#not her burning all these bitches for u to still be calling her a saint give her name some respect damn | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vronnica · 6 years ago

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‹ ･｡ ☾ [ blackpink vc ] hey boys. soz for missing plotting hour and opening… my bf wanted a cheese and wine night, so y’all know i was knocked af for like 12+ hrs. but now i am back and ready for action ! HENNYWAYS,,, i’m acacia ( she/her ), i’m twenty years of age, and i hail from the pst timezone ! i love kpop ( specifically got7 and blackpink. however, my ult bias is vernon from seventeen. if you know, you know. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ), milk tea, and mac and cheese. sooo sorry you’re all trapped in this rp w/ me. but y’all will learn to adore my 3am messages and casual spam on the dash. with that being said, under the cut you’ll find out more about my piece of shit baby angel, ronnie ! if you want ur muse to be friends with the stereotypical rich bitch. keep on readin bbs ;) psa: if you like this then you’re obligated to plot with me srry but i don’t make the rules. ( i’m jk please like this or i’ll cry. ) i’ll either slide in your IMs or you can contact me on discord @ mlilk#3162

jennie kim & cisfemale • hey, isn’t that veronica moon? she is that twenty-two year old that’s been living in conyers farm for twenty years. did you know her family is worth $18B? no wonder she is so ingenious & haughty. she is known around the estates as the aesthete, after all.

Q U I C K G U I D E O F V E R O N I C A

PINTEREST BOARD

STATISTICS PAGE

RELATIONSHIPS ( WANTED CONNECTIONS )

H E R D A I L Y R O U T I N E

in veronica’s dreams, she is the epitome of a morning person. in reality, she’s a two in the afternoon kind of person. however, her schedule does not allow her to do that. so she does everything possible to transform herself into a morning person. new white rays shine through the window as she lies in her queen sized bed. she lifts up the aqua colored silk eye mask and the warm ball of light filtered through her thin eyelids. it takes her a moment to adjust but eventually her eyes flutter open to reveal the exhaust in her chocolate brown hues. she extends her arm out to her bed side table, grabbing ahold of her phone. she clears out the notifications that do not automatically appeal to her and checks the ones that do. after five minutes of procrastinating, she finally slips out of bed.

ronnie trudges her feet against the hardwood floor, making her way over to her bathroom. with a flick of a switch, the bright light from the crystal chandelier fills up the room. she runs herself a bath. filling the tub with lavender and jasmine bath salts. her le soir silk night slip pools around her feet as she climbs into the warm water. she’s completely and utterly relaxed. the time passes too quickly and she’s back on her feet. she wraps the fluffy white towel around her small frame and walks into her closet. winter, her favorite time of the year. she picks out a classic veronica moon outfit. a light orange and black tartan patterned dress paired with her wool cashmere burberry coat. and with a single spritz of her chanel no.5 onto her chest, she’s ready for the day.

B A C K S T O R Y

moon jisung, ( chairman and co-owner of urban place resorts / hotels ) met vanessa ross ( retired model, turned fashion designer ) back in 1995 at one of vanessa’s casting calls. that, of course, was being held at urban place’s gangnam location. it definitely was not love at first sight. vanessa’s serious aura made jisung think she was a lawyer. jisung’s spazzy persona had vanessa thinking, “ this man is the chairman ? ” their relationship remained business. until one day jisung accidentally texted the designer one letter, “ q. ” from there, the relationship blossomed.

october 29, 1996, veronica moon was born, the moon family was complete, and they’re absolutely perfect. two years after she was born, jisung and vanessa decided to make a permanent home in conyers farm. therefore, veronica grew up in a really nice household. nice cars, designer clothes, and every day was a vacation. she was constantly spoiled. always given whatever she wants, whenever she wants. and of course, she’s used to getting her way all the time. ultimately making her: bad and boujee. her family is loaded. ( duh every1′s is. ) and she’s always been surrounded by lots of love and luxury.

being the only child, ronnie never had any consequences. in school, she became sort of a bully. she was very ruthless and cold. she had that, “i’ll do anything to get where i need to be,” personality. and if it meant paying someone to transfer the other student threatening her valedictorian spot, then yes, of course she’d do that. people either hated her or loved her. there was no in between. she kept her clique small. ( yes, a clique, which indeed was very exclusive. invite only. think of regina george or blair waldorf. ) she ran her school and she liked to keep it that way.

once she graduated she became more of an adult about things. but, old habits die hard. therefore, some of those traits she developed in school still linger with her til this day. just a little more filtered. ( truly, just a tad bit. ) she got accepted into almost every ivy league college. her mother gave her the option to just pass on college. her father on the other hand, encouraged her to go to school to have the major under her belt. ultimately, she decided to go to yale and major in art history. ( she chose yale because it was only a little over an hour away from conyers. ) though, now, most of her classes are being completed online.

present time: veronica is currently taking a semester off school to really think about what she wants to do after she graduates. at the moment, she spends a majority of her time working on her art. growing up she always had an artistic eye. vanessa ( being a fashion designer ) taught her all the techniques when it came to drawing for fashion. though eventually, veronica steered away from the clothing industry and found herself drawing more intricate works of art.

P E R S O N A L I T Y

too long; didn’t read: an angel with a halo unbalanced with horns, not a devil but not a saint either ?? kind yet has a backbone. softer than what she seems like. humorous and witty though understanding. mistrusting but willing to let loyalty speak. wealthy but tries not to depend on her family. stays away from the king glitterati lifestyle and fronts as if she’s just a normal gal livin’ in conyers etcetc.

she has that tell it like it is personality. she just calls it likes she sees it. even if she’s not exactly right. she’s literally drowning in her riches. making her materialistic af. some people might think she’s that dumb bimbo rich bitch. but she’s actually very VERY smart. witty and intelligent to be exact.

super particular when it comes to most things. ( high maintenance queen. ) she wants things done correctly. so she often runs by the quote, “ if you want things right you gotta do it yourself. ” she absolutely despises like relying on others to get things done when she knows she could do it faster and better. a little bit of a ocd queen.

her instagram = her job. it’s filled with ootds, selfies, food pics. but most importantly: her art. it’s the platform she uses to show people she isn’t just a pretty rich girl. she has talent. ( *insert "the kardashian's have no talent" - proven wrong in 7 minutes vid.* )

she’s very dedicated to her work, thus making her very goal oriented. she’s very creative and she’s actually a very good artist. she’s one of those people that set their mind to something and goes through with it until the end. i’m sure she picked up doodling and bullet journaling while growing up. *plays boss ass bitch vine.*

too long; didn’t read pt. 2: she’s slowly growing out of her tough head of hair and morphing into a young woman so beautiful over the years, but also at times, terrifying ?? self destructive ?? even if she’ll never let anyone see her deteriorate her insides sigh. she’s a hot mess. but she tries her best to hide that shit. yeye sweg.

R E L A T I O N S H I P S

FRIENDSHIPS: she has plenty of friends, at least in her head. in reality, she just knows a lot of people through her many connections. so she has many affiliations. but never real friends. she’s very particular with the people she associates herself with. she believes that those around you reflect who you are as a person as well. therefore, she only surrounds herself with the best of the best. she may not be the best person to tell your secrets too either because she’s quite the gossip queen. but she can probably persuade you to trust her. rip. however, if you are a close friend of her’s, she’s very loyal to those who are loyal to her. which means she’d never do you dirty. but that’s only if she really cares about you. she’s a really great listener and she’s willing to give advice to those are willing to take it. plus, she’s the type to spoil the people she loves. so expect the best christmas gifts ever if u rollin’ with her.

honestly, she really does need to surround herself with good people with genuinely good intentions. so please, someone teach her what loyalty is.

bonus points if they’ve been friends for awhile. displays loyalty.

ENEMIES: she was bully in high school. so you know this girl has more than enough enemies ( and haters. ) she uses people, she pushes people around, etc etc. like she has some very evil intentions. she’s vengeful and irrational. she puts fuel to drama and loves to see people crash and burn. why ? she wants that reassurance that she is flourishing above all. she never wants to be belittled and will do anything to remain on the very top. however,,, ronnie does have some good intentions. she leans more to the chaotic neutral side. ( maybe tilted a bit more towards evil, but still. ) deep deeeeep deeeeeeeeeeep down the girl is trust issue central when it comes to letting people in. she can’t help it. she’s like that one rihanna meme, them: you can’t just cut people off. ronnie: *holds a pair of scissors* she doesn’t have problem with letting people go. so people think she’s a bitch because, “how could you just drop our five year long friendship like that.” and she’d just shrug. but really, she’s hurting beyond repair and will go home crying while eating a thing of ben & jerry’s chunky monkey.

there’s always that possibility where a friendship just didn’t work out. maybe they just stopped having time for each other and now it’s just mad awk. whatever it is, an enemy would b beaut.

veronica absolutely needs enemies. give her many. plenty. an abundance please.

