and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, toward the shop.

    “Wait inside for a bit,” he said; Pug and Gaspar departed, leaving their captive to his deserved fate.

    “Now, sir,” Meve said briskly to Gaheris; if she had any doubts about his culpability, she kept them firmly to herself. “Let’s not waste time with falsehoods or denials.”        

    “No,” he said, resignedly, “Doesn’t seem to be much point in trying.”

    “Quite. So, explain what it is you’ve been up to, then.”

    “Start with last night,” Gascon added, as the squire took a few too many seconds to think it over. “Hurry up.”

    “Ah, well. I was trying to get hold of a piece of equipment I knew was among Sir Odo’s things in the barn,” he said. “The girth from a saddle.”

    “Continue,” the Queen said, as he paused, clearly thinking the question answered.

    “Well, obviously I didn’t get it, since that - that thug sliced my ankle t’ the bone when I tried. Seems the girth held up, though, regardless, through today; probably because Sir Odo don’t take many hits, luckily for him.”

    “No, it’s because I found it last night and changed it out for a new one,” Gascon said, angrily. “You’re the one who cut it, are you?”

    Gaheris nodded.

    “I knew it,” the Duke muttered; Meve waved his self-congratulatory comment away, scowling.

    “When did you do it?”

    “Oh, a month ago, or more,” he said. “Just before the duel against Sir Holt.”

    “Why?”

    He blinked at the question and said, as if it was obvious, “Because Sir Holt told me to, in hopes he’d win.”

    “You did a bad job, then,” Gascon snapped; Gaheris looked mildly offended.

    “No,” he said. “No, I didn’t. The girth held, did it not? Sir Odo won - or, well he could have, if he’d wanted to.”

    He looked at his interrogators’ baffled stares, and then explained, patiently, “Look - I cut through the leather, left just enough to hold a strain for a good while, glued it so it’d look like nothing, and told Holt I’d done what he wanted. Simple. I just didn’t have the chance to get it back, after the fight; too many people hanging around who might’ve seen me. If I had done, nobody would have been the wiser.”

    Meve stared at him, torn between confusion and anger, opened her mouth, and closed it again as an echo of distant horns bounced off the buildings.

    “Damn,” she said. “I have to go. Gascon, find Sir Holt.”

    “What should I do with him?” he asked, as she turned to leave; she hesitated, considered her options, and came to a hasty decision.

    “Just keep tabs on him, don’t let him leave town, and - and we’ll sort this mess out, later.”

    “You’ll find him in the tavern, no doubt,” Gaheris said wearily to Gascon, as she quickly departed.

      She nearly ran back through the streets, but she was still late; she returned to the lists to find the Baroness had started the final round without her. However, she she was in time to see Nolda avoid an immediate defeat by the same method she had used on Sir Eres, but Reynard survived her trick, when his fellow knight hadn’t. She nodded in satisfaction at the display.

    “Your man is a quick study, as he’s always been,” said the Baroness, as if Meve had never been away. The next pass involved no deceptions from either side, nor any displays of brilliance; Nolda blocked an ordinary sort of attack on her shield, and never touched Sir Odo.

    “He’s testing the waters,” Meve said, slightly bored with her favorite’s typically cautious tactics. “How long have they been at it?”

    “You only missed one pass; the foreigner’s better at this than I expected.”

    “She’s tricky,” Giselle noted, appreciatively. “What’s the Count doing, there?”

    There was a short pause; Meve glanced downfield and answered, “Oh, he wants a different lance, I imagine.”

    The delay took a full half minute, due to some confusion on Ethan’s part; the Baroness mumbled a displeased remark about the squire’s ineptitude, and then the combat began again.

    “He wants to make up for Nolda’s left-handedness,” the Baroness explained, louder, “That’s what the long spear is for. Most people don’t learn to fight the way she does -”

    She broke off; Reynard’s change of weapon had answered, and he had dealt a strike that had nearly unseated his opponent; she managed to stay in the saddle by luck or skill and they lined up again.

    “He has her figured out; this’ll be th’ end of it,” said Meve. The Baroness nodded agreement. Giselle looked unconvinced, but, in the end, Reynard landed a direct attack to his opponent’s helm and Nolda crashed to earth at long last.

    “A devilishly difficult play,” the Baroness said, in the silence that followed. “Dangerous, too.”

    Reynard had turned to look behind himself, before his horse had even reached the end of the barricade; Nolda lay still on the ground for a few moments, and then, as her husband vaulted the fence and came running toward her, stirred and sat up. She waved an irritated hand at Bohault and Reynard, who had trotted back and dropped from his horse as soon as he was rid of his lance, but neither paid attention to her gestures or her repeated insistence that she was perfectly fine. The crowd’s general din returned, drowning out their conversation; Meve breathed a relieved sigh and reluctantly turned her thoughts back to Gaheris and Sir Holt, and then - she frowned slightly - Gascon’s mysterious absence during the day.

    “Pity you can’t make her a knight,” Giselle said, of Nolda, interrupting her consideration; Meve’s frown grew thoughtful.

    “A knight,” she repeated to herself, under her breath, watching the muddle on the field break up - Reynard back to his horse, Bohault and Nolda to hers - a vague connection, or suspicion, growing in the back of her mind. She turned abruptly to the Baroness, interrupted an ongoing reminisce on the handful of times she’d seen another knight employ a tactic similar to Reynard’s winning strike, and said, “Listen, Hilde - the black knight; do you know who he is?”

    The Baroness hesitated, slightly confused, and replied, choosing her words carefully, “I believe so, but - wasn’t that what you and the Duke spoke about?”

    “No,” the Queen said, disgruntled. “No, it wasn’t.”      

    “Ah,” she said, looking away toward the approaching victors, “Well, perhaps you should. Count Odo, congratulations on another victory; well fought, Nolda. My lord, you’ve won quite a fine horse, I believe, and you, madam, a sword. They’ll be bringing them along shortly.”

      Any personal urgency she felt to finally sort out her ongoing affairs was wasted; the prizes took very little time to hand out, but a number of unrelated problems were brought to her individual attention as soon as the victors rode away. She sent Giselle back to her tavern with genuine gratitude for her service, dealt out various solutions, and then at last she and the Baroness set off toward the castle. The streets of the city were packed, twilight was setting in, and there was no way to hurry their progress no matter how their guard tried. A wagon that had lost a wheel blocked the way, first, and then a succession of other disruptions: a traveling comedic play about a sorcerer and some maidens, some cows wandering loose in the street, a troupe of drunken minstrels playing festive tunes, a strange procession led by a solemn youth holding a freshly cut horse’s head mounted on a pole as a banner, a group of offended clerics in its wake, handcarts selling buns and ale, and, finally, on the bridge over the castle moat, an armored knight still on his charger, who would not be shifted by man or beast until Meve stepped out of the torchlit crowd and threatened to remove him herself.

    Then there was yet another feast, this time held in the hall and attended by more of the usual crowd - but, of course, with the horde of knights and sundry that had participated in the jousts, somewhat more of them than normal. There were the typical, expected customs - a boar’s head served, bowls of spiced ale passed around, a number of favors and pardons bestowed, gifts received (and given; Count Odo, for one, courteously gave the warhorse he’d won earlier in the day to Nolda, who accepted it in a fiercely embarrassed but otherwise gracious fashion) - and various other ancient rituals observed.

    “I would’ve asked if you thought giving her the horse was a good idea,” Reynard said privately to the Queen, during the Mayor’s inevitable remarks, “But I didn’t catch you in time. If I’m honest it’s less a gift and more a bribe, of a sort; Ethan’s left-handed, same as her, and I thought it might make it easier to convince her to teach him.”

    “There were some delays getting back,” she replied, also in an undertone, her eyes resolutely fixed on the speaker as he recited a hopeful list of future developments for the upcoming year. “This whole afternoon’s been nothing but delays, in fact.”

    “I’ll tell you about it later,” she added, quickly, as the speech ended, aimed a quick but pointed glance at the distant Gascon, who immediately slipped out a side door, and then dismissed the court in the exact words she’d recited for ten years, and, before her, her late husband, and his father, and their distant grandfathers, for all of remembered history.

      Finally getting rid of her guests took much longer than the traditional close to the winter solstice did. As a result, it was past midnight before she made the solitary climb up the stairs to her office, looking forward to finally having a quiet minute to think. However, Reynard and Gascon - and Gaheris - were within, despite the late hour; the squire stopped in the middle of a sentence and all three men automatically turned her way when she stepped through the door. She waved an impatient hand at him to continue and leaned against her own desk, hiding her weariness behind a cold stare. Gaheris returned to repeating his confession; Reynard listened in silence, his expression drifting subtly between offense and genuine confusion. At the end, he frowned and asked, “You - pretended to sabotage my equipment? Why? Why not do it properly, I mean?”

    The squire shrugged.

    “It’s - listen; before I go on, you should know Holt’s an ass, and a stubborn one at that. Yes, I see you’ve all noticed. Well, I couldn’t dissuade him when th’ idea came into his fool head, but I’d no wish t’ see him win a fight by such a trick, against such an obviously superior opponent. It’s not right, and, also, would be easily seen through. What I did seemed the simplest solution.”

    “You could have refused,” Reynard pointed out; Gaheris smiled pityingly at him and shook his head. His response drew an exasperated comment from Meve.

    “You could have done nothing at all, and told him otherwise.”

    He frowned, again mildly offended.

    “I’m no liar,” he said. “If I can find any other solution, I mean. They say a half-truth’s better than a lie, don’t they?”

     Reynard blinked, considered, and then shook his head. Gascon shrugged his shoulders, grudgingly.

    “You’re clearly a capable man,” Meve said. “Why do you serve someone you know isn’t?”

    Gaheris shook his head again, helplessly.

    “Holt’s always been like this,” he explained, “Ever since he was a boy. He’s a decent fighter, but he’s too competitive for his own good, and he’s still not learned t’ pick his battles. However, he is my little brother - well, half-brother; my mother married Sir Ulrich after my father died. He was a stonemason,” he explained, seeing the Queen raise a questioning eyebrow, a gleam of challenge in his dark eyes. “His name was Gors.”

    When she failed to react to his admission, he continued:

    “Anyway, she wanted me t’ look after Holt, best I can. He isn’t a bad person, really, he just -”

    He shrugged.

    “He can’t help how he is, when he’s in a mood, and when he isn’t he’s not the worst of men, or the worst of nobles, for that matter. He’s never struck a knight who’s yielded, for one, and he’s not one to steal or run villainous among th’ yeomen. And, he’s all the family I got left,” he finally finished. Meve nodded and said nothing for a long moment; she noticed that he couldn’t have been any older than herself, but he briefly appeared gray and worn down. She was, to her mild irritation, somewhat sympathetic to his troubles. Gascon glanced from her icy frown to Gaheris’s tired stare, curiously. Reynard watched her carefully.

    “Keep him under guard,” she said to Gascon. “I’m not sure what to do with him or his brother, just yet. Wait - leave him on the landing; the guards there will look after him for the moment. I’ve another matter to discuss, before you go.”

      “He’s the black knight,” she said to Reynard, as Gascon stepped back in without his captive. “Did you know?”

    “No, of course not,” the Count said, frowning slightly. “Although, in truth, th’ idea has crossed my mind, but I found it - unlikely.”

    Gascon hesitated, then shrugged, grinned broadly, and said, “You caught me at last, m’lady; how’d you figure it?”

    “The Baroness it was that discovered you, not me,” Meve said, crossing her arms stubbornly; she attempted to appear angry, but in the end managed only mild, slightly amused, annoyance. “Also, she appears to have found me out, as well, incidentally. In fact, there seems to be very little she doesn’t know.”

    “She’s uncommonly sharp, no doubt about it,” Gascon agreed, readily.

    “So,” she continued, “Is there anything at all to be gained by asking you what you were doing, today?”

    “Won’t tell you unless you first promise not t’ bite my head off,” he said promptly.

    “Yes, very well, as it’s the solstice, but don’t expect any more favors from me before the summer, at earliest. I mean it, Gascon.”

    Reynard sat down, shaking his head at them; Gascon nodded and said, “Fair’s fair. Well, then, it’s a short tale: I won that fight against Sir Holt, then I saw Gaheris come limping ‘round to scrape him up off the turf, and it all came together clear as mud, so I decided it was time t’ stop playing at knights for the day and do some real work.”

    “You could have appeared in the joust as yourself,” Reynard remarked, almost idly, “And not as -”

    “As me,” Meve interrupted, a hint of her previous ire returning.

    “Yes, well - the black knight’s more interesting than I am,” he explained, with a broad shrug. “People have heard of his prowess, or what have you; the dangerous reputation’s an advantage, of sorts.”

    “Yes, we’ve heard, in fact,” Meve said, coldly. “Slew a werewolf, did you?”

    “Sure did,” Gascon replied. “Or, I helped, anyhow. There was a witcher involved. Like Gaheris said: half a truth’s better than a lie, so I let the former take precedence.”

    “That’s not the saying, as you know perfectly well. It’s worse,” Reynard said, rolling his eyes. “Half a truth is worse than a lie.”

    Gascon shrugged at him, grinning slightly. Meve interrupted their tangent, impatiently.

    “And you killed a dragon, they say?”

    “Not I,” the Duke said, quickly, eyeing the Queen’s scowl. “Th’ only dragonslayer here is yourself - although, I did kill a pretty big snake in a roadside inn. The landlady was most impressed. So was some minstrel who happened t’ be around, it appears; he has, uh, embellished th’ incident, somewhat.”

    “Yes, that much is obvious,” Reynard noted, “But how’d he know it was the black knight who did the deed and not merely one Gascon Brossard?”

    At last, Gascon turned uncomfortably self-conscious and clammed up; Meve watched him squirm for a long moment and decided, after a glance at the amused gleam in Reynard’s eye, to not to press the issue further.

    “And you gave poor Sir Orlac a dunking,” she remarked, finally; Gascon looked relieved and seized on the change in subject.

    “Yes, that story’s true,” he admitted. “He’s not a bad fighter, at all, thought he don’t seem to enjoy it much. It took some convincing t’ even get him to go against me, actually, but it was worth the time, in th’ end, to get th’ extra practice.”

    “You have improved, somewhat,” Reynard observed, casually. He shot a quick look at Meve; she spotted it and broke off her intended response, frowning. Gascon either missed or ignored their exchange and said, brightly, “Why thank you, sir.”

    “Although,” the knight continued, “It remains to be seen if you can beat me just yet; Meve, of course, has already unhorsed you once, so no there’s burning question to be answered on that account.”

    “By a trick,” Gascon said, and then, as Reynard shrugged unconcernedly, added, “Look, I only really wanted t’ fight Sir Holt and beat him, again, to prove I could, like. I had no notion of much else.”

    “Yes, very likely,” Meve muttered, rolling her eyes; Reynard continued, despite her:

    “Not afraid to lose, are you?”

    “Of course not; it happens all the time,” Gascon said, mildly indignant.

    “Well, then, tomorrow, if you’ve no other plans, let’s see how good you’ve really become, shall we? Without your intimidating disguise, I mean.”

    “Well, all right,” the Duke said, doubtfully, clearly wary about what exactly he was agreeing to. “I suppose I’m not busy, but - “

    “Good. I’ll see you first thing in the morning, then,” Reynard said, a suggestion of finality in his voice; Gascon still looked uncertain, but nodded and then made a tactical retreat to “see to those other matters.”

    “What the devil are you at, Reynard?” Meve asked, the instant he was gone. He stood up, strode across the room with a self-satisfied smile, and wrapped his arms around her.

    “You’ve had a long day,” he said, “Let me worry about it.”

    “Ugh. Fine, then; do what you want,” she said, ingraciously, leaned her forehead against his chest, and continued with a muffled sigh, “What do you think I should do with Holt? I can’t very well banish him for trying to cheat in a duel, much as I’d like to - he is the sole legal heir to Sir Ulrich, who has been a relatively loyal supporter of the crown - nor can I demote him, since he isn’t one of my own knights.”

    “Just ban him from your tournaments, and the rest of the realm will follow,” he said, as if it was obvious, “It’s the worst thing that could happen to a young knight.”

    “You’d know better than I,” she remarked, unfolded her arms, slid them around his waist, and added, “What about Gaheris?”

    “I don’t know,” Reynard said, “He’s not so easy to deal with.”

    “The trouble is,” Meve said, darkly, “- the trouble is that, in his circumstances, he’s done nothing worse than you or I have in the past, which makes me feel something of a hypocrite if I consider having him arrested for treason - as I certainly could, given your indispensable position and high rank.”

    “Yes, a - a similar thought crossed my own mind, to be honest.”

    “Well, it’s true,” she said, raising her head and frowning up at him. “Isn’t it? Reginald -”

    “He wasn’t quite so bad as Holt.”

    “Because he was older, and the King, and no other reason. Well, and he had you around to clean up after his worst decisions. And, his sons - my sons - are the same, or worse, than Sir Holt. Or were, I mean. Anseis certainly is, in any case.”

    “Perhaps,” Reynard said, thoughtfully, “There’s no need to do anything to Gaheris, at all.”

    “As you’re th’ one he wronged, in th’ end I think what happens to him should really be your decision,” Meve said, shrugging.

    “Well, then, speaking from experience, the man’s trials in keeping control of his brother are worse than anything you might think up.”

    “Yes, I know what you mean. I’ve no wish to see him hang or rot in prison, but banishment would be no curse to him, and we’d have to contend with Holt still, regardless, but without a convenient manager. What a waste; were he noble-born, I’d have some use for a man of his talents, and I could more easily secure his future loyalty. A shame, to have Holt be th’ one who inherits old Ulrich’s lands and titles, and Gaheris remain a squire still.”

    “I agree,” Reynard said. “However, that problem only you can solve.”

    She looked into his eyes, thoughtfully, and nodded.

[satans-codpiece]

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 4,354 Summary: Kylo brings you a gift, then he brings his brothers a gift. Contains: RAPE/NONCON. Kidnapping, general Dead Dove: Do Not Eat stuff. Mild Gore. Smut. 

=====

For once, you focus on the lingering ache between your legs. On the deep, unsettling pain behind your pubic bone that wouldn’t go away.

“Two day delivery.” Kylo says, smiling down at the strip of leather in his hands. "It's even waterproofed." You don’t ask him where he ordered it, it has to be custom made. Perhaps on a professor’s salary he could afford it. The collar is black leather with your name stitched in red. Below it, a metal D-ring is attached firmly to the fabric. The inside is lined with some sort of soft padding. To prevent chafing, you suppose, for the long hours you'll be wearing it. You'll probably wear it for...

You sniffle and keep your eyes shut as he fastens the collar around your neck- the padding almost luxurious, at least compared to the roughness of the rope and chain they’d been using. The padlock of the chain clicks as Kylo unlocks it- and clicks again as he attaches the tiny lock to your collar.

Kylo steps away from you as you slowly open your eyes again, staring only at the plain cement floor. Perhaps you should be happy that he’d bought you a collar- it obviously meant he planned on keeping you. Not just…

You swallow thickly.

Would it be better to just die? You didn’t know- couldn’t think. You want to go home, to go back to what you had…

Kylo hums pleasantly- and your chain clicks again. You turn to follow the sound and watched as Kylo unclips your leash (another joyous new addition to your wardrobe) from the wall. He watches you for a moment, considering something- then nods up towards the basement door. “Come on.”

Your heart skips a beat. You’re so stunned you don’t even resist Kylo helping you to your feet- your gait awkward and stilted after being off your legs for… how long? How long had you been down here? At least two days, you knew... Surely not more than that.

Kylo is more patient than you would have guessed, urging you along with one hand at your back, but letting you hobble your way up the stairs, one at a time. With your hands still bound in front of you, you can’t even use the handrail to steady yourself. He opens the door- and the scent of something fresh and… citrusy washes over you. Your feet touch carpet- and squeeze your toes into the wry strings- tears springing to your eyes.

You weren’t sure you’d ever feel carpet again.

Kylo guides you down the hallway into what was clearly the master bedroom. Sparsely furnished with a nightstand, two dressers (one of which supported a large TV), and the bed. You began to sweat just looking at the bed- though it was surely a King and was topped with a large, soft-looking black duvet, it was the frame and headboard that made you anxious. The headboard appeared to be wrought iron, several strands twisted to make an ornate pattern with multiple good places to hook your leash onto.

Kylo doesn’t even pause to look, just ushers you into the attached bathroom. The size of it stuns you- a separate bath and shower across from a long mirror. Around the side of the shower is a small alcove created by the solid side of the shower- and you can see the toilet hiding in there.

A low sense of dread settles in your stomach, followed only by the sudden urgent need to pee. Your eyes flick between Kylo and relief, hoping he would understand (that was surely why he brought you here, wasn’t it?)- or at least wouldn’t punish you for wandering away.

Kylo only tilts his head and gives a single nod. You begin to turn away- and your leash jerks you back towards him, his fist twisted into the black leather. He stares at you, eyes burning with intent. He licks his lips, “Ask for permission.”

You can’t help the anger that washes over you first- the rage and horror that comes from being treated like this monster’s pet. But what choice do you have? Ben would certainly rejoice in punishing you for any bad behavior- and despite Kylo’s confessions of love and adoration, he was by no means merciful.

You hold your tongue, look to the tile. “May I use the bathroom…?”

Kylo hums- as though he had to consider your question. “Try again.” Indignation (and your increasing awareness of your bladder) makes your lips pucker and curl. Kylo’s voice is sugar sweet when he speaks again. “You’ve asked before. You know how.”

You want to tell him to shove off- perhaps to walk back into his bedroom and piss on his carpet like a bad dog. But he’s already holding your leash, keeping you here on the cool tile of his bathroom. You close your eyes, try to keep the anger stifled. “Please, Kylo,” you barely manage to bite it out, “May I use the bathroom?”

Kylo smiles, serene. “Yes.”

Kylo keeps hold of your leash, passing the length under the edge of the door. If he knew you planned to spend several minutes simply sitting in the small, enclosed space just to enjoy having something vaguely normal, he said nothing about it.

You did notice, however, that despite having a small basket that you would presume would normally hold magazines or books or something- the little wicker thing was completely empty. Isolation, you figured. No other reason to keep you from simple paper goods. You struggle a bit with your hands bound, but ultimately manage to take care of yourself.

You step out of the small room already feeling much better- some degree of autonomy restored to you. Kylo remained in a good mood. He gestured to the large tub. “Would you like to take a bath?”

Judging his intention is impossible. You stare at his face for a long time, trying to figure out what deception he was playing-- but perhaps it really was that simple. A bath. You probably did stink, after all- if nothing else the stress of…. of all of this would make you sweat.

Hesitantly you nod- just one single jerk of your head. Kylo smiles again, genuinely pleased- and he runs the water for your bath.

With his back turned, you look around the bathroom again. The boys personal effects are here, a toothbrush holder with three toothbrushes. Black towels on a rack on the far wall. Bottles of various brands and colors in the shower. But nothing you could use. No razors left out (which surely they must use- considering two of them were clean shaven and Ben had some stubble). Nothing remotely sharp, or- or hell, not even anything you could use as a blunt weapon.

The mirror you could shatter- but if the other boys were home they’d hear it. You couldn’t take all three of them with a shard of glass. Assuming, of course, you could get a decently shaped piece on the first hit to the mirror and could cut your arms free. If it only cracked…

You bit your lip and turned back to Kylo- the water was already filling the tub quickly, drifts of steam rising off the surface.

The water is too hot when you step in, but you don’t say anything. Because it feels amazing. You whine pathetically as you sink in completely to the hot water- already it soothes some of the aches in your spine, the residual ache between your legs.