LOVERS: i have a feeling she’s dabbled in the dating world. she’s had a few boyfriends, dates, etc. but most likely nothing LONG TERM. possibly because she doesn’t see the point unless it’s for marriage. just like her mom and dad. she has this [ beyoncé vc ] independent woman facade going on right now. which makes her seem like she doesn’t want anyone. but she’s secretly a hopeless romantic. this girl would love to be loved. and she truly needs it. she’s probably read tons of books about love and fluffy shit like that. it’d be a hard mission to win this girl over. but not impossible. she just has high expectations when it comes to relationships. so someone rlly needs to come here and treat this girl right.

100% dabbles in the quick hook ups for the sake of fulfilling those needs.

though, if the right person were to come along… she’d be loyal to them, completely devoted to just them.

CONGRATULATIONS ! you made it to end ! if you read all of this… i love you. i only ever write so much bc… it gets me in character lmao. also, i wrote all of this literally the moment i woke up so pls excuse any mistakes. i would really love to plot with everyone. so just slide into my IMs and we can get things started !! luv u *blows a kiss*

#trustfunds:intro #idk why i'm ALWAYS late to things #kill m e ;-)))

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diveronarpg · 6 years ago

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Congratulations, KAITLIN! You’ve been accepted for the role of JULIANA with an FC change to ZOE BARNARD. Admin Rosey: I think we all know how much I treasure Juliana. She’s my little principessa and my heart. Which is why choosing between the applications literally had me sweating because they all represented such distinct aspects of her. But Kaitlin you provided something that I don’t often think of when looking at Juliana: a spine of steel. I thought it was one made of flowery vines, but you’ve convinced me that it is a spine of metal, capable of producing thorns while glinting with jewls. It’s because of this, I have entrusted my daughter to you.. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Kaitlin.

Age | 21.

Preferred Pronouns | She/her.

Activity Level | I am currently in Florida on holiday, but usually I spend a great deal of my free time online so I’m around and writing all the time! I won’t be able to much (if at all) while I’m down here since I’m moving my sister into college, but in general I can usually squeeze out a reply every day, though sometime I go a few days without posting and then post 6 replies on a single day, so. Do with that what you will.

Timezone | EST.

Current/Past RP Accounts | This is my most recently used account. This one is from around 6 months ago.

Also; Either I’m blind or I can’t find the additional questions section, but long story short I’d wondered if I could use Zoë Barnard as Juliana’s FC? Thanks babes!! Have a wonderful rest of your day reading and stay hydrated!!! Drink water u beautiful, dehydrated bitches!!!

In Character

Character | Juliet; Juliana Rosetta Capulet.

What drew you to this character? | I’m not exactly sure what caught my eye about Juliana two years ago, I could probably find my old application and try and figure it out again, but without doing so, what first broke my heart were the choice of words bolded, the words that you saw fit to emphasize. The words that make Juliana who she is. Thrive. Ghost. Onlooker. Helplessness. Obsession. Lamented. Saint. Blood. Symbol. Succumbing. Love. These words are a patchwork quilt of heartbreak and home building, of a life simultaneously ruined and still being built. She is built from ghosts, trying to stand on her own two feet while trying to balance who she was as a girl with who she feels she must now be as a woman. An onlooker to her own life, she’s both in control and out of it, toying with this feeling of helplessness, and wondering if the control she’s taken to get her father’s attention, to get her freedom, is all worth it. She’s a saint with blood in her future, a symbol of love and loss and light, and all the ways the dark threatens those things.

I’ve never favored girls who are put together. Call me a cliché if you like, but my female muses are an assortment of messes, girls who bear their teeth so they might hide their heart without the world realizing, girls who hide behind a string of lovers because they are terrified of love, girls who burn so brightly they threaten to consume–I’ve never been a fan of the sort of muses who are prim and proper and expect the world to lay itself at her feet without even having to ask.

So at first glance, I’m sometimes surprised that I adore Juliana the way that I do. Or at the very least, that I gave her the time of day to sit and think about her. But I did, and boy is she a mess in her Chanel.

(I actually think she favors the likes of Gucci or Dolce & Gabbana, all bold prints and daring colors with crisp lines, but that’s besides the point).

At first glance, Juliana is every inch the perfect princess that one might expect from Juliet, at least the Juliet from the beginning of the play. As a child she is spoiled, both with material objects and with love. But she was young when her mother died, and for all that her father loved his daughter, he employed his grief tenfold when it came to protecting her. He caged her away, kept her hidden and protected and I think in many ways, this has ruined her.

Juliana is a collection of fatal flaws.

Her love for her father, her desperate, unending love for him, has made her unable to fully recognize that the darkness she was afraid might taint him has already dragged him down. Not even that it dragged him down, that rather he stepped into the abyss without so much as a look back to check on his daughter. She loves her cousin, her darling Tibby, who is cruel and violent and knew the taste of ruin before he’d learned how to walk, who spit on the Montague name before he’d even heard that he was supposed to–she loves him, with a fervor equal to that anger which he directs at the world. The Tiger of Verona, they call him, but she still sees the boy who rode his bike behind her down to the river, groaning and grumbling the whole way, but protecting her all the same. She loves all her people, would die for each and every one of them if there was a call to action that required such a sacrifice.

But love and loyalty are not her only sins–that same father that built her a gilded cage taught her pride, taught her to believe in herself even when he didn’t speak to her. Even when she felt like she wasn’t enough for him, her pride turned itself into a deadly thing. Double edged and sharp as the tip of a blade, her pride is simultaneously unshakeable and unfound. A creature that thrives on attention and love, she can sometimes crumble into herself with a lack of it.

She is loyal, and it has made her blind. She’s been put on a pedestal and it’s made her pride deadly, a corrosive thing that threatens to turn her blood from ichor to mere iron. She is curious, and it is going to put her 10 feet under.

She is an innocent in a world where innocence does not fare well.

I’m curious to see which hamartia, if any of them, will prove her downfall. After all, the best fatal flaws are the ones that are good in moderation. Loyalty with clarity of vision. Pride without hubris. Curiosity with care.

In Juliana, there’s something tragic. In Juliana, there is something magic. And that’s the kind of character any writer would be fascinated with, at least in my book.

Does she have the ability to find balance? Here’s hoping.

(Or not–we need to keep things interesting, after all).

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? | For starters, I think Juliana is one of those wonderful characters that’s caught in an in-between. She’s in a transitory stage, with her fate hanging so precariously in the balance. She’s been afforded the opportunity to break from the chains of her innocence, but she’s also beginning to wonder if perhaps her lily-white hands were not so much a chain but a blessing. And she is wondering that about a great deal of her life, and I am watching and wondering myself which branch of her fate she will choose to walk down.

Here are some paths for her to choose, though I am certainly someone who thrives better when I have other characters to plot with.

(Which, coincidentally, will be another interesting concept to consider with Juliana. Lovely, lonely Juliana, who has been caged and sheltered and only recently brought into the fold of violence that bedecks her father’s hallowed halls, does not know so intimately the men who populate her father’s ranks. She is not overly privy to their personalities, and she is less than friends with a great deal of them. They respect her, to a degree, being the boss’s daughter they must, but she does not know them. She is coming to, slowly but surely understanding her people, and I’m interested to see how someone so isolated will fare in this sea of people).

Okay, tangents aside, some plots. (Sidenote: These are all fairly independent, and some can happen simultaneously where others are branches that, once started down, mean she wouldn’t be able to go down others. It really depends on fellow muns).