Kylo pulls a plastic bag out from under the sink- never letting go of your leash, you note- and sets the items on the edge of the tub around the faucet. Soap, shampoo, a face wash, conditioner- “Here.” Kylo says, interrupting your peace- as he kneels beside the tub with a spotlessly new, pink loofah.

Your stomach churns at the sight of it. Something so familiar and domestic- and silent tears slide over your cheeks.

Kylo’s hand is larger than you expect, covering your cheek entirely as he rubs away a tear with his thumb. “I’ll take care of you…” You only sigh and close your eyes.

He’s methodical about his bathing. He pours the soap onto the loofah and lathers it across your chest first- the scent of green apples being rubbed into your skin. He doesn’t dally with your breasts as you thought he might; he’s shockingly chaste. He scrubs hard with the sponge, but if you flinch away he softens his grip. When he’s done with that area- the skin now fresh and tinged red with irritation- he lays his lips to it in an apology.

When he washes your back he sits up on the back edge of the tub. He scrubs as he does with the rest of your body- but eventually sets the loofah down into the water with you- and rubs his fingers along your spine. He’s shockingly good at it- and you hate that you relax into his touch, letting him work the knots out of your back with an artist’s precision.

He’s careful when he washes your hair. He lifts your chin to keep the shampoo from running into your eyes- and he massages your scalp as he did with your back, making little electric sparks tingle down your neck. He rinses the shampoo out and runs his fingers through your wet, flopping hair several times.

Then: nothing. He simply sits with you for several minutes as you water begins to cool to lukewarm. You watch his throat bob warily. He let out some length on your leash so he may move to the towel rack and retrieve a washcloth. He kneels beside the tub again- and he hesitates for only a second. “Turn towards me. Close your eyes.”

There’s little option to weigh- and you obey him. Kylo catches your chin in his hand- delicate, only holding you with his thumb and forefinger. The other hand- you yelp when something disturbs your water- but Kylo retracts the washcloth immediately and begins wetting your face.

He returns a moment later with the face wash. For as rough as he was with the loofah, he’s gentle with your face. Never straying towards your eyes or mouth, but working a thick lather over your forehead and cheeks. Your water ripples again as he rinses the cloth- and then rinses your face. He makes several passes, making sure all the soap is gone before speaking again. “Okay. You can open them now.”

Kylo rings out the washcloth and puts it next to the sink. He stands there watching you for a while- and you turn away from him, focus on the still vaguely warm water. You rub your hands over your skin- and feel the wrinkles of your pruning fingertips.

“Do you want to get out?” He asks.

You bite your lip and consider how to answer. He at least looks sincere- so you shake your head softly.

“Alright.”

You expect a reprimand or Kylo dragging you out anyway- but it doesn’t come.

You stay in the bath until you start to shiver. Kylo stays beside you for the entire length. Sometimes just staring at you, with this sicking look of awe and love- but mostly on his phone, idly checking apps and pages.

When you begin to shiver, he knows immediately. He stands and retrieves a large, fluffy towel. You don’t resist at all as he guides you to stand and step out onto the bath mat. He’s so gentle- wrapping you up carefully and drying you- even getting a second towel to begin drying your hair.

It’s nice, even. You let yourself close your eyes and relax into his touch. Rhythmic massaging across your scalp as he wrings the water from your hair. When he deems you dry enough, he leans forward and presses his lips to your forehead. You don’t fight him.

Was this your life now? Trading your cooperative captivity for small acts of kindness? You suppose it’s better than the alternative- fighting with no chance of success, only to be punished with more pain and humiliation. You look up to find Kylo watching you, deep brown eyes unreadable- but you dare hope it’s concern creasing his brow. He leads you back out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.

You wish you had fought him.

On the bed, Ben and Matt wait for you. You tense up, drag your feet on the floor even as Kylo begins to push you across the plush carpeting.

“Really took your time, huh?” Ben asks, not bothering to be subtle with how his gaze rakes up and down your nearly nude body- only one towel protecting yourself from the three brothers.

Matt looks ashamed, biting his plush lip- eyes flicking between the ground and you, like he’s trying to resist and keeps faltering.

“No,” You whisper, trying to dig your heels in and stop- and Kylo’s body presses up against yours as he nearly carries you, the thickening curve of his cock against your lower back leaving you with no doubts as to what was about to happen. "You can't do this..."

“It’s okay,” Kylo coos, forces you up onto the bed. Ben and Matt move out of the way- Ben’s calloused hands catching your shoulders and drag you up towards that ornate cast iron. On instinct you begin to writhe against your captors- but the harsh vice grip across your arms stills you.

You whimper, fight the tears gathering in your eyes as Kylo loops your long leash through the ties around your hands- and attaches the whole assemblage to the headboard. You’re left on your knees, facing the wall- your hands only movable along the length of the black leather.

You figure out quickly that the boys had planned in advance how this would work. Kylo lays down on the bed beside you- his belt and pants already undone, cock jutting proudly from the denim. You turn away and close your eyes- don’t even look at him as he lifts one of your legs to force you to straddle his hips.

Kylo says your name. You sob quietly as his cock slips between your labia. But more concerningly, the brothers are moving- Ben crawling onto the bed behind you, Matt sitting next to Kylo’s head. You make the mistake of looking over your shoulder at Ben.

You watch for a moment as he pops a cap to a bottle- lube, you suspect. Closing your eyes, you hang your head, let your hands slide uselessly to your chest. One large hand cups your cheek. You can’t tell whose it is- Matt’s or Kylo’s. You’re not sure you care.

Cold lube pours against your ass, making you shiver, grit your teeth. Ben wastes no time in pressing his fingers into you, working with brisk, efficient movements. You already knew he didn’t care for you- he was just here for the good time Kylo had so graciously provided him.

Fingers swept through your hair, pushing it away from your face. “It’s okay…” Matt coos. “I told him to be gentle.”

You don’t thank him.

Ben’s fingers slip out of you as something thicker pushes against your flesh. And if they were truly identical triplets, then you knew how much you had to take. “Please, please don’t. Please, Ben...”

Only one sob escapes your lips, still nearly silent as Ben pushes into you. You try to relax, even as every part of you screams for him to stop- the head of Ben’s cock presses in. He groans, pressing his face against your back and he’s too big, his preparation too rushed, it hurts-

“Oh, God!, Kylo, it feels so good,” You feel every hot pant of his breath against your skin as he tried to reign himself in, to ease his length into you. The only thing holding him back is Kylo, you’re sure- and the sickening feeling of being grateful for Kylo’s presence rises in you. You clutch at the ties to the bedframe and wish so badly you didn’t want to be clutching at Kylo instead- at least Kylo wants to be gentle with you. And as Ben bottoms out, his hips fitting snugly against your ass, a hand brushes across your cheeks, pushes any stray hair from your face.

“It’s okay,” Matt cooes again. It’s not. It never will be. But what else can you do but take what they do to you?

Below you, Kylo begins to shift and it truly dawns on you what is about to happen. His cock- that had been grinding nicely against your clit, the only thing keeping you from focusing exclusively on the soreness in your ass, slides down and presses against you. You close your eyes and Matt cups your cheeks.

“It’s alright, love...” Kylo murmurs, but he’s not looking at you. He looks down between your bodies and lines himself up. “You were so good to me before, please do that again?”

You whimper, turn your face into Matt’s hands. And with your body already stuffed full of his brother’s cock, Kylo fights to force his own thick length inside you. Pain lights across your body- you tug at your restraints on instinct, but can hardly move without agitating the pain in your rear. "Stop! Stop! It's too much!"

You sob- and Kylo moans low, his head dropping back against the mattress. He groans, “You’re so tight, so good for me,” Matt’s fingers card through your hair as the tears finally resume. “Wonderful, so perfect for me.”

Ben groans and you feel sloppy wet kisses between your shoulder blades. “Oh, fuck, Kylo. It's so tight."

Ben thrusts involuntarily and you scream-

Matt’s hand clamps over your mouth. His big, round eyes implore you to keep it quiet, to control yourself, but now that Ben’s started he can’t stop. Worse still, through your thin walls, he’s made Kylo groan- his own self control snapping as he grabs your hips and moves in tandem. Everything between your legs burns and you stare blankly at Matt, the only remaining triplet.

He was so nice to you. He brought you food- took out Ben’s torturous toy. Was it so bad what he’d done to you, compared to them? Compared to their hot breath ghosting over your skin and the cruel moans and their utter lack of care for you. You look to Matt’s face- and see the same twisted affection that Kylo has but more controlled, reined in. He knows the reality of it- you hate them.

His hands leave your face- a cold block settles in your stomach. He pulls at his belt, unbuttons his khakis. “I’m sorry.” He whispers and you drop your head. “I’ll be gentle.”

His cock prods at your mouth, it takes a little for him to pull at your jaw and make you open up. He’s warm on your tongue and you pinch your eyes closed before you can see how his head tips back and he moans. His fingers slide through your hair in a mockery of the kindness he’d shown you before,

He’s true to his word, too- while Kylo grabs at you, pulls you down against them with bruising strength and Ben’s hands leave your shoulders to reach around in front of you and grope at your breasts, Matt remains slow, cautious. Ben moans loudly and Kylo has his deep, masculine grunts, but Matt stifles his noises down to choked gasps. Kylo batters against your cervix, yet Matt never chokes you with his dick... He even keeps your hair from your face, brushes it away with fingers too soft to come from a rapist.

You begin to cry again and grab at the leash keeping you in place. It's too thick for you to tear through, but it creaks as you yank on it. The pain is bad enough, but the twisted affection that Matt gives you is too much. Even with Kylo’s swears of love, Matt’s tender gaze is what unnerves you. How could he be kind while he and his brothers kidnapped you, violated you?

Ben’s grasp tightens, his fingers clamping down on your chest, pinching at your nipples, and you flinch back towards him, trying to escape his hands. Matt’s fingers twist into your hair to keep you from moving too far away- and you focus on the nicest brother. It’s too much, the other two- they’re cruel and ruthless and they don’t really care about you, but Matt-

Ben cums, moaning loudly in your ear. Heat fills your ass and nausea washes over you as he keeps fucking you, riding out his bliss at your expense. You whimper and his slowing thrusts only make you more aware of Kylo’s increasing force. With Matt’s cock in your mouth you can’t look to Kylo’s face; you’re not sure how to feel about that. Ben slips out and you feel his cum follow him, oozing warm and slick out of your battered and sore ass, down to your pussy. Down to where Kylo’s cock continues to fuck you.

Matt taps the back of your head- you look up to him. That’s all the warning you get, his fingers tighten in your hair but never like Ben’s bruising grapples- and he cums across your tongue. It’s bitter and disgusting, you want to spit, but Matt’s cock frustratingly stays in your mouth as he stutters through a few more thrusts. You twist against his hand, but Matt has his brothers’ strength and you can only cry as Matt’s head tips back. Cum touches the back of your throat and you wretch.

That gets Matt’s attention. He pulls himself free, swiping away the long strings of saliva that follow his cock. Under Kylo's groans, you can barely hear Matt's quiet little, "Sorry, sorry..." The cum gathers on your tongue and you start to turn towards the empty sheets-

A hand claps over your mouth; your face stings, burning under the hit. You flinch and try to scream against a huge, warm palm. “Don’t you fucking dare spit.” Ben growls.

"Ben..." Matt pleads. The rage sparks inside you- and is snuffed out just as quickly as Ben’s other hand closes over your nose.

You struggle, pull away from his hands- but Ben simply moves closer, bends you backwards to keep you from fighting. “Swallow.” Ben commands you, and through your blurry tears his eyes are cool, unmoved by your suffering. With your hands still tied, there’s little else you can do, and as much as the taste in your mouth is vile, evil, disgusting, the burning in your chest is worse. “Swallow and I won’t rape your ass again.”

With your mouth full you can’t even properly sob.

You gag halfway through, but you force Matt’s cum down your throat and nod weakly at Ben. The cold stone of his expression blossoms into the cruel smile you’d seen before. He lets go of your face and you gasp in deep lungfuls.

Another set of hands cup your jaw, delicate and careful as he rubs his thumb over your cheek. You don’t bother looking at him; you know he’ll have that same expression from before. Like he’s concerned about your well being, like he actually gives a damn what his brothers do to you.

You don’t have to ignore him for long; Kylo’s fingernails bite into your hips and he drives into you. The lightest push against Matt’s hands and you can look down at the eldest brother. Kylo’s dark hair is splayed out over the sheets, his cheeks flushed pink, eyes closed so tight his brow has begun to crease. He gasps, sucks in air through his teeth and though his cock works inside you, rubs against the deepest parts of you, the pain in your ass and the suffering deep in your soul keep you grounded.

His eyes open and once again that twisted, warped love in his eyes makes your stomach churn. You look away. Kylo sighs, apparently glad to finally have you to himself again, “You’re mine-” He chokes out, the last syllable rising off into a stifled moan. “All mine, forever, ah!”

His cock twitches, his fingers digging bruises into your skin again as he groans- and though you want nothing more than to curl up on your mattress in the basement, it’s the relief that it’s over that bothers you the most. Cum pours into your cunt and that’s all your life will be now. Used over and over, just waiting for it to be over. He won’t let you go, it’ll never be over-

You’ll never go home. Your family will never find you. Tightness builds in your chest, a buzzing loud in your ears over Kylo’s exhausted, blissful panting. It’ll never end.

You’ll die here. They’ve taken everything from you, and you’ll die in their fucking basement.

The misery in you twists, distorts. Your hands twist into the restraints and every part of you wants to dig your nails into Kylo’s neck, to rip open his throat and watch him bleed out. Or Ben- to smash Ben’s face against the cement walls you’ve been trapped in for so long until that cruel, horrible smirk is nothing but red paste-

And fingers touch your jaw. Matt’s eyebrows are pulled in high and tight, a little frown tugging at his lips.

And Matt with his soft caresses, the tenderness. It’s all fake, all show and ruin- he’d used you just the same as them and he doesn’t even have the decency to act like it is what it is. For him to pretend that he’s somehow better than them-

“What's…?” He starts, catches sight of the fire in your eyes.

"Fuck you." He starts to move back, towards the headboard. There’s no restraint to stop you from following, from lunging forward.

With your hands tied, all you have left is your teeth- teeth that sink into the first expanse of pale, mole-dotted skin that you can reach, teeth that sink in until the taste of his cum is washed away under blood-

And Matt screams.

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, JENNA! You’ve been accepted for the role of OLIVIA. Admin Rosey: Jenna, I don’t even know what I can say about this application. You had me slowly falling more and more in love with the Omi that you bring to us, which is perhaps incredibly apt due to the fact that I imagine many fall in love with Omi just the same way. All of us raved about this application and what it brought to the table, careful nuances that just screamed Omi. We’ve been waiting for an Olivia for so long -- a beautiful sparrow -- and you’ve brought them to us and given us more. I can’t wait to see what you do with our beautiful Sparrow! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Jenna

Age | 20

Preferred Pronouns | she/her

Activity Level | I would say a solid 6-7/10. I’m currently on break from uni, so I’ll be around pretty much every day. However, once I go back to uni and my workload picks up a bit, I’ll probably only manage to get to replies every 2-3 days (I aim for every 2!), but I’m always around for plotting!

Timezone | gmt+10

How did you find the rp?  | In the tags! I’ve been admiring this group for a while now and I’ve honestly had an application for Omi half-written for a few months and finally decided to just go for it.

Current/Past RP Accounts | This is one of my most recent character blogs, unfortunately the group closed recently which is why I’ve stopped writing the character.

IN CHARACTER

Character | Olivia, Yamamoto Omi

What drew you to this character? | Honestly, Omi was not the first character I was drawn to. I was considering applying originally for Hermia or Helena, but I stumbled upon Olivia’s bio while reading up on the lore, and I loved it. I liked that they had such a rich backstory, and one that was very unique within the context of the group. She’s had such tragedy in her life, but instead of it making her softer or making her retreat into herself, it’s made her tougher, and forced her to grow up very quickly and build a life for herself in order to survive. They have been so focused on their next move for so long that they haven’t really had a chance to look back and reflect on whether or not this life is really what they want – sure, being a Sparrow provides them with stability and feelings of control and power that Omi lacked for her whole life, but does it make her happy? That’s where I feel the character is at this point, and it’s a very interesting starting point for writing and character development. Often, I feel like I have a connection with a character, but I struggle to write them – with Omi, her voice came easily and writing up the responses to the IC interview was enjoyable, which I think really speaks volumes!

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

THE MISSED MARK; Omi’s identity very much centres around the work she does at the Dark Lady, and the fact that she is good at said work. They pride themselves on being able to build intimacy and trust with someone without every becoming attached to them, so that she can sell their information off to Mona without ever feeling guilty or wrong about what they are doing. I would love for her to meet someone at the Dark Lady who challenges her in this way, someone she goes after for information, but becomes unexpectedly attached to. This person would ideally share with Omi some information they wouldn’t normally hesitate to share, something that Mona would consider a gold mine. Her decision to either sell this person down the river, or betray Mona would very much tear her up inside, and I’d love to see someone as sure of themselves as Omi grapple with this decision, and the guilt associated with whichever path she chooses. It would very much make them question the work they’re doing at the Dark Lady, and their allegiance to this person and to Mona.

THE OLD CLIENT; I love the idea of exploring Omi’s actions coming back to haunt her. They’re a character who exudes a sort of confidence – they have to, in the line of work that they’re in. I’d love for Omi to be confronted by someone that she’s wronged in the past, in particular, a former client of the Dark Lady who she may have shared information about with Mona, leading to some extreme consequences for the character in question, and, eventually, leading to them wanting some sort of retribution against Omi in particular. She generally tries not to think about clients after she is done with them, tossing them aside and moving onto the next thing, trying to gather as much information about as many people as possible to build herself a vast wealth of knowledge. So, someone confronting Omi about what they have done and seeking some sort of retribution will do two things; it’ll scare them, and it’ll make them really think about what they’re doing. I love the idea of Omi really having to reckon with herself and the life she has built for herself in Verona. She sees herself as powerful… but is she really? Could they have done better, could they have found a better way to live? Is their work really all it’s been chalked up to be, or have they placed their loyalty in the wrong hands? As I’ve mentioned, Omi strikes me as someone very sure of herself, so having to question her own actions is something I would love to see from her.

THE LINE YOU SHOULDN’T CROSS; Omi’s greatest weapons are her words, and she’s very good at using them to get exactly what she wants. Whether it’s information from clients, or a free drink at a bar, or any number of advantages in their life, Omi uses words and their looks to get what they want. Omi hasn’t had to resort to violence very often in her life, and this is what she believes separates her from the people her father worked for, what elevates her to a level above the fighting barbarians in Verona, the fact that she is able to show some semblance of restraint. They keep their hands clean of the fighting, and of the war brewing between the Montagues and Capulets, very deliberately, focusing on their job and their job only. I want to see this resolve tested, whether being swayed to one side or another of the conflict, or needing to use violence to solve a problem. What will Omi do when she is reduced to the level of those in conflict both around her, and in her past? I don’t think they would react well to such guilt, to the compromising of what they believe about themselves.

these are just rough ideas, and honestly there are lots of different directions I can see this character going, many of which will be influenced by the characters she comes to interact with and plots that she becomes involved with!!

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | I am definitely open to killing off Omi, though I would love to have a chance to develop her properly before doing this!!

IN DEPTH

IN-CHARACTER INTERVIEW

What is your favorite place in Verona?

“The Dark Lady.” They say without hesitation, as though the response were programmed into their mind before the question had even been posed. She shifts in her chair, posture straightening as pearly teeth chew on her red-painted lips - slowly, seductively. Even when they’re not working, Omi’s training doesn’t leave her. She doesn’t need to be at The Dark Lady to extract information - to see the way people squirm as she eyes them, beauty the most powerful weapon they possess - and they only one they need to. “The music, the dark lighting… it’s the sort of place where you don’t know what to expect when you walk in…” She trails off, soft hands finding their way to her hair, fingers twirling through dark locks as she spoke. “It’s a place where I feel in control. People come to see me, they’ll do anything, say anything to me, to please me.” Perhaps they give themselves too much credit, but never has Omi felt more powerful than when she’s working, sitting in the lap of a stranger who thinks to underestimate them, listening to whispered secrets uttered in passion with the capacity to burn cities. “Yes,” She repeats, voice soft and certain, “That’s my favourite place in Verona.”

What does your typical day look like?

“I wake up, I go to work, I come home, and I go to sleep.” A playful smile flits ever so briefly across Omi’s lips, carefully constructed, of course, as all things about her tend to be. “What do you want me to say? To spin tales of fantastical adventures in far-off lands?” She chuckles, light and airy, a sound that has been equated in the past to the soft ringing of a bell, full of light and love, even if the one producing such a sound is nothing of the sort. “I owe Mona everything, you know.” They say softly, a rare moment of sheer candor, one so very rarely seen from Omi these days. Her left hand has settled on the opposite wrist, drawing circles over the skin as they speak, soft and gentle. “So I work. Whenever she needs me. If I don’t? Well, who else will? Nobody else there has quite the same level of… talent that I possess. They can be clumsy, and forgetful. Our clients like me best, and so they should. They trust me.” Another soft laugh escapes their lips, “I’m at my best when I’m there, but I keep myself busy in between. Not all of my suitors are paying customers.”

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

“I don’t tend to make big mistakes, nor dwell on the past.” Omi lies with ease, a smile flitting instantaneously across her face, gone just as quickly as it had come as she thinks, really thinks about the question being posed to her. “I couldn’t pinpoint a single one, you see. I haven’t made any life altering mistakes.. I’m too careful for that.” Or, at least, they liked to think they were. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d confronted my father about what he did for a living… I never questioned him about it. Not really. He knew I knew, he must have, but… we never spoke about it. Perhaps if I had asked him about it, if I’d asked him why, how he’d ended up there in the first place… maybe things would have gone differently. Perhaps I could have convinced him to get out while he still could, we could have left Japan, started a new life as a family. I doubt I would have ended up here… but I doubt things are that simple. If my father had any sort of choice in what he did, he would still be alive, and so would my mother. Perhaps it’s just my mind trying to make sense of things.. overthinking it all.”

What has been the most difficult task asked of you?

“The first one.” She says, “My first mark at the Dark Lady. Some Montague boy, I don’t even remember his name. But he was young… naive. If it were now, I’d know exactly what to do, exactly how to get him to spill his secrets. He was about as easy a mark as they come… but I’d never done it before. Mona had explained to me what my role was to be at the Dark Lady… she’d coached me, and I was confident that I could do it. I know that I’m desirable, and I knew exactly the type of person this boy was… but I was nervous.” They laugh, a strange lilting sound, not quite pleasant, but not off-putting, either. “I’m never nervous. But after all the faith Mona had in me, after everything she’d done… I knew I had to do this right. I had to make sure that I did the job, and I did it well, to prove to her, to everyone, that she wasn’t wasting her time on me. I think I got into my own head, which is rare, for me… but I managed to do it. I don’t even remember what he told me, but when I told Mona, she just smiled and said, ‘good work,’. I didn’t see him again, and it got easier after that.”