FOR KING & COUNTRY. One of Juliana’s guiding lights has always been fidelity, almost as much as love has been; for those whom she loves are those who inspire loyalty within her. It’s said right there in her biography, that she adhered to the commandments her father set forth the way any disciple ought to. It’s a hard line to draw though, where she ought to direct her loyalty and her love. I think this is one of the things about Juliana that appeals to me, that she is such a slave to her love, and at the moment her love for her father and for her country are in line. At the moment, she believes that her father is leading their people the way he ought to (or, at the very least, the best and only way he knows how), and that the blood and ichor spilled are ruinous but have not ruined them yet. But what happens when she reaches that limit? What happens if she comes to the conclusion that Verona is ruled by a gilded elite, one that needs to spill the blood of those lower than them just so she might continue to sit upon a poisoned throne? What happens when a king is not ruling the country, but killing it? What, pray tell, is a princess to do then?

THERE WILL BE BLOOD. Juliana has let the iron into her soul, has tasted darkness and been left hungry; there’s no doubt about that any longer. She shadows the Great Cosimo Capulet, striding through the halls of the Cathedral, and she finds herself intimately familiar with the coppery taste of air tainted by spilled blood, knows what it is to feel the buck of a glock 19 in her hands, and yet. Juliana is bedecked in innocence painted red, a tender-hearted girl with violence at her fingertips, but for all that the violence has been exposed to her, so has her father. It’s a hard thing, reconciling the man who once tucked her into bed at night, a soft kiss pressed to her temple, with the man whispered about among the masses. And those whispers? They speak of the death of innocence. They speak of the cold-blooded, hard-hearted murder of an underboss across the bridge. They speak of a son taking his place as leader of the family too soon and a daughter with pearls in her eyes and kindness woven with steel in her spine. They speak of an unjust loss, and they say it was her father who dared pull the trigger, if not by his own hand then by his order. Juliana is under no illusions; she sees the darkness in her father, sees it leaking into her own heart and threatening to turn her body towards rot, but to think of her father as someone who would underhandedly cross the border into Montague territory to have Alvise Vernon murdered is different from recognizing her father as someone engaged in a battle for power, as someone who kills those who dare cross the Castelvecchio into Capulet territory. She’s not sure though either way if the whispers are true, and that scares her.

ROMAN HOLIDAY. I find the potential connection between Roman and Juliana quite fascinating. You may call me a cliche all that you like, but it’s not even a romantic connection that I seek between the two. It’s a strange thing, but I honestly couldn’t care less about romance when it comes to Juliana’s future–if anything, I’d prefer to see her learn how to love herself, darkness and all, before she falls in love. But quick tangent aside, Roman and Juliana have been left broken and wanting in their lives, and then were taught to fill the void in completely different ways. Both, though, still have that ache sitting in their chest, turning their hearts towards ruin. Roman turned his towards the mob, allowed the wild, brutal thing to be equally as brutal in its hurt as it was in its nobility, as it was in its power. Juliana wasn’t afforded that same freedom, and instead of turning her heart to steel it turned itself to gold, soft and pliable and equally as loyal. Equally, she burned. Their loss turned them honor-bound, turned them fervent, turned them holy. I’m not sure exactly how they might come together (imagine: they meet, masks drawn, in the flashing lights of the Tempest lounge, each knowing exactly who they other is but wanting just for a moment to pretend they don’t), but I can’t help but think about the ways in which Roman might change Juliana–most of them entirely for the better. Roman is someone who has always known his fate, born into glory and taught how to harness it, and I think he could do a great deal to teach Juliana how to lead her people. He is wracked with his own grief, a grief that could fill him with prejudice against her simply for the sake of her name, but if they were to overcome their differences, the pair of them together could turn Juliana into the kind of woman she could only dream of being: daunting, exceptional, inspiring. Apart they are formidable, even if many can’t see that in Juliana yet. Together they threaten to raze Verona to ash and build her back into something golden.

THE LADY VANISHES. Another potential path would be Juliana falls into the iron, consumed by that which she vowed to protect her father from. In some ways, Juliana has traded in one golden cage for another made of silver and bronze, of tougher and more formidable things. Before her father brought her into the fold, she lived a lonely life, to be sure, but it was also lovely and left her sun-haloed and her blood tasting of honey. She attended private school and came home after classes were over, lounging in the backyard gardens, a book by Emily Brontë or some other romanticist cracked open and a bowl of peaches (or cherries or apricots or whatever else she could have possibly desired) on the table next to her. She’d sit before her canvas in a linen shirt and nothing else, paint streaked across the canvas and her cheeks while she poured her heart into the brush strokes. She’d sit at the dinner table with her father and smile and laugh and tell him about her day until he’d quietly excuse herself. Eventually she’d go on to expect it, this quiet departure, and eventually she’d stop minding the quiet. Yes, she led a quiet life, one full of care and peace, and she didn’t mind so much until Vivianne convinced her father to pull her from her cage for a night and show her all of the darkness that she’d been missing. And with the dark came the love of the moon, and the stars, and the cosmos gave Juliana the same love that the sun had formerly shown her. It’s intoxicating, the darkness, the flecks of light that dance across the sky as an evening wears on, the atrocities that men and women will commit in her name, the ones that taste uncomfortably like a drug she never intended to get addicted to. What if she were to give in? I think it’d be a fascinating thing, to see Juliana fall.

THE AGE OF INNOCENCE. It’s no small secret, Juliana’s innocence. It shapes her every breath, lets each and every member of both mobs form their own opinions about who she is and what she is capable of–all without ever actually meeting her. Boss’s daughter, the delicate flower, the soldiers sometimes whisper when she enters a room. She is the blessed daughter, no matter the grime that’s started to taint her manicure, no matter the blood she spills on her Manolo Blahniks. I’d be curious to see how this innocence of hers fares, and whether or not it will lead to her untimely end. I think this is possibly the least likely of my plot ideas; I find it hard to believe that the prodigal daughter would allow herself to be chained to her innocence, no matter how much she might resent the darkness, but it could be an interesting thought to consider, this kind of oxymoronic concept of fatal innocence. She’s let the darkness is, but will the light burn it from her soul, taking her body down with it? Time will tell.

LOVE IN THE AFTERNOON. There’s something terribly haunting about Juliana being forced into a marriage for which she has no passion, into a relationship with a man whom she… respects? Priam Taravella is an honorable man, and she is fiercely loyal and guilty in her innocence, and she would never want to intentionally go out of her way to make a move against this union arranged for her by her father, but this is Juliana. Juliana, who would die for love. Juliana, who would die just to be in love, for some fleeting moment where she could taste love’s tender kiss, for a shared night with a lover who put their mouth to her collarbone and whispered her a new religion. She wants someone to stare into her eyes and show her what it is to go mad for love. Juliana, she loves and she loves and she loves and she has so few directions to direct her love. She has her father, and she has her cousins, and she has her Vivianne, but none are the love she so desperately might desire. The love she so earnestly deserves. It’s no small thing that the last line of her bio is “Icarus and the sun? That was love.” That is what Juliana seeks in life–a love that is all consuming, a love that threatens to burn, a love that she’d be willing to cast the world into flame just to get a taste of. Priam Taravella might be a partner, a brother in arms in this war that she doesn’t want to be fighting, but he’s no sun, and she doesn’t turn to Icarus when he comes near. I want so desperately for her to say this, to speak out against her arranged marriage, to step into the ranks of the Capulets and come out stronger, with a louder voice and with hands that no longer shake, and be unashamed of her hungry heart. She’s a girl born to a bloodied throne–should she not be worthy of it herself? Should she not have a mate to match her hunger?

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Always. I’m so that bitch.

In Depth

In-Character Interview:

What is your favorite place in Verona?

She knows what she would have said, once upon a dream.

She thinks of the before, when the sunlight tasted like honey and her smile was effortless. When she could walk through the garden behind their villa and not remember the sight of a dark haired woman sitting on the stone bench beneath the olive tree there, spine cracked and a smile on her face as Emma Woodhouse did something to make her laugh. When she spent each summer biking outside of her hometown to the small lake just south of the city, Tibby trailing along behind her at the request of his father. We can’t let the princess get lost, she can still remember him saying, the echo of a mother’s soft laughter still ringing in her head.

She remembers slipping through massive dark wood doors, her little sister in tow, shutting the heavy thing behind her and standing among all of the things that made her mother who she was. A baby-faced Juliana, pulling open drawers and running small hands over the fine silks there, or slipping into the wardrobe at the back of the room where all of her mother’s biggest, warmest coats hung up. She’d bury herself on the floor there and whisper stories to Siena, tall tales of romance and intrigue that she’s read about in the novels she’d found among her mother’s things. She remembers putting on a pair of velvet red stilettos, six sizes too big for her adolescent feet, and wrapping a silken scarf around her slender neck, giggling and laughing as her dark-haired counterpart donned a wide-brimmed hat she’d only seen her mother wear once.