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

“It doesn’t concern me.” She says, a soft sigh escaping her lips. “Though, I wouldn’t so much call it a war. If anything, it’s a contest of egos. Two families each trying to prove to one another that they have the most power. It’s almost petty. Real power doesn’t come from fighting, from guns or from money… real power is knowledge, real power is understanding another person completely. Knowing every crevice of their mind in intimate detail, being able to predict what they’re thinking, what they’ll say… what they’ll do.” They shake their head, “These people, they don’t know war. They don’t know pain. They’re playing at games they think they understand… but they don’t, and I doubt they ever will. The only people who suffer are their pawns, their underlings… there can’t be a winner if they’re not willing to have real stakes.” She sighs again, flicking her hair over her shoulder and adjusting her posture, “But, like I said. It doesn’t concern me.”

Extras: Pretty much everything I have for Omi can be found on her mock blog!! there’s mostly inspo on there, I haven’t had a chance to create any moodboards or playlists yet, but when I do, this is where they’ll go!!

Thank you so much for reading my application, I’ve admired this group from afar for a while, and I would love to get the chance to write Omi & write as part of this group!!

[bestfriendforhire]

Children of BFFH, Entry 26

 :We’re gathered here to discuss Aspy’s birthday.: I reminded my sisters, who had started goofing around despite our meeting.  :Only Aika’s created a gift, and she’s not too satisfied after finding out what the Somerset’s are giving him.:

 Maimo sighed.  Speaking aloud, she said, “He’ll still like the puzzle box, Aika.  Your design’s neat.”

 Aika shrugged, seeming unconvinced on the outside.  Inside, we could feel her worry.  Gift-giving wasn’t a competition, but we were competitive anyway.

 “Ladies, sorry to interrupt your discussion, but Ella would appreciate your support in making a gift for Aspen.” stated Momma Mila from the bedroom’s speakers.

 “Please apologize for us, but we need to help one another first.” replied Aika glumly.

 Momma Mila sounded amused as she said, “Oh, I think you’ll be interested.  Let me show you what she has in mind.”  A sort of wrist-mounted screen appeared on the room’s large mirror.  “Ella was somehow inspired by watches when she had started describing this to me.  Though I doubt the original design was quite the same with how Ella is, she did get this much done on her way home.” continued Momma Mila.  The device split as she spoke, showing us the circuitry inside.

 “So… it’s just a touch screen with a bit of connectivity and... “ started Aiko.

 “Wait.  Is that thing spring-powered?  Can it even generate enough power to keep going?  What’s that power pack then?” asked Aika.

 “I honestly consulted your father and Maxine when looking for ways to improve the design.  A few changes in material and the addition of the battery will make it work.  Ella was mainly concerned about the aesthetics of the device, possible functions, and the existence of the mechanical aspect, a byproduct of seeing analog watches.  We believe Aspen will enjoy the gear-driven system’s uniqueness when using it.  As for applications, I’ve already given it a custom OS, an interface for myself, and other basic utility programs.  What Ella thought you might enjoy creating are additional gadgets for him to access with it, hence the modular design with the ports located around her ‘attachment thingies’ as she put it.” explained Momma Mila.

 Our brains were already in high-gear.  Some of the designs we had scrapped could be revitalized to act in conjunction with the computer.  Momma Mila would certainly handle the software aspect of whatever we designed, and some of the stuff may even be allowed in our battles.  The comic book vibe of Ella’s plan excited us.

 “I call the drones!” exclaimed Aika aloud, so Momma Mila could already start planning the software.

 “I’ll do the wrist launcher.” I threw out next, already imagining what a small dart launcher could look like.  He’d be able to use it with actual weapons when he got older if he wanted.

 “Dibs on turrets.” stated Maimo, mentally showing us her basic idea for a turret base that could use an assortment of firing mechanisms.

 After a little more thought, Aiko said, “I’m giving him goggles.  He might like an extra display at times, plus, I’m sure he’d love a personal camera in addition to the drones.  Think of the videos he could make with the combination!”

 “Fine.  I’ll do a turret camera too for the low shots.” agreed Maimo.

 “To the lab!” we exclaimed together.  Even with the considerable help from Momma Mila, there was a bunch of work to be done.

 Dad was still out on his job today, but Aurora and Maxine were tinkering away when we arrived in the lab.  Between Aurora and the ex-villain, we found Aurora to be the stranger one.  They were both brilliant, but communicating with Aurora was… different.  Trying to ask her questions was practically useless most of the time, but she’d just solve things if she was shown a problem, even one as vague as a schematic with a flaw we were missing.  Her ability to visualize projects even impressed Dad!  We could always bring problems to Momma Mila, of course, but we wanted to know Aurora better.  She was practically family.

 Today, we were going to focus.  Yes, those two appeared to be  installing an upgraded flight controller for Maxine’s exosuit, but only Aika was staring at it.  The rest of us were just casually glancing as we started drawing at our stations.  We could see that Aika was considering how small she’d be able to make the drones, but she should be calculating the… Ugh!  She got us to pick sensors for her.

 :Do your own work!: I told her.

 She winked as she grinned at me.  I resisted the urge to open the concrete under her.  She’d probably just float anyway.  Air magic could be unfair, but I still had the advantage underground as we were.  Telling myself to focus, I did some calculations to compare different types of launchers.  Primary ammunition would need to be soft, so he didn’t accidentally damage anything at this stage, meaning the ammunition shouldn’t have any parts that give it weight.  No thrusters… Well, I could picture a lightweight propeller system similar to what Aika was going to use, but the muzzle velocity would be terrible.  Slow start versus self-correction became the conundrum.  There was only one thing for it… I was doing like Maimo and having different types of launchers on a single module.

 :Camera ammo!  Great idea, Aiko!: I told her appreciatively.  Aspy would be able to do shots following the bullets like in movies.  All of us appreciated the idea of hilarious expressions being captured as people got shot.  With the relatively low-velocity rounds, I could modify a tip to protect the camera.

 Hours passed, and we had to take a break for dinner, but our moms were fine with letting us continue when we told them what we were up to.  Birthdays were important among us.  Maxine gave us some tips when she looked over our nearly-finished designs, even creating a “sticky grenade” dart for the launchers.  Aurora just modified a few things like normal.  Though our gifts wouldn’t be the most inventive by themselves, we were confident that Aspy was going to love using all of this together!

[brobi-wanwrites]

Out-Dated Review: Iron Man

A decade ago life was a bit more simple. I was turning 15 and besides finding time to play GTA IV and high school I didn't have a care in the world. My birthday was never a big deal but earlier that year I got my first PS3 and was desperate to start a Blu Ray collection. I told my mother the one thing I wanted for a gift that year was Iron Man. She delivered. That night after reading the case over a dozen times me and my best friend would sit down and watch the movie that jump started the Marvel Cinematic Universe. 

At the time I knew as little as you could about Ironman. I spent most of my time reading Spider-Man, X-men and Batman comics so the only things I really knew about Tony Stark was that he was a rich alcoholic and was really prevalent in 2006s Civil War which was in my backlog of comics. Going into this movie I really had nothing to go on besides the great reviews it was getting and that I was always excited to see a comic book character get their chance on the big screen. After credits rolled like many people my expectations were blown away. I watched it again and again enjoying every minute of it. I then dove into my comic backlog and read Civil War and any other Ironman story I could find. It’s safe to say that the first Ironman reinvigorated my and many others love for comics, all while starting a universe that would have as deep of lore as the comics they adapted from. 

So ten years later, does Ironman hold up?

(SPOILERS)

Lets start things off with the story. 

We’re introduced to Playboy Billionaire Weapons Designer/Manufacturer Tony Stark and he’s just as much as cocky jerk as you would think he’d be. Skipping out on an award presented to him so he could gamble, sleeping with a reporter who’s writing a hit piece on his company and giving little care to the crew of his private plane as he arrives late for its departure. Couple this with how he almost gloats at the amount of death and destruction his weapons bring you would be safe to assume that Tony is unremarkable cliche villain, except he’s not. 

I don’t know if it’s his charm alone, his acting chops or how relatable he is to the character but Robert Downy Jr. makes Tony Stark probably one of the most believable and entertaining personality in the MCU. He brings so much life and fun to Tony even before his good guy turn in this movie. Easily stealing every scene he’s in, RDJ was undoubtedly destined to play Tony Stark.

Speaking of good guy turns.

Things go astray for Tony after a weapon presentation in Afghanistan as he’s fatally injured and kidnapped by a terrorist group known as The Ten Rings (more on them later). He awakes in a cave with a car battery attached to his chest, powering an electromagnet that’s keeping the shrapnel away from his heart and other vital organs. Parties amirite? He’s made aware that The Ten Rings are his “loyal customers” and have been using all his weaponry and is then forced to build them his latest weapon. Tony reluctantly agrees and uses the supplies and resources to build something a bit more powerful, a miniaturized Arch Reactor. An invention of his fathers that’s used to power a factory, Tony designed his to be a little more compact. It has enough power to keep the magnet [in his chest] charged for a thousand lifetimes or something big for ten minutes. 

Thus Ironman is born.

Even for ten years old at this point, the CGI still holds up. The suits in this movie, whether it’s the Mk I, II or III all look fantastic and just completely seamless. I never once even questioned if they built an actual prop suit or not, it looked so good i assumed they did. Coincidentally the first Ironman is the only movie they actually built the full suit, every subsequent movie they used mo-cap primarily. 

After 3 months using only weapon parts and presumably some scrap metal Tony builds the Mk I and kicks some serious ass in his escape. He’s quickly reunited with his friends and coworkers back in the States and damn does he want a burger. Also he announces very publicly he’s done with making and selling weapons. This is Tony’s big turn, he realizes the real cost of him profitting off war with his weapons and decides he is alone responsible for making things right. His business partner and his deceased fathers long time friend Obadiah Stane advises him to lay low for awhile after crashing his companies stock with his big announcement.

The Stark Employee Roster.

RDJ may steal the whole show but Ironman boasts a pretty big and talented cast. Gwenneth Paltrow as the remarkable and composed assistant to Stark Pepper Potts, she’s a joy to have on screen and perfectly bounces dialogue off RDJ. Terrence Howard plays Stark's best friend and military liaison Colonel James “Rhodey” Rhodes, Howard plays this character really cool and I have a hard time seeing Rhodey as much as I see Terrence Howard. His chemistry with RDJ is phenomenal off the bat though, something that takes Cheadle & RDJ about another movie or so to get right. Paul Bettany lends his soothing voice to articulate Siri knock-off known as JARVIS. While his role obviously becomes more expanded upon in later films, Bettany brings a simple yet appealing approached to the A.I. here that pairs well with Tony’s persona. Rounding it out you have the rugged Jeff Bridges playing Tony’s mentor and eventual madman Obadiah Stane. Bridges brings something to this role that I can’t quite put my finger on, he just fully leans into this character and I can feel his presence on screen. He does however have a very sudden change of character entering the third act, he goes from conniving business man to super villain so abruptly I may have whiplash (wink) now. 

Bored and nothing to do.

Stark finds himself in isolation and does the only thing his obsessive brain lets him do, work. He begins designing and testing an updated version of the suit he escaped imprisonment with. The Mk II is a thinner, shinier and more airborne suit than its predecessor. It just isn't up to snuff for Tony though, so after a quick flight test with some icing issues, he completely redesigns the suit. After seeing on TV that someone is throwing a party without him, Tony decides laying low just isn’t for him and crashes the party. Thankfully the party is hosted by Stark Industries so Tony can just walk in with no real problem. It’s here that Tony learns that his mentor and friend Obadiah Stane filed an injunction against him and is trying to force him out of the company and may be dealing weapons under the table. 

Tony decides take the moral high ground and hops in his new suit the MkIII which must be the coolest getting dressed montage I’ve ever seen, then flies for 6 hours back to Afghanistan. He proceeds to just ruin the Ten Rings day by destroying their weapon caches, which include plenty of Tony's own weapons. After surely making the locals think he’s some sort of alien or metal angel he flies back home, only to be intercepted by two fighter jets. What ensues is an entertaining little game of cat and mouse for a minute until Rhodey, whose job is seemingly just to be convenient to Tony shows up and Tony informs him he is in the suit that the fighters are chasing. Rhodes clears everything up as a trainig exorcise and Tony makes it home.