But that life feels like a dream now.

A life lived, surely, but not by Juliana. Not as the woman she is today.

Instead, she thinks of the places she loves now, the places that are privy to the woman she’s becoming rather than the one she’s been forced to leave behind. She thinks of the cathedral and every moment where her father has looked upon her with newfound approval, but must then also think of the blood she knows has been spilt there, the ichor she can’t see but knows is under her cousins fingernails. She thinks of her bedroom, the bed with the white linen bedspread she insisted on even though her father said he’d buy her a silk set, the window with the bench below it where she likes to sit and read the stories her mother once told her before putting her to bed. She thinks of the abandoned easel in the corner of the room, paint dried and the image only half-completed. We learn to love our cages, they say.

She thinks of the Castelvecchio, and the many times she’s sat on the edge of the bridge and stared into the sunset, the colors of the sky daring her to pick up a paintbrush she put down two years ago. But if she must think of the bridge then she must also think of the crimes that have befallen both sides of this conflict that has left the two families broken and wanting.

And then, she thinks of the inbetween.

“The Twelfth Night,” she says suddenly, as though pulled from a trance. “I’ve always loved art, though it wasn’t until recently that I spent much time there.”

How embarrassing, she thinks. Vivianne taught me better; never let them see you blink.

“They have a Rembrandt that just–” she pauses for a moment, inhaling deeply and shaking her head, the image coming to the forefront of her mind. “It’s just absolutely phenomenal. Have you ever been? Their Baroque collection is simply to die for. They have a Velásquez that I promise will steal the breath right out from your throat.”

She pauses, another half beat of her heart where she remembers a cage she sometimes wishes she wasn’t free of.

“Then again, of course, his best works are in Spain. Las Meninas is at the Museo del Prado, if I’m not mistaken.” She’s not, but she knows better than to be impolite. So she smiles, and goes on, her eyes mischievous when she continues, as though she’s letting him in on a secret.

(She pretends she doesn’t feel a pang in her heart when she mentions Spain. When she thinks of a summer spent walking through Madrid while she and her mother visit her aunt, the air warm and full of music that makes her heart sing. When she thinks of a freedom she never got to taste again).

“Everyone always expects me to favor florals, you know. When I say I love art, they expect me to love the impressionists, to say that Renoir and Monet are who I’d lay my heart bare for, or that Degas Dancers in Blue hangs over my bed, but they’re wrong. It’s not that they aren’t beautiful, of course they are, but stand in front of a Rembrandt or a Velásquez for half an hour and it’s just… it’s transcendent. It’s real, but it’s also more than. Monet is beautiful, but Rembrandt…”

She shakes her head again, her chest heavy.

“Rembrandt is sublime.”

What does your typical day look like?

She can’t help it when she lets out a laugh, her eyes glinting like sunlight on the water. She doesn’t blame her interviewer when the breath catches in his throat.

“Is this the part where I demurely evade the question? Bat my lashes and act like my days are top secret?” She is all soft lines when she leans forward in the plush velvet armchair, shoulders curling in on themselves while she twists her mouth into a smile. “None of my days are typical,” she purrs in mock amusement.

He responds, says something he probably thinks is witty. Juliana smiles, but she’s not really listening to him and for a moment her heart isn’t in it.

The truth is that her days scare her sometimes, and sometimes they make her heart sing, and she’s not sure exactly which is worse anymore, or what causes which reaction on what occasion. There are days where the thought of leaving her bedroom terrifies her, where the thought of walking through the streets of Verona will mean having Tiberius at her heels, eyes and teeth hungry for spilt blood. Days where she’s not sure if she hates him or loves him more for it in equal measure. You don’t hate him, she thinks quickly. You hate what this city’s done to him. (She knows better, knows that violence is embedded in her cousin’s heart, the same way she knows the darkness was always in her fathers and it was simply grief that brought it forth–she lies to herself all the same). Then there are days where staying in her cage seems equally as dangerous, equally as terrifying. What was she missing, out there in the world? A world where all was not sunlight and starry nights? The days where her father bids her stay in the house she will stare at the half-finished canvas in her bedroom and wonder–those haunt her the same way her days at the Cathedral do.

She’s caught somewhere in the middle of them, these two lives of hers, and the more time she spends in the in-between the more she begins to see that the pair of them are both light and dark. That they are cages in equal measure, and she loves them both.

(And what, pray tell, would be better to die for? One could say she’s caught between a rock and a hard place, her gilded cage and her blood-soaked title, but she’d call herself lucky, to have a life so full of love, practically brimming over the edge with it).

“It’s changed, recently,” she finally says in response to whatever it was he had said last. “My definition of typical.”

She purses her lips just so, pausing only the bat of an eye before deciding what she may actually be able to tell her companion.

“I used to wake when I pleased, but I’ve begun rising with the sun. I desperately need an espresso in the mornings though–you really don’t want to meet me early morning if I haven’t had a healthy dose of caffeine. I wish I were someone who enjoyed running. They say it’s a good thing to do in the mornings, a way to kickstart your day. Do you run?” Her companion shakes his head, but she’s not convinced he’s really listening to her. His mouth is parted and his eyes are trained on her full mouth; it makes her smile. “No? Well, I wish I did. Perhaps we ought to take it up together. Be each other’s motivators.”

A half-pause. Another moment for her to bask in his staring. She’d always fared well with attention.

“Sometimes I have errands to run, for my father or otherwise. More often lately it’s been something for him, but I can’t always be sure there’s something he wants for me to do, so I’m not sure I’d call it typical.” Her mouth twists, half smile half grimace, as though she must be apologetic for not having a more direct answer. “Someone once told me that each plan is a house of cards, and when a single variable shifts, the whole thing comes tumbling down. I suppose that’s the approach I take when planning my days, what I must consider on any given week, that having a plan for my ‘typical day’ will always falter, that the unpredictability is what’s most predictable now.”

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

For a half second, just a single moment, she nearly says the unthinkable.

It comes like the whip of leather, a shock lash through her system that she can’t deny, the kind of insecurity she’s never allowed herself to so much as feel, much less voice aloud to a near stranger, no matter how delicious his gaze had made her feel a moment before. I thought I would be enough. It’s a dangerous thought; not exactly sacrilegious, but something close. Something equally as desperate, something equally as ruinous. She’d remember, through no will of her own, the moments between cage and what she’d thought would be freedom, the night where her father announced to her over dinner that he’d like for her to start shadowing him.

(Shadowing. It was a funny word. A dark word for dark work.)

Nonetheless, she took her sun-hungry bones and turned herself into a half-moon girl, a goddess who could live in both the light and the dark of the world, and she’d done it all for the love of a father, for a love she’d been nearly bereft of for years. She’d tasted it in doses, in gifts left out for her the morning after a dinner spent alone, a pair of diamond earrings here or that pair of Gucci loafers she’d been eyeing there. She’d thought, somehow, desperately, inevitably, that this darkness she’d let into her soul would turn her into a girl her father might finally pay genuine attention to, no matter how that darkness might terrify her. We’re all drawn to that which scares us, Vivianne had said to her once, on a dark night with storm clouds on the horizon. Juliana had opened her windows to the rain, had leaned on her casement ledge and wanted in a strange and hungry way to stick her hand out the window, better still to rush through her backyard directly into the thunder and lightning. We feel safest when we know our fears, just as we do when we know our enemies. And if the darkness did bury itself in her heart, then she might know it, might better understand it, might use that darkness to show her father the dangers of such a thing. She would show him that it would suck her in like a drug and spit her back out just as rotten, just as ruined.

For her father, for her family, this was a weight she could bear.

This loss of light.

She should have known that to know the darkness would teach her to love it. Hadn’t that been what Vivianne was trying to tell her? That fears could intoxicate? She’d watched her father fall into the dark violence of the mob for years, sat alone at home in her bathrobe until late in the evenings, staying up until all hours for her father to finally come through their front door. She’d scurry up the steps to her bedroom before he could see her, but she saw it all the same—that way he loved the darkness, that way he welcomed it into his bones with arms open. She should have known; she thought she was conquering the darkness, but it had every ability to conquer her, too.