It’s here our big reveal happens, Obadiah is a bad guy and he hired the Ten Rings to kill Tony but they didn’t like the deal, so they altered it like Vader. Now they want to alter it even further and have Obadiah build them Metal Soldiers like the one Tony escaped with.  Obidiah smiles and politely kills this faction of the Ten Rings and figures he might as well build his own suit with his own arch reactor.

Back at the factory while speaking to his team of scientists about their inability to replicate Tony’s miniaturized Arch Reactor, Jeff Bridges delivers the best line in the movie. 

“TONY STARK WAS ABLE TO BUILD THIS IN A CAAAVE, WITH A BOX OF SCRAPS”

After this everything starts to happen real fast. Pepper finds a video that directly incriminates Obadiah, he panics and politely tries to kill tony, Rhodes shows up to try and save a dying Tony but he already saved him self. Once he catches his breath Tony hops in his suit to go find Obadiah. Terrence Howard takes a look at the MkII and decides it’s better that Don Cheadle gets to use it. Pepper while accompanied by some agents finds Obadiah's lab only then to be ambushed by Obadiah in a what can only be described as the offspring on the hulk-buster armour and war machine, Iron Monger. 

Tony flies in with no time to spare and saves Pepper. A street fight ensues between Iron Man and Iron Monger with them chucking cars at one another. This fight seems oddly small scale now, having been spoiled by the massive fights we’ve seen in recent MCU movies. The smaller scale and one on one fight does feel more personal though and given that this is Iron Mans first outing it makes sense.

The fight goes airborne after Tony realizes he’s no match for the strength of the Iron Monger suit. Much to Tony’s surprise Obadiah has upgraded his suit as well and its now able sustain flight but as a call back to earlier in the film, the Iron Monger suit has an icing problem in higher atmosphere. Tony's suit begins to lose power as they fall back to the roof of the Stark factory. Tony sabotages Obadiah's suit so he cant shoot straight and Obadiah squishes Tony's helmet. Rude. The two men begin to fight with there wits and the bare minimum of their suits. Tony tells pepper to overload the Arch Reactor beneath him and Obadiah and after Tony begs she pushes the bug red button. Boom. Obadiah's suit short circuits and he falls to his death into the Arch Reactor causing it to explode.

I am Iron Man

I gotta give credit to this movies ending. Setting itself up like Tony is going to become your average secret identity super hero but in perfect Tony Stark fashion it subverts that by Tony declaring to the world he is Iron Man. It’s easily one the most memorable moments in all of the MCU. We also get our first name drop of SHIELD here, which at the time blew my mind because up until then super hero movies were so self contained. Credits roll and a Marvel tradition is born as the credits finish and we’re given another scene as Tony walks into his house to see a someone standing in his living room. NICK MF FURY.

“Think you’re the only super hero in the world? Mr.Stark you’ve become part of a bigger universe, you just don’t know it yet.” 

One of the single most important lines in all of the MCU. When I saw this my 15 year old brain melted and while at the time I was ignorant to who owned what in regards to film rights my mouth foamed over the idea of all marvel characters existing together in a shared movie universe. It only took ten years and a couple billion dollars but all the marvel are finally gonna share a universe together.

Does it work?   

With full retrospective Iron Man is your cut and paste Phase 1 MCU origin movie where the bad guy is basically just a different color pallet than the good guy, which is totally fine. There’s a reason they use that formula, it establishes characters perspective and personality along with their skill set to the audience. It could be because it was the first or just the combination of Favreau and RDJ and all the other cogs in the machine but no movie uses that formula better than Iron Man. I’m in awe of how much fun I had with this movie, I highly recommend going back and watching it again if you haven't recently. It holds up as it’s own movie but with the added benefit that you can clearly see how the whole MCU evolved from the style of Iron Man.

VERDICT  

You should already own this, go make some pop corn and watch this./10

[kyberled]

As an OC blog, did you have any characters in mind while creating your character you took inspiration from? (from the burntout meme)

Easy Meme for a Burnt Out Mun

Yes and no. See, I originally didn’t intend to create Braig as a character at all. In fact, he was Rodi’s idea. Way back in the day, my main blog was over at @asiifisms​. Rodi, at the time, had a bunch of muse for her Obi-Wan, @highgrcund​. We had our boys chatting in a thread, and they got on well enough, and we got to talking. Rodi suggested an AU where K/H Braig was Obi-Wan’s padawan, and, well. 

At first, he started as just an AU. But then we decided to make him younger to fit the AU, and that changed him a bit; then we got to talking about upbringing, and that changed him a bit. Then we talked about his education, and that changed him a bit. And then he started interacting with more people, and I got more into the SW lore and universe, understood more about the Order, and more and more people ended up falling in love with him and he just– Basically, a lot of things happened to change him from that AU. So I made him his own side-blog, and then his own full blog, and now, the only things that are the same are his name and I guess his scarf? And the scar he gets across his face. 

I originally considered changing his name, once I finally realised that he was nothing like my King/do/m H/eart/s boy. His new name was going to be Bréan (Pronounced BREY-on), but I never went through with it. So many people already had custom tags with his name in it, and we had so many nicknames made (Braigimus, Braiggo, Braigos, Braiglet, etc), and shipnames (Braigsoka, mainly; We could’ve made Bréba, probably, but I’m not sure it looks quite as nice as Braiba) that wouldn’t have worked, and so many reasons I never went through with it. (Sidenote: I recently started listening to the broadway OST of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and Claude Frollo has a brother named Jéan, pronounced almost the exact same as Bréan, and let me tell you, that threw me for a loop.) After I decided I didn’t want to change his name, I thought to myself that I still really liked how ‘Bréan’ sounded, especially if you paired it with Braig - Braig andBréan. For a time, I debated giving Braig a Force-Sensitive identical twin brother, with whom he got up to shenanigans with, before Bré left the Order, fell to the dark, became a Sith, and one inevitably had to kill the other, because I’m awful. After that, I decided that Bré would be a non-Force-Sensitive twin of Braig who still lived with either their father or their mother. Then I made him older, since I thought that would be a fun dynamic, then I made him look less like Braig, I kept him as Braig’s moral opposite but in different ways, threw him in the exact opposite living conditions (a slum in the Outer Rim vs. the Jedi Temple on Coruscant), renamed him to Karvan, and made him Braig’s half-brother by a different father. They don’t know each other exists, and don’t have any reason to think they’re related, when/if they ever meet. 

So his name stayed the same. He loses his scarf when he’s about 16, but has it before that. His scar’s… Mostly the same, except he only has the one visible one, and his goes down past his jaw onto his neck, while KH Braig’s doesn’t, and the origins are from two very different events. But, I feel like I can’t possibly discredit the influence my trash son had on this sweet boy, and how - I’m not sure this counts - he was the inspiration for Braig in the early stages of his development. Sort of. 

A lot of Braig’s ‘mannerisms’ have been inspired by Obi-Wan: His love of tea, his penchant for proper etiquette and manners, the way he tries to straighten his appearance out and avoid looking too scruffy, and the way he strokes his chin (an invisible beard) when he’s very deep in thought. A lot of this comes from how Rodi and I wrote him as being raised largely by Obi-Dad since day one; Papa had a lot of influence on his boy, in-canon and out, so it makes sense to me that he’d pick up on things dad did. Honestly, a lot of this wasn’t intentional, but rather something that happened over the course of our writing together, so I suppose that counts. 

Braig’s hairstyle, as he gets older, was inspired by Qui-Gon, but you already know that. Rodi honest to god messaged me in the middle of a skype chat saying she’d been thinking about how Braig would look with a Qui-Bun and attached this sketch:

And I was SOLD. Absolutely, 100% sold. 

(If you can’t tell by now, whenever I say Rodi has 50% custody over Braig, it’s not as much of a joke as you’d think. He wouldn’t be who he is without her. [Neither would I, but that’s beside the point.] Hell, he wouldn’t even exist. She’s the one who even got me watching TCW in the first place.)

(Rodi probably has just as much if not more influence on this boy’s appearance than the original K/H character did.)

I don’t remember if it was my or Rodi’s idea to make him a Force-Healer; I just know it came up in a chat we were having. And I know making him a doctor changed how I envisioned him, but making him a Force-Doctor even more so. Because he had to be someone who the Force would… Choose, for lack of a better word, to be a healer. Especially once I did more reading into healing - he had to be someone who could and would focus enough, who had the patience to do the necessary meditation, and so on and so forth. So I think that had something to do with it all, too. 

He’s indigenous because some nice anon suggested it ages back, after asking me about his real-life race and me answering I hadn’t decided. (My K/H boy is latinx.) Heidi, wherever she ran off to, suggested Booboo Stewart as a faceclaim, and we all know how perfect he turned out to be. So that wasn’t really inspiration, either. It just happened.

He’s as cuddly as he is because adults showered him in affection when he was a baby and I guess nobody ever stopped. It started out just with Obi-Dad, of course, but has since spread to Shaak, Eeth, Yaddle, Mace, Depa, Quin, A’sh, and so many more. So nobody ever weaned him off the cuddle bug, so now he snuggles everyone he’s comfortable with. 

I don’t know where his love of flowers came from; I guess that just happened. I do know that he got his journal, which is now his most precious belonging, from Obidad, in another skype chat with Rodi. I know he can heal without the Force, using either ‘standard’ or herbal/natural medicines, because Cad and Hora taught him. I know he can play holochess because of Obi-Dad and Mama Ti, and cards because of Xann and the folks at Aruk’s bar, and he’s learning how to cheat at cards from Quin, because of course he is. I don’t know why he likes stars so much, but I know Obi-Wan takes him stargazing, sometimes. He likes getting his hair brushed out because Obi-Dad and Boba and Cody do it for him and it’s relaxing. He knows Vapaad because Mace decided to teach him, Tusken from A’sharad, Chaulis because of Nihrik and Reyvahl, and Mando’a from Bes’laar and Wolffe and Cody and Boba and Satine. I don’t know why he likes reading so much or why he so desperately wants to be published in the Archives, but I know Jocasta has encouraged that greatly. He likes lullabies because of Shaak and Obi, hot chocolate especially because of Shaak and also Hora, and operates under the assumption that he can get away with murder because apparently it’s true. 

To make one (1) soft boy, it takes a village, not a Batman. 

Honestly, a lot of his growth and development has come from interacting with all my partners on this blog, and I couldn’t be more thankful. You’ve all helped bring him to life and develop this intricate canon and flesh him out and just, wow.

But enough of that.

The biggest inspiration for Braig? My dojo. I’ve been training in various martial arts for fifteen-plus years now, and we’ve always been harsh on our traditionalism. We actually had the oldest living student of Yagi Meitoku visit us not so very long ago who’d been training for sixty years (Not sixty years old, he has been training for sixty years), and he said, of all the schools he’s been to, ours had the most similar energy to Meitoku Daisensei’s, so that was really cool for us; Our grandmaster of kung fu (who’s also grandmaster of the Shaolin Fist in Asia) has said that our school has kept our forms closest to the patterns/ways he first taught it decades ago, which is also really cool for a few reasons. We’re HUGE on maintaining tradition, right down to the way we take our jackets off (that’s right, you can take your jacket off wrong). It’s pretty obvious that the Jedi are heavily, HEAVILY influenced by East-Asian ideals. So I thought it only make sense that I put dojo culture into this kid. The self-imposed perfectionism over his forms and kata, the dedication he has to his tasks, the way he tries to present himself to the general public, how he handles and treats weapons, how he rarely if EVER crosses his arms, how he fixes his posture, the playfighting he does with his close friends, hell, even how he stands when idle (a loose approximation of ‘parade rest’) all comes directly from my dojo. His philosophies are MASSIVELY dojo oriented. Even the fact that he just wants to keep people safe comes from something my Hanshi told us years and years ago at a Ni Nen Keiko that really stuck with me for some reason: “The strong must serve the weak, not the other way around.” That is a MAJOR influence for how Braig views the world and his role in it. So if you talk to him about philosophies, or ask him for an Aesop’s-Fables-esque story, he’s probably gonna say something I picked up over at the dojo. 