But she knows beyond doubt that she can say no such thing, that to admit weakness would go against everything that her father and his merry band of murdering men had taught her, and none would ever respect her if she answered as such. But she’s never been very good with dishonesty, and so when she speaks it’s an uncomfortable truth, but a truth all the same.

“Thinking myself invulnerable.”

She will offer no insight, no further explanation to this boy’s question.

What has been the most difficult task asked of you?

It surprises Juliana, the fact that she knows the answer to her companion’s question without much thought.

My name, she wants to say. For my name I may bear the world.

Instead she gives a soft hum, her head tilting to the side slightly while her eyes cast their gaze downwards. There’s a soft smile playing on her cheeks when she studies the lines formed by dark wood on the floor beneath her chair. When the boy had called and asked if they might conduct this little interview in the comfort of her own home, she’d at first been hesitant. The walls of the Capulet villa were hallowed if not hollowed, a private place, a place she’d once been caged and could be again. She couldn’t imagine her father would be pleased she’d allowed a near stranger into their home, but allowed it she had, and she couldn’t be more glad for the comforts of home.

On the mantle above the fireplace she sees a photo of her and her mother, Juliana looking like she was ten, perhaps twelve. There’s a book open on her mother’s lap, and neither seems to notice the camera trained on their moment. Beside the antique lamp on the side table, there’s a photo of Juliana and Siena, faces cracked wide by smiles. Just there, on the frame of the door leading outside, she can still see the scorch mark left behind from a lifetime ago, when she’d sat in the open doorway with Siena while lightning crackled outside, a candle flickering in the early night while the rain beat down on the patio and splashed up onto their outstretched toes. If she’d done this in a coffee shop, like she’d originally wanted, or in the park that overlooked the Adige, she thinks she wouldn’t have been so… real, neither with her interviewer nor with herself. Here her ghosts would keep her honest.

Lips of a rose and a gaze like sunshine, it shouldn’t be a surprise when it’s her title that is her greatest hardship.

The things we love hurt us the most.

“Do you know the story of Peter Pan?” Juliana asks the boy across the coffee table, lifting her gaze from the floor. Her eyes are steady and her hands don’t shake, but she almost wishes that they would, that she would feel some discomfort at the possibility of bearing such weight, at bearing such self-awareness.

“Sure,” he responds, brow furrowed in obvious confusion. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Well, sometimes I can’t help but think myself Tinkerbell,” she goes on, a laugh threatening to bubble from her throat. She’d never actually voiced this thought of hers, this strange connection to a fictional fairy that she feels. She hopes he might understand. “At the very end of the novel, Peter can’t remember her, but we know that she died–she isn’t even afforded a death scene, you know? And she dies because people ceased to believe in her.”

She can see the boy’s confusion still plain as day, oblivious to how she might relate.

She laughs finally, a high and lovely thing, but she understands. She doesn’t quite understand it herself yet.

“I think what I relate to, or at least what I’m scared of most, is that I’m like her, that I’m going to… run the business and no one will believe in me, no one will want to follow me, and I’ll be destined to fail because of it, all before I’ve even really begun.”

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

“My thoughts?” She begins, eyes wide and carefully curious. Somehow she cannot deny her amusement.

The arch of her eyebrows rise up, all of her edges turned to sharp and her hair on end. She should have expected the question, surely, but a part of her hadn’t thought this milky soft boy bold enough to cross such lines.

She keeps her heartbeat level and her eyebrows raised, a kind of careful nonchalance.

Her thoughts flash though, for a moment, to all of those many people that this war threatens to ruin, for a moment to all of the many people that Juliana wants to save, wants to love. She thinks of brutal-hearted Rafaella and the girl she had been when she walked into the Capulet daughter life, thinks of all the ways that she loves her newest family, thinks of the cruel words she’s heard were spit at the girls shoulders and how she came out the other side stronger. She thinks of Donatello’s masterpieces and knows her cousin to be something more, something better, something wonderful. She thinks of all her soldiers, those souls who have pledged themselves at her family’s feet, the hands and hearts that will one day be her responsibility, the hungry hands and hearts that she will need to feed. She loves Verona though, and who could blame her when it is not just her soldiers that she considers, her soldiers that she wishes to love. She thinks of a boy across the bridge, with the weight of a world on his shoulders, and the daughter bereft of a father.

She thinks of a man with two children, a body decaying as it lies in a red pool of its own making.

Mutually assured destruction, is her first instinct.

Instead, she responds with a question.

“You know that phrase–’the things we do for love’?” She looking at the photo of her mother and father on the fireplace mantle, can’t help it when her brows draw together slightly. Slowly, she draws a breath and brings her gaze down from the mantle, making sure hazel eyes been blue. “The things we do for war.”

The honey-haired boy across the way looks at her with a question clear in his light eyes.

She supposes not everyone can see the way love and war intertwine.

“I think it’s about time it came to an end.”

Extras:

Mockblog

An unorganized collection of headcanons–some of them from my perspective, some flashes of Juliana’s memory, some otherwise.

i. She is not an early riser by nature, but she’s made herself one by design. While she was still caged, she’d sleep away the morning, slip off her eye mask at near mid-day and stretch herself awake. Since she’s joined her father, she’s changed her habits. She’ll slip out her back door to sip at a cup of espresso while the sun leaks purple and pink all over the horizon, bleeds an orange so bright that sometimes she just wants to reach out into the sky and lick it.

ii. She had given herself to God once, but somewhere along the way it was like religion just slipped out of her pocket. She remembers the nights after her mother and Siena died, remembers the way she tried to crawl into the heart of that darkness to find her belief in Him, but she was met with only shadows; most days she’s okay with that, but sometimes in the dead of night, with nothing there but the darkness, she craves the light that she abandoned. Sometimes, she thinks that maybe she’s better off, that maybe there are pieces to her God that are better off left forgotten. She thinks, if she is to go back to God, then she’d like to go back to Emmanuel, the name some give Jesus at Christmastime. God with us, it says, and it’s a light in the darkness. A beacon of hope. God is with us, in us, always. In things big and small, in our hopes and our dreams, the people that we love. Some days it’s easier to think about someone in the cosmos making the decisions, that idea she would always have a destiny set forth, but for a girl whose blood pumps for love, it’s not hard to imagine that it’s those she loves who set her fate.

iii. You wet your pointer finger and run it around the rim of a crystal glass. It’s like angels, you whisper. Your mother smiles.

iv. Vivianne is staring at a slammed door when it truly hits her. You can never be her, Juliana had hissed, tears in her eyes and fists clenched at her side. It’s then that Vivianne realizes Juliana is glass and steel woven together, and she can’t tell anymore if she’s looking at courage emerging from the fragile, or the vulnerable giving way to strength.

v. She looks at her hands sometimes and sees doll parts, porcelain hands attached to marionette strings.

(She should know better, really. Doesn’t she know what dolls always do in the movies? They come to life. And come to life Juliana will.)

vi. She is an unexpected academic, not for want of knowledge particularly, but more for the sheer fact that a quiet life left her with a great deal of free time on her hands. She filled her time with other things, to be sure, painted a canvas the colors of sunset, read novels that made her heart sing in wonder and light, but she is fourteen when her mother dies and school is finally starting to get interesting when it happens. So, she gives herself to it. Languages don’t come naturally, but she spends hours studying tenses and spelling and starts watching Spanish telenovelas to teach herself. When she learns that, she moves onto harder languages like Russian, all harsh and brass noise but beautiful in it’s savagery. She teaches herself to slip between tongues the way others change their tops, letting Spanish roll of her tongue one moment and French in the next breath. She finds history fascinating, how empires rise and fall, and her bedroom is littered with stacks of books with notes in the margins, and The Art of War sits atop her collection of Brontë novels.

vii. She opens every window that she can. I need to be able to breathe, she’ll say when she casts the windows wide during a thunderstorm.

viii. Things go back to normal.

(Read: Juliana continues reading, continues sitting her mother’s closet and touching clothes that still smell of her mother’s perfume. Read: Cosimo bedecks his elder daughter in gifts, and spends all his waking hours (in truth, he sees her in his sleep as well) worrying about how he’s possibly going to keep her safe. Read: Juliana eats peaches in the fading afternoon light and they still taste like sunshine.)