I teach there, too, I teach tiny children and pre-teens. So a lot of baby Braig’s ways of expressing himself comes from them, they’re how I understand tiny children operate and thus are my references for writing a tiny child. That, and my brothers (also dojo rats like me). 

Honestly, I think that’s why I never lose muse for Braig. I go to the dojo at least three times a week, every week (perhaps two on weeks when we’re closed for long weekends), and every time I’m there, if he’s been fading, this boy comes right back, because that’s him. This is going to sound majorly cliche, and it’s not really a character, but he’s been inspired by the dojo spirit, and it’s constantly being renewed, so, so is he. 

So, tl;dr, he’s not really inspired by any specific characters, as far as his OOC creation goes. Or maybe he’s been inspired by a bunch of them. Depends on how you read it. But I’d say he was inspired more by lessons, and philosophies, and interactions with the many people who have come together to shape him and his life into what it is, now. 

Oh, and, of course, the light of my life and my best friend, @ectochoir / Rodi.

Blame her, not me.

[exilevilifyrp]

Congratulations SIDNEY, you have been accepted for the role of DALLAS COSTA with the face claim DJ COTRONA! It’s clear that you put a lot of effort into this app, and it really paid off! You painted a clear picture of who Dallas is and what he’s gone through to get here, and you’ve painted it beautifully. We cannot wait to see you bring our boi Dallas to life! 

Make sure to check out our checklist and send us your blog within 24 hours!  

BASIC INFO (ALIAS/NAME, AGE, PRONOUNS): Sidney, 21, she/her

IN CHARACTER

CHARACTER YOU’RE APPLYING FOR:Dallas Costa. AGE AND GENDER IDENTIFICATION: Thirty-three / Cis-male GENESIS: Hybrid — His left leg (from just above the knee) has been replaced with a technologically advanced prosthetic after an accident involving two inexperienced Costa soldiers who fled during an arms deal gone wrong, which landed Dallas pinned between the wall of an abandoned building and a vehicle. They took the weapons without paying and left him for dead. His leg was removed immediately due to infection and therein replaced and paid for with cash. Before the operation, he’d never considered leading a synthetic life, but the strength he garners from such technology attached to his person has intrigued him and over the years, he’s made smaller adjustments such as the removal of his right hand, which was replaced with another technologically advanced prosthetic. This time the advancement was custom made so the pads of the fingers are linked to Polly, his best girl. This gives no one else permission to fire her without first a scan of his curated fingerprint. SPECIAL SKILLS: Dallas is highly proficient in a number of self-taught skills such as hand-to-hand combat, but he’s most proficient with guns. He fired his first at the age of seven and was given his very own pistol on his tenth birthday by none other than his father. Which he then affectionately named Woody. It made a home on his hip despite the constant slipping of the holster on his slender frame, that is, until his fifteenth birthday. His mother gifted him an antique Colt Python. The grip was unlike anything he’d felt before, like silk against his palm, curving perfectly within the frame of his hand. He’d named her Baby and she was beautiful, purring each time he pulled her trigger—each time she took a life. But if there was ever a thing he treasured most, it was Polly. A sleek, all black Remington shotgun with a custom grip that he’d bought himself on his eighteenth birthday. From the moment she’d graced his right hand, it was an epic romance coated in sin and savagery. She’s been his partner in crime for twelve years and gotten him out of more than one bad spot. And to this day she waits for him just outside his cell, sitting on a shelf gathering dust instead of wreaking the havoc the two of them were made for. FACE CLAIM: DJ Cotrona

IN DEPTH

ANALYSIS:

+  PASSIONATE: He may be careless but that by no way means he doesn’t feel. In fact, he feels very deeply, intensely, just not in the grander sense of the word. He doesn’t find passion in the intellectual or practical, no. He loves those immediate pleasures; the exquisite release of a good lay, the sharp bite of a fist pounding into flesh, the crisp tingle of smoke filling his lungs, the jerk of a bullet leaving its chamber. He wants what he wants and he wants it now, and this is perhaps the very reason he’s always chasing some sort of high, looking some way to replicate the first time he fucked someone or the first time he pulled that trigger. +  CONFIDENT: If there’s one thing Dallas knows, it’s how good he looks; how charming he is; how irresistible his magnetism can be. In one swift breath, he can reel you in with a smirk and a witty comment. And it’s been this way for as long as he can remember. His confidence has always been there, no doubt overly inflated by a mother trying to make up for a father’s hatred, always telling her little boy how special he was. How handsome and perfect. It’s inflated his ego, left him paralyzed in terms of criticism and made him feel invincible—infallible. +  FEARLESS: He’s never been one to shy away from a challenge. If anything, he runs toward them, always looking for a way to prove himself godly. To show the world that he truly is worthy of their worship. It started off small, jumping off the highest bridge into freezing water, drinking the spiciest hot sauce, lifting the most weights. Anything he could turn into a competition, he would. And he’d win every single time. But if anyone were to stare too closely at this attribute, they’d see it stemmed from the lack of value Dallas gives his life. He may wish to be a king, to be revered and loved and followed by disciples, but who would worship a man that doesn’t care if he lives or dies? Only a fool, that’s who.

—  HEADSTRONG: An individualist first and last, he’s never been one to conform nor has he ever wished to live within the confines of a predetermined destiny. He desperately wants the notoriety that comes along with hard-work, but always refuses to put in any effort for no other reason than that’s what everyone else would do. He wants things his own way even if he’s not willing to work for it and therein lies the oxymoron that is Dallas Costa. —  RECKLESS: Responsibility as well as following rules have never been his strong suit, in fact, Dallas has always seemed determined to live outside the confines of society, taking what he wants and saying fuck the rest. Factoring in any sort of consequence before he takes action has never held much importance simply because he couldn’t care less. —  IMPULSIVE: He always thinks before he acts, never really taking the time to analyze a situation and instead instantly acting as his mind tells him too. More often than not, he listens to his first thought and acts accordingly and it’s this that causes most of his fights and in turn, is the reason for most of his bruises or scars. It undoubtedly stems from a rudimentary lack of conviction and follow through in his earlier years, as well as never having been told the word no. When the answer is always yes, there’s no reason to not do exactly what you want all the time.

BIOGRAPHY: 

Brute force and brash tones, that was all he’d ever known. Lungs filled with hot air, legs furiously kicking, he entered this world a fighter. A wretch of a human. Willful and arrogant, demanding survival instead of earning it. A child born of privilege, with the words of his childhood always sharpened like knives. All used to nick and scrape away all the weakest parts of him, his father desperately wishing to mold and shape Dallas into much more than he was supposed to be. But with pockets deeper than a young boy could ever imagine, Dallas ran wild with impropriety, focusing on immediate pleasures instead of working for what he wanted. What else was he to do? He was born prince, the city at his fingertips, and he walked through life with ease because no one had ever taught him any different. He took what he pleased and never apologized for who he was.

A Costa. A King in the making.

He was a rambunctious boy, carefree and curious, rife with desire to impress the man who’d raised him with never a kind word and instead always a firm hand: his father. Mitchum was never a generous man, never one to spend more than a few minutes at a time with Dallas if he thought the boy deserved it, which he rarely did. But he always did have a message, a mantra, if you will. You’re destined for greatness, he’d say. But the look in his eyes never quite met the weight of those words, as if he never truly believed them when he looked at his own son. It was easy to pick up on, that rejection from the man who gave him life, and at such a young age it only made him an angry child, his fists always clenched in an uncontrollable rage, never quite sure where it truly stemmed from because looking too deep inside always seemed like a ridiculous notion—something a man doesn’t do. Not when downing half a bottle of whiskey would do the trick.

So instead he lived in the moment, in the now, hurdling from each liquored up escapade to the next, always acting first and forgetting to even ask for permission later. Wherever he went, a fight surely erupted, chaos following him around like an invisible mentor, teaching him the way of conflict, of seizing any and all opportunity to play on people’s delicate emotions, to assert control over those meek and mild mannered. But such unfettered dominance undoubtedly stemmed from that very weakness his father had always known Dallas had, and he told him as such time and time again. Every time he disappointed his father, he was told how useless he was. How impetuous and immature, so ignorant and idiotic.

Think before you act, his father would always say, mustache set in a straight line as he tidied up yet another one of his son’s messes.

But where’s the fun in that? Dallas would ask, a shit-eating grin playing across his handsome features, already planning his next adventure.

But much to his son’s amusement, there came a time when Mitchum’s opinion no longer mattered, no longer held any credence in the Costa hierarchy for he’d gone and gotten himself arrested. He’d never been one for mistakes, never put himself in the position to be vulnerable in the eyes of the law, but one misstep, one miscalculation of his own self worth had landed him in prison for life and smeared his family name in one fell swoop. Some could say he simply fell, that Mitchum Costa, the once-revered patriarch, flew too close to the sun, and just as foolish and reckless as Icarus, he burned. And with him, his entire family was scorched, tainted by defeat and crippled by the loss of their supposedly fearless leader. Forcibly, they crashed into a devastating heap, smited down by Mitchum’s delusions of grandeur, helplessly watching in despair as their name and all they stood for fell from grace. And if he was asked, Dallas would probably laugh at such a thing. With a wicked smile upon his face, of course, and a celebratory drink in his hand, he’d offer up a toast as he saluted his father, congratulated him on making the gravest mistake of all: claiming himself a God, the very thing he’d always told his son never to do. But this story isn’t about a father’s failings, nor the pain or hardship of a callous man who got what exactly he deserved.

This is a story of a wild boy, greedy in his resilience, with an infectious sort of lawlessness coursing through his veins,  rising from the wreckage of a legacy turned to dust.

Following the imprisonment of his father at age fifteen, his mother had to make a name for herself somehow. She had to come up with a way to earn a living, figure out a way to keep a roof over her son’s head and put food on the table now that all their accounts had been frozen. But if there had been one thing Mitchum had done right, it was lock down contingencies. Followers of Haus Costa had flocked from far and wide, like vultures circling the body, hoping to get a chance at the seat now that the king had fallen. But instead of crumbling under the pressure of losing her husband, their provider and breadwinner, and cowering at the sight of six-foot-three, two hundred pound men at her door, Eliana stepped up. She refused let some nobody without the name of Costa nor the damn-near royal blood take over the syndicate, no. She became the leader Mitchum never could have dreamed of, taking on the nitty-gritty parts of the job with grace, attempting to instill a sense of responsibility into Dallas. She worked day-in and day-out, never breaking a sweat, never hesitating an inch when she had to get her hands dirty, nor giving it a second thought when she chose to pass on those same lessons to her son.

A beast of a woman, she had transformed a name once mildly feared and most certainly sneered at in a quite few sections of the universe into one that elicited great renown, now existing in only the most darkest of places, whispered on the lips of the most evil of monsters. Costa, it lurked in the shadows, ominous and terrifying.  What did they sell? Guns, drugs, protection. What did they trade in? Secrets, ammo, fame and fortune. Harrowing and revered ten-fold compared to her husband, Eliana had turned an ambitious little syndicate into an empire rich with blood-splattered gold. And with her help, Dallas rose ever higher. For eventually it’d be him who would take over. It’d be him and only him to fulfill a legacy, like his father had always wanted, he just never could have imagined it’d be Eliana’s instead.

He started off slow despite the urge to fall head over heels into the family business, regardless of the desire to drench dip his fingers into the sea of boundless income and violence. It called to him, the senselessness of it all, the way it was complete chaos organized by his mother, no longer a victim but a heroine of epic proportions. The way she worked, with such ease and calculated moves, like a master of chess and everyone she met a simple pawn in her game, weak and pliable and bending to her every will. He wanted that for himself, wanted to hold that kind of glory in the palm of his hand. And if he could have, he would have willed himself a deity, demanded people bled in his name by the thousands only to strike them down when they fell at his feet in worship. And if there had been one thing such infamy had taught him, one thing he’d learned while watching his mother reinvent herself a Queen, it was that such power, autonomy and influence in the right hands, well, it could span an entire universe.

And so he worked himself to the bone, laid himself bare before Eliana’s throne only to be met with disapproval, with hindrance, taking him nearly three years to work from mere foot soldier to captain. And what a perilous climb it had been, an uphill battle with seemingly no end in sight, but she knew her son better than most. She knew wanting responsibility and handling it were two very different beasts, their motives completely different, and before she could offer him such a position in good conscience, he had to learn; had to grow up; had to become a man. And for a while, it worked. For once in his life, Dallas stepped up. He never let his guard down and focused on every task at hand with unprecedented precision—like a true heir. Earning respect had never been his forte, not when he was handed far too much far too soon in his adolescence, but men came to fear him. They cowered when he entered a room, one hand gripping Polly as she rested gently against his shoulder and the other twirling a cigarette. But anyone who ever claims power doesn’t corrupt, is a fool. And so was Dallas.

With the title of underboss, of second-in-command in his sights, he began to slip. Little things fell through the cracks as his vision tunneled, once again only able to focus on those immediate pleasures he loved so much. It was one thing when his love of a good time would cloud his judgement, when it would force him to act instead of think, to do instead of plan ahead, but now? He wanted that crown, the one resting atop his mother’s head; it called to him, whispering in his ear like a seductive mistress of avarice, begging him to give in—to betray everything and seize that throne.

It was reckless, what came next. Taking that job with those two idiots, two inexperienced soldiers just like he had once been, and trusting that they could get the job done, that they’d have his back when the shit hit the fan. And when the unexpected happened, when the buyers demanded the drugs and refused to pay, their guns loaded and aimed right at Dallas’ head, the soldiers cowered. They cracked under the pressure, pissed themselves and left him for dead. He’d managed to take down two out of four on his way down, and before the Overwatchers showed up and slapped the cuffs on him. And even though he was barely conscious, he couldn’t help but laugh. To smirk in the face of irony, belligerent and ornery in its determination to be his undoing. For history had surely repeated itself, and despite his best efforts, Dallas Costa had become the last thing he’d ever imagined: exactly like his father.

EXTRA MUSE: ZODIAC: April 3rd, 2146 — aries; the ram. MBTI: estp; the entertainer ALIGNMENT: chaotic neutral; follows his own whims, individualist, values his own liberty, avoids authority, resents restriction, cares about chaos more than anything else. TEMPERAMENT: sanguine; social creature, rather talk than listen, easily bored, energetic, good sense of humor, forgives and forgets because life is too short, loves attention and strives to be well-liked, dramatic, vain. ARCHETYPE(S): Maverick, Royal, Tastemaker STRENGTHS: courageous, determined, self-assured, enthusiastic, intense WEAKNESSES: impatient, moody, short-tempered, hasty, aggressive.

Pinterest Playlist More inspiration: x, x, x, x, x, x, x, x

POSSIBLE CHANGES: None.

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“Honesty” - fades fanfic

Okay here we go. A03′s being weird, so I’m posting straight to tumblr.

Summary: it’s Vette, Jaesa, and Lycaea talking, because evidently I can write jaesa and lycaea talking about the force or jedi/sith forever

It's late when Lycaea Archeliou switches her lightsaber off for the last time today.

She's been training for hours in anticipation of her fight with Baras. She knows she can beat him – she beat Nomen Karr and Xerender, both of whom had mastered him before – but she also knows he's going to have a card up his sleeve. He always does. So practice it is.

Not to mention, she's still getting used to her new legs. When Draagh collapsed the cave on her, she'd had to cut her own legs off to finish crawling out. The new prosthetics almost feel like her own by now. But not quite.

She exits the cargo hold and moves to the main room in the Fury, which to her surprise, still has the light on. Vette and Jaesa are curled up on the couch together, watching a holovid.

Vette pauses it when she sees Lycaea come in.

“Thought you'd never come out,” she says, hopping off the couch.

Lycaea shrugs. “You know me. I like to practice.”

Jaesa stretches out now that a spot's cleared up and kicks her legs up. “We were about to turn in,” she says. “There's only so many videos of gizka hopping down stairs one can watch.”

“Hopping up,” Vette corrects her. “It's easy to hop down stairs. Hopping up is hard if their legs aren't long enough.”

Jaesa smiles slightly. There's something about the way she looks at Vette that makes Lycaea wonder if things are changing between them. But she figures it'd be weird to ask.

“I'm not tired,” Lycaea says.

Vette grins and casts a look at Jaesa. “Me either.”

Jaesa sighs. After a second, she says “All right, what do you have in mind?”

Vette shrugs. “I dunno. Talking. Eating. Anything. All three of us rarely get the opportunity to hang around without all the die-hard Imps.”

Lycaea grabs a bag of lunch meat from the mini-fridge and starts passing it around, and Vette sits back down on the couch again. Lycaea sits on the other side of Jaesa. The stark blue light of the holo has been shut off, leaving only the dim red lights of the Fury.

Lycaea just listens to the breathing of her friends for a little. It's good to get out of that sparring room. Reminds her what there is to care about that's not revenge.

Living for revenge sure works, but it can eat you up inside.

Lycaea can sense Vette preparing herself to speak a couple times, but she keeps stopping. Finally, she says, “So how is it?”

It takes Lycaea a minute to realize what Vette's talking about. “My lightsaber?” she asks.

Vette nods.

A couple months ago, Jaesa had convinced Lycaea to make a new lightsaber. One that didn't belong to a dead Sith Lord, but was hers. Only. Jaesa and Vette had obtained a light purple and blue crystal, which Vette informed her wasn't obtained 100 percent legally.

“It's good,” Lycaea says. She holds the hilt in her hand. It's big – a foot long, not counting the metal handguards. It has weight to it, like a weapon should. “The blade's a little longer than my old one, but that's a good thing. More reach.”

“It's because of the crystal,” Jaesa says.

Vette cuts in. “Yeah, when we were looking around, Jaesa said that one just sensed like you. You know, like it was custom made for you even though it wasn't.”

Lycaea nods. She looks to Jaesa. “Is that how your crystal is?”

Jaesa thinks for a moment before responding. “Sort of,” she says. “Some Jedi padawans go to Ilum to find their crystals, and find the one that 'feels' right. Since my training took place in a relatively short span, it was accelerated. Nomen Karr provided the materials I needed for my lightsaber.” She touches her hand to her lightsaber on her belt. “But it's become mine. And it's fitting, isn't it? Yellow is neither a color associated with Jedi or Sith.”

Jaesa stares forwards, eyebrows knitting in thought. Normally, it's very hard to read the emotions on her face. But maybe perhaps she can let her guard around the “non-die-hard-Imperials”, same as Vette.

“Pierce asked me about how I felt switching sides,” Jaesa says slowly. “I assumed he was trying to trip me up after catching us talking about the light side Sith but – either way. He wanted to know how it felt, if it was like being 'free', to be encouraged to express emotion on the field of battle for the first time in years.”

“Well I assume it would be for him,” Vette says. “He'd make a terrible Jedi. No offense.”

“He's not here, you don't have to say 'no offense',” Lycaea says.

Vette shrugs.

Jaesa continues, “I didn't know what to tell him. I'm not really – I don't fight like other Sith fight.” She keeps her words vague in case there are eavesdroppers. But Lycaea knows what she means. She still draws on the light side of the Force.

“Ask Lycaea, she would know!” Vette says.

Lycaea shakes her head. “No I wouldn't.”

Jaesa looks at her.

Lycaea shrugs. “The Sith, the Jedi... neither one of them has it right.” For a minute she wonders if she should be saying such 'treasonous' things in a ship with die-hard Imperials, but really, she doesn't care. What's the point of being Sith if you can't say what you want?

“Well I know the Sith doesn't have it right,” Vette says. “What about the Jedi?”

“I'm not talking about morality,” Lycaea says. “I'm talking about emotion. When we're kids, we hear that the Jedi are hypocritical moralists who are practically like droids. You know? They don't feel anything, and we do. But really, the Sith aren't any more free to emote than the Jedi.”

Vette waits, listening.

“Interesting perspective from a Sith,” Jaesa says.

Lycaea grins. “I like to switch it up.” She narrows her eyes and continues. “But think about it. Peace is a lie, there's only passion. But most of the passions you hear about in the Sith Academy are anger, hatred, or fear. There's no room for weakness.”

“I thought you hated weakness,” Vette says. “You know, not like... for other people, but for yourself.”

“I do,” Lycaea says quickly. “And there's a reason for that. It's because if you show weakness around Sith, they'll eat you alive. I learned to make my face a mask before I learned to write.”

“Me too,” Vette says softly.

Lycaea nods seriously. She waits for Vette to keep talking, but when she doesn't she goes on. “Not being able to express your emotion because it will make you 'fall to the darkside', and not being able to express anything except the right ones because it will make you look weak are both bad options. Either way, you're acting like someone else's idea of how you should. 'The Force shall free me', but the Empire and other Sith sure as hell won't.”

“So everything sucks?” Vette asks.

“It doesn't have to,” Jaesa says quickly. Quietly. Lycaea can feel her in the Force, sensing out to the other rooms, seeing if the other crew members are asleep or not. “I can see from a certain perspective how one could find peace in the Jedi code. You obviously can't shut off your emotions, but you can prevent them from overwhelming you. You can make decisions based on what is best for the people around you, instead of letting worldly attachments cloud your judgment.

“And you're a Sith, but you aren't pointlessly cruel. When there are hard decisions to be made, you make the right ones, even though you don't try to disconnect yourself from your emotions. I remember you speaking of drawing on your hate. You said being able to finally hate the people who treated you wrong was freeing.”

“You're right, but you're also wrong. I do hate lots of people. And I do try to make the least harmful decisions,” Lycaea sighs. “But I'm also - ” she instantly stops herself. Talking about feelings that are hers and not hypothetical other people's is always hard. There's this low hum in the back of her head that it will be used against her later.

“But I'm also definitely disconnected from some... emotions,” she admits finally.  She doesn't say what those are. That would involve more talking about it.

Jaesa take Lycaea's hand gently. It feels nice.

“I could've told you that,” Vette says.

Lycaea looks to Vette.

“You know,” Vette says. “You're always talking shit. But I don't think I've ever heard you talk about being afraid ever. And instead of ever saying you like or love people, you're like 'I enjoy your company' or 'I'd be sad if something happened to you'.” She passably mimics Lycaea's inflections. “Nothing that would admit to people how much you care.”

Lycaea presses her lips together. She hadn't realized she was that obvious.

“So the Dark Side works for you,” Vette said. “That's cool. But you don't have to act like you don't give a shit or like you're the scariest thing in the room all the time. You can let yourself chill.”

“I am the scariest thing in the room.”

Vette reaches over Jaesa and flicks Lycaea. “Dork,” she says.

Lycaea decides to try to be serious. “Even if I did decide to try to let my guard down because it would be - ” she rolls her eyes – “less emotionally-constipated or whatever, that wouldn't take down all the other Sith's guards. They'd just perceive it as a weakness they could exploit.”

Jaesa gives Lycaea's hand a squeeze.

“You're right,” Vette says. “But we won't.”

Lycaea waits. She knows it's probably true. Vette is one of the first real friends she's had, ever. But it still feels weird.

She stands up. “I'm going to try to get some sleep,” she says.

Vette nods. As Lycaea's leaving, she says “And hey, Lycaea.”

Lycaea turns to look over her shoulder. “Yes?”

“I like spending time with you too,” she says and winks.

Lycaea smiles. She remembers Vette agreeing with her 'mask' comments.

It's probably just as hard for Vette to let her guard down as it is for her.