Things don’t really go back to normal.

(Read: Juliana wakes up in a cold sweat for 6 months straight, an image of milky skin turned sour, purple shadows beneath tired eyes. Read: Cosimo’s gifts his daughter the Tower of Babel and teaches her that she is a saint, that she needs to be protected, that a caged bird is a safe bird. Read: Juliana doesn’t ever want to touch silk again.)

Things go back to normal.

ix. She is not a child, but she is childlike in her wonder, and sometimes her train of thought or her actions can reveal as such. She will hold a particular attachment to her objects, will wonder aloud about something that most people wouldn’t think to question, and has a peculiar preference for human contact that some people can find uncomfortable. She is tactile, still, in nature. Like a child reaches out to touch everything so as to understand, Juliana crosses barriers often and without much thought. She will give hugs in situations where they may not be warranted, touch forearms during conversations, put her hand on a person’s shoulder when she comes up quietly behind them. She will tuck a strand of hair behind a stranger’s ear if they allow her, put her palm to a friend’s cheek when they are in distress.

x. She cannot drink too much champagne, anything more than half a glass really and her stomach will roll–she thinks about the one and only time she stole from her father’s liquor cabinet, a rosy-lipped and doe-eyed little girl trying to impress her golden-haired counterpart. They’d both downed an entire bottle each and then spent the rest of the evening puking in Juliana’s bathroom, but the next morning her house had been quiet and empty and no one ever noticed.

xi. There has been more than one occasion where she was discovered on her casement ledge, sitting precariously on the edge, feet dangling free a bedroom window where the scent of an apricot tree lingers in the air, drifting up from the garden below.

xii. Juliana has exactly four weapons in her current arsenal, though she’s been considering expanding recently, perhaps going to Lucrezia for some training in other methods. The first is a Glock-19 that she was given about a year ago, which feels weighty and foreign in her hands. The second is a balisong, which scares her and exhilarates her in the same breath. Spinning it between her fingers, it looks like dancing. The third is an antique revolver, which while impractical for it’s less accurate, is her favorite. It has a marbled handle and along the metals are intricate etching that make the piece look more like a work of art than a weapon. Her father gave it to her for her 21st birthday. The last is the one that scares her the most: her smile.

#accepted: juliet #accepted

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nchoi · 7 years ago

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hii (〜￣▽￣)〜(〜￣▽￣)〜(〜￣▽￣)〜 again, acacia. so you saw my wallflower and my babydoll. but this time you get to meet the head bitch in charge, super fab, actual blair waldorf, naomi choi. by now, y’all know if you click on this you are obligated to plot with me. xoxo.

****update: i created all of this on the spot & also … it got kinda long... again... sue me. but as always, if you want the nutshell scroll down to the very last bullet point. [in sadie saxton’s voice] you’re welcome.

░ * . ╰ ✯ › ⊰ IM JINAH, CIS-FEMALE, TWENTY-FIVE ⊱ is that NAOMI CHOI ? the FASHION DESIGNER & SOCIALITE. they’re known to be AUTHORITATIVE & BEAUTIFUL. but also VINDICTIVE & IRRATIONAL. unknown to them, they are the reincarnation of HERA.

BACKGROUND

unlike my other two characters, naomi actually grew in a very stable home. her parents are very much in love. therefore she was very much loved. being their only child, she was constantly spoiled. always given whatever she wants, whenever she wants. and of course, she’s used to getting her way all the time. if you couldn’t tell by the gif, she’s bad and boujee. her family is loaded. her father, being the chairman and co-owner of rosewood resort (hotels.) and her mother, being a now retired model turned to a fashion designer. she’s always been surrounded by luxury and will continue to be.

naomi basically grew up in private schools. of course her parents wanted her to be the best of the best. so she was constantly put under (positive) pressure by the them. this of course results her to being the top student of her year every year. she never settled for less, for both them and herself. she doesn’t like to disappoint her parents ever. they are her support system and role models. she strives for their success (and even more than that.)

during high school, she was sort of a bully. she was very ruthless and cold. she had that, “i’ll do anything to get where i need to be,” personality. and if it meant paying someone to transfer the other student threatening her valedictorian spot, then yes, of course she’d do that. people either hated her or loved her. there was no in between. she kept her clique small. yes, a clique, which indeed was very exclusive. invite only. think of regina george. she ran her school and she liked to keep it that way. once she graduated she became more of an adult about things. of course her ruthlessness was still around, but a little more filtered. just a tad bit. she got accepted into almost every ivy league college. but ended up going to harvard.

naomi grew a very big following. she was very popular on social media due to her sense of style. a lot of fashion magazines, blogs, youtubers, etc all tried to recreate her looks. at first looking the best was just a simple task to her. but eventually, she discovered that fashion was no longer a competitive thing. but just a really fun hobby she had. her love for fashion grew immensely. while she was studying to become a business major, she started up her own clothing line company. first it started with a couple shoes. then it slowly started to build into more. she eventually graduated with a bachelors degree in business management and is now a full time fashion designer.

how she got to seattle: so, although she has a deep love for new york. she found herself most comfortable in her family penthouse in seattle. a lot of her younger memories were spent their. mostly for family vacations. the view is beautiful, more calming than the hustle and bustle of nyc, and she always just felt like she belonged. she is currently living alone. her parents still residing in new york and visiting every now and then. she does travel constantly. but always finds herself back home in seattle.

PERSONALITY+RELATIONSHIPS

naomi’s PERSONALITY is quite something. she has that tell it like it is personality. she just calls it likes she sees it. even if she’s not exactly right. she’s literally drowning in her riches. making her materialistic af. some people might think she’s that dumb bimbo rich bitch. but she’s actually very VERY smart. witty and intelligent to be exact. she’s very particular when it comes to most things. she wants things done correctly. so she often runs by the quote, “if you want things right you gotta do it yourself.” she doesn’t like relying on others to get things done when she knows she could do it faster and better. a little bit of a ocd queen. also, she’s able to throw old things together and make them look better, which is another reason why she became a fashion designer. she’s very dedicated to her work, thus making her very goal oriented. she’s very creative when it comes to her designs. and she’s actually a very good artist, like drawing her sketches. i’m sure she picked up doodling and bullet journaling while growing up. *plays boss ass bitch vine.*

when it comes to FRIENDS she has plenty, at least in her head. she just knows a lot of people through her many connections. so she has many affiliations. but never real friends. she’s very particular with the people she associates herself with. she believes that those around you reflect who you are as a person as well. therefore, she only surrounds herself with the best of the best. she may not be the best person to tell your secrets too either because she’s quite the gossip queen. but she can probably persuade you to trust her. rip. however, if you are a close friend of her’s, she’s very loyal to those who are loyal to her. which means she’d never do you dirty. but that’s only if she really cares about you. she’s a really great listener and she’s willing to give advice to those are willing to take it. plus, she’s the type to spoil the people she loves. so expect the best christmas gifts ever if u rollin’ with her. honestly, she really does need to surround herself with good people with genuinely good intentions. so please, someone teach her what loyalty is. bonus points if they’ve been friends for awhile. displays loyalty.

please flood her with ENEMIES. i know for a fact that she has these. she was bully in high school. so you know this girl has more than enough haters. she uses people, she pushes people around, etc etc. like she has some very evil intentions. and i would love it even more if some of these enemies were girls that she caught her fiance with. that would juicy af. especially since she’s vengeful and irrational. while naomi does have some good intentions, she leans more to the chaotic evil side. she puts fuel to drama and loves to see people crash and burn. why? she wants that reassurance that she is flourishing above all. she never wants to be belittled and will do anything to remain on the very top. also, a rivalry would be perfect. especially if someone is damaging her business. because that’s her baby and she would do anything to protect that as well. naomi absolutely needs enemies. give her many. plenty. an abundance please.

as for LOVERS. naomi has most definitely dated a lot. she’s had a handful of serious relationships as well. she is a beautiful and alluring woman after all. she does believe in love. she’s witnessed it between her parents and wishes for a love like their’s. so of course this girl is a hopeless romantic. and honestly, she needs love in her life. it would totally tear down her tough bitch exterior and show how soft naomi can really be. but that’s probably going to be with her fiance. ok, a little bit about naomi and her relationships. she’d be very loyal to anyone she’s dating. she’d spoil them with gifts, surprise visits, and honestly just give them the whole world. they’d be the only person who’d be able to tell this bitch to stop acting so unreasonable. and *gasp* she’d actually listen. i feel like she’s the type to do whatever she needs to do to please her significant other. sad, but it’s true. she’s not as independent as she makes herself out to be. but everybody needs somebody. am i right?

WANTED CONNECTIONS

FRIENDS

best friend — her closest confidant. she’d never let go of this person. they’re her ride or die // f or nb

winghoe — another close friend of her’s probably the person who got her and her fiance together. // m, f, or nb

exes — she’d be the type to still be friends with her ex. yes, they’ve loved each other. but they’ve come to terms they’re much better off platonic. // m or nb

ENEMIES

victim — someone she’s bullied in the past. just someone to constantly remind her that she’s a raging bitch. // m, f, or nb

used — someone she dated and she just basically used. most likely treated them as a toy in her little games // m or nb

frienemies — just always trying to one up each other. whether it be in fashion, friends, family, just life in general. they’re always in a secret competition. // m, f, or nb

LOVERS

fiance — this would be the love of her life. even if they bicker and argue. she’d be 100% dedicated to them. // zeus deity only

first love — once naomi is dedicated to someone it’s a little hard for her to let them go. especially if it was her first love. this could be drama central yooohooo... // m or nb

on and off — just the person she always runs back to. she’d probably even try contacting them if she ever got into a fight with her fiance. // m or nb

** also, since we don’t have zeus deity yet, her love life is up to be fucked up. pls. f her up.

MISCELLANEOUS

✿ an angel with a halo unbalanced with horns, not a devil but not a saint either?? kind yet has a backbone. softer than what she seems like. humorous and witty though understanding. mistrusting but willing to let loyalty speak. wealthy but tries not to depend on her family. and heavily involved in the king glitterati lifestyle. she is the queen of fashion. and honestly trying to be the queen of life itself. she’s chaotic neutral. she comes off as a bitch, but if you are her friend, she’s very very loyal to you. honestly, her life seems fine. she has parents that love her but push her to be the best of the best. she tears people down for shits and giggles. and can be quite manipulative. but overall, naomi choi is a beautiful, driven, judgmental, opinionated, artistic, and the most problematic head bitch in charge e v e r.

alright. if you made it to the end of this ilysm. this might be kinda confusing cause tbh i’m too lazy to proofread. but please like this shit if you wanna plot it uppppp.

#ofgods:intro #DIS DA LAST ONE #BLESS UP

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arielmagicesi · 8 years ago

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hey i hope it's ok if i ask but, i know a lot of latinx book twitter/bookblr ppl are uncomfortable and angry w/ all the crooked saints and i know its with good reason. i do have a question, do they think the way ms is handling latinx characters is shady and inappropriate or are they more upset that its a white author writing a book about latinx characters? im a writer who wants to write diverse books 1 day and i was just wondering if u know what her particular mistakes are so i don't repeat

i thought the general rule is if you don’t belong to a culture you should still include a character of that bg in ur writing (avoid all-white trc again lmao) but don’t fetishize it/appeal to stereotypes or pretend you know the struggles that ppl of that group experience. sorry this is kind of a loaded question but i wanna make sure im informed

OK, this definitely is a complicated question, and I’m also white so idk if I’m the best person to answer it, but I guess I’m like the authority on hating Maggie Stiefvater now lol. [I’m in a stable mood so I don’t really *hate* her, it’s just that she’s done a lot of things in her writing and online presence that bother me a lot and remind me of people that have hurt me, idk, long story]

Anyway: I’m also a white writer who wants to write diverse books. I don’t see a problem with white writers, or writers belonging to privileged groups, writing characters with identities they don’t belong to. I think it’s important, obviously, to not write a whitewashed world, like you said, avoid the all-white TRC problem again. I think Maggie is trying, which is respectable, as a response to the We Need Diverse Books movement and the backlash to how whitewashed her other books are.

Unfortunately, “just trying” isn’t enough, when you’re a person with this much privilege. Maggie is privileged as a white cishet woman, and she also holds a lot of power in the YA publishing community. The majority of YA folks really adore her, and she often appears on panels, interviews, as sort of the spokeswoman for YA, much like John Green or whoever. And she’s a popular writer, which means her books are more or less guaranteed to sell very well even if they suck at this point. Which means they’ll appear in publishing journals, in the media, get attention, be read widely by innocent young teens, show up in school libraries, etc. That is a LOT of influence.

Anyone who’s privileged is definitely gonna fuck up when handling diverse representation. You can do lots of research and get sensitivity readers and watch yourself and things, but you’re going to fuck up. That does NOT mean you should do nothing, and just stick to writing what you know, a cute whitewashed world. No, of course not- people like Maggie, who already have power in this community, should take risks, should be supporting diversity rather than just avoiding the topic out of fear of fucking up. I think that’s what she’s trying to do here, but there’s plenty of reason why I- and many readers, especially Latinx readers- don’t trust her with this task.

First off, supporting diversity doesn’t mean just writing diverse characters. It means putting in the goddamn work. It means getting- and paying- sensitivity readers, of a variety of backgrounds, and then listening to what they tell you. It means doing a hell of a lot of research. It means talking to actual, real-live members of those identity groups. It means changing who you are as a person to be an ally, to be someone who can see beyond yourself. And it also means, above all, supporting #ownvoices work- diverse books written by diverse authors. I have yet to see Maggie supporting books in this vein, with all the influence she has.

The one interview we have regarding “All The Crooked Saints” suggests that she hasn’t done any of the above. I believe she did get sensitivity readers, which is a step in the right direction, but from what I hear from Latinx bloggers, this book appears to be a hot mess of stereotypes and inaccuracies. Things like the names of the characters and the town are basically ill-researched Spanish, and the way she addresses it is in this voice that makes it sound like she picked this background for how exotic and free it is. I don’t think she did that consciously, but it feels like it to a lot of readers. Additionally, she isn’t just writing Latinx characters, she’s writing about a very particular time in history, the 1960s, and it sounds like she’s romanticizing it to be about the music, and misunderstanding the historical struggle of Latinx people at that time. This is a touchy place to go when you’re already clearly not doing your research.

I’d be more open-minded about this, and give her the benefit of the doubt, if it wasn’t for how she’s handled this sort of thing in the past. Henry Cheng in the Raven Cycle is a prime example. He was her one [1] character of color, and she managed to give him a “dragon lady” stereotype mother, have him make self-deprecating jokes about his race, and worse, have Ronan make shitty racist jokes about him that are never addressed. When readers called her out on this, she pretended that none of it happened, saying that the racist jokes weren’t actually racist and the readers were misinterpreting them.

She’s also historically been bad at taking criticism, especially about her representation. [See: literally any time LGBT readers asked about the half-ass approach to her two queer characters.] Being able to take criticism is essential if you’re a privileged writer writing about identities that are not your own. Not because “you need to have a thick skin, those mean diversity goblins are gonna come after you!” But because if a teenage reader of color criticizes Maggie online for shitty rep, and she responds by going “woe is me, being online is a constant onslaught of attack, I’m a woman you know,” all her fans are going to go after this teenager. She’s gonna get sympathy, and her critics- who are the readers, the young teens, the people she’s supposedly writing for- will be attacked by people who are most likely not going to be nice about it. And there’ll be a hundred think-pieces about how the YA community is so nasty and people need to defend the innocent white authors and this diversity trend is really leading to so many bad things. An ally, working for diversity, knowing damn well that this kind of shit happens, should not be the sort of person who lashes out against criticism. That’s not being an ally, that’s being someone who only cares for their own self-interest.

I’m a petty, vindictive bitch, but I don’t want to see Maggie crash and burn with this book and totally fuck up. Because the truth is, even if she does, she’s gonna get heaps of praise, and it’s not going to hurt her, it’s going to hurt teenage readers and actual Latinx writers. I want to see her handle this well, but I am very wary, and so are lots of people in the YA community on Twitter.Anyway, the conclusion to this essay that is longer and more thorough than any essay I’ve ever written for school is, people aren’t upset that she’s a white woman writing Latinx characters. They’re upset that she’s showing a lot of signs of being about to royally fuck it up, and that she has a history of not being great about that. Again, I’m white, so it might be better to ask a Latinx person, but this is pretty much what I know.

#all the crooked saints

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circumswoop · 8 years ago

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Black Movado: Frank Ocean and the Art of Time

As pseudonyms go, Frank Ocean is pretty straightforward. Right away you know this is emotive, aesthetic music: why get out of his dreams and into his car when you can do both? Take the innate politeness of a born Southerner, add the steel reserve of a bred lowlife and you get songs made from acrylic acids and fine glass powder. Ocean serenades the sea directly in “Swim Good” and “Blue Whale”. Remember the David Foster Wallace line from “Little Expressionless Animals” abt the sea looking like a big blue dog? Swimming with dolphins, incredibly, is the height of basic. But a blue whale? Years ago I read a piece of short fic, by whom I don’t remember, abt a lifeguard who saves a man from drowning and then later sees that man in public, like a restaurant or something, and he, the drowning man, does not recognize his saviour. I wish I cld run into the burning wreckage of whatever hard drive it was on and rescue that story.

More than anything, Frank Ocean’s music feels like falling thru different kinds of air. Figuring out the angles, or angels, of the artist who once asked us to imagine being thrown from a plane is trickier now than in 2011, not just because we’ll never be those kids again. 2011, year of Frank Ocean and the Weeknd, was when the Tumblr aesthetic peaked, with its treatment of visual culture as micrographic surgery, cutting away segments to freeze for a microscope, repeating until there is no more cancer. As palliative pastiche, Tumblr may never be equaled in the history of the internet. Why do you think Grimes, that bony collector of kitschy enthusiasms, still uses it (sort of)? Why do you think Frank Ocean, parachute artist, still uses it(sort of)? Why do you think I still use it (lol, sort of)? If you are a cutter but not of skin, you cut images, or text, and paste them on a blog in lieu of a body. The word “blog” doesn’t mean anything anymore but it still has exactly the trunk space for a body.

A few days after Blonde dropped, I was talking to Yes abt it on Viber, the app we use to keep in touch now that he’s moved back to Greece. Affectionately, he accused me of being too topical bc I’d heard the record and he hadn’t. Then later, he sent me a video of him hearing “Nikes” for the first time, a master shot of him reacting and lowkey crying, a video he meant for his bf in New York but one he wanted me to see, as one of his designated watchers. Once he sent me a visual of him slamming, and this was almost more wrenching. Something about the way that song switches between weary dragging and witchy sweetness recalls one of my favorite lines of literature, from Ondaatje’s The English Patient: “There are stories the man recites quietly into the room which slip from level to level like a hawk”. (Ondaatje, pastiche royale, is a cutter if there ever was one.) There are stories we tell ourselves and stories we tell our loves. We think we see, just for a minute, the wings of an angel who has temporarily turned into a pickup truck. Or maybe we just hear them.

Frank did some time in church, as attested to on Tumblr: “My grandmother was pentecostal evangelical. She brought much of that fire and brimstone back to her household.”

50 versions of “White Ferrari”

Yes thinks Frank seems pretty gay. I myself do not, while getting that he is. Something about Frank’s testimony seems more like my own, meaning that of a boy who grew up like everyone else and then woke up one day, pretty recently, really exhausted. “Nikes”, for all its gunwales-and-all authenticism, was also a deadly indictment of the ruthless transactionality that passed for straight culture in 2016. Men being power brokers, and women rewarding them, acquires a harsher light when everyone’s in on the joke, when exploitation is the same thing as askance anymore. Yes told me he saw his file from when he was in Bellevue, and honestly they couldn’t figure out his sexuality, except I know for a fact he’s had sex with exclusively men for 3 years now. We discussed it once, and we agreed sort of glibly that girls just aren’t as down, and here’s why: they’re finally as trash about sex as men have been for millennia, but in the opposite direction. Now there’s a winking runway of lights laid out before every m/f interface, and the men are landing and the women are taking off.

I’ve always felt like Frank Ocean did not come out as gay so much as he seceded from the sexual polity. I myself have done this, little by little, over the last 18 months as my years-long relationship, and then another one, wrapped. Seduction and betrayal are an exhausting form of bone remodeling and I can’t deal with that distribution of weight anymore. There’s a reason some dicks are astringent. The curve of the penis is the curve of the earth.

Frank’s Tumblr, last fall: “Consciously though, I don’t want straight—a little bent is good.” Frank on “Siegfried”: I can’t relate to my peers/I’d rather live outside.

Think of another line from “Nikes”--“but if you need dick I got u”--as essentially a somnolent invite, shd sex ever come up. The paradigm of a man too busy for his woman may still be an eye-rolly turn-on, but if that usage slowly morphed into a kind of IOU--not a booty call, but sex on call--then that song accomplishes another mission. If it majors in telling leeches to unstick (these bitches want Nikes/they lookin for a check/tell em it ain’t likely), it minors in motivating the favorably unhorny to speak up for themselves. One of Frank’s most valuable adds has been this exhaustion--if he is in awe of Prince, he’s totally his inverse.

China, Japan, Oceania, France, just around. Casual.

Ocean is, incredibly, both world-spanning and alone. In last year’s NYT feature hosted by Jon Caramanica, he alluded to going on dates in London, keeping the hard drives of his music in a backpack, and skipping Blonde media to tool around anyplace that suited him. These revelations, or postcards, sealed Frank’s fate as patron saint of the voluntarily solitary, which may or may not be the same as the voluntarily committed. In the interview, Frank alludes to the “luxury of choice” which is pretty loaded but the expression of preference is the one thing they shd never take away from you, all the way down to the grout in your cell. Even if you never had it.

In his germinal book The Aesthetics of Disappearance, the writer and artist Paul Virilio famously offered a riffy, razzle-dazzle definition of “picnolepsy” as a kind of allergic reaction to speed--worldspeed or brainspeed, “a montage of temporalities”. This turning of what is essentially epilepsy into just a stunningly inept relationship with reality would seem glib or banal, even though Virilio credits Ambrose Pare’s qualification of epilepsy as “retention of feelings.” Except it also applies to time as a long passage, like a train tunnel, broken up by flashes of light or gleams of steel from above. Obviously this is me getting into Philo101 thru really overqualified means, but picnolepsy is more fun when you make it modular, rather than metabolic. It explains one of the highest functions of pop music: to mark time. Pop is the ceiling fan above you as you lie on your bed. What’s keeping it from falling and slicing you to smithereens?

Frank Ocean Music, with its eroded-coast elisions, nostalgia as a kind of ultraviolence, and polyrhythmic, difficult-to-replicate-at-karoake vocal patterns, is Memory Music. Plenty of artists do this, if not all of them to some extent. Ocean is the rare one who looks sideways, not back to the source of the old memory or forward to the source of a new one. Virilio compares this oscillation to a sort of trackable loss of interest, a loss you can steadily mourn, as simply as looking at old photographs. There’s probably no other songwriter of Ocean’s stature who is so fascinated by the broken image, or the art of the slant, and who breaks that down into pure romance--all while looking so effortlessly out over his life from the slashlike lull of what Virilio called “paradoxical wakefulness.” Which is odd or slightly berserk, since listening to Blond or Endless or even, retrospectively, Channel Orange occasionally elicits symptoms of paradoxical wokeness.

Stare at the monitors and come up with nothing

In the 2016 film Arrival, aliens land in egg-like avatars that also look for all the world like blue whales--especially toward the end of the film, when they levitate with the same impossible elegance.

The purpose of this film is to talk about time and language, about how they agree and disagree. The aliens, or heptapods, have a written language that uses center embedding and presents visually as witchy-looking spells or smoke.

As soon as Louise Banks, the Amy Adams character, cracks the language, she cracks time, or at least the heptapods’ expression or experience of it, and is able to, for all intents and purposes and excusing the crudely inadequate phrase, “see the future”. A heptapod sentence can’t really be translated except by effect, because the inkblotty figures they emanate are constructed palindrome-like--the same forward and backward.

Except it takes several minutes with a legal pad or an app for humans to work out even the flimsiest palindromes, while heptapods intuit or assay the maximum meaning from such recursion with no consideration for time or expelled work, because the time it took to write this sentence would be already inflected in the characters like markers on a motion capture suit. Erase the layer of knowledge or “meaning” and time is able to be visualized, in both directions, and if you can visualize it you can manipulate it. Or erase it.

#frank ocean #music #2016 #writing #white ferrari

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