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enzelffxiv · 6 years

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It occured to me that I should probably make a "who tf are all these people" post for my characters. I have a bunch of bios half filled out but I always get sidetracked before I can finish them all and format them, so. Going to try to summarize everyone in a few sentences!

Imry Ceigwardwyn (Adamantoise, Balmung, Behemoth, Cactuar [rule 63] ) -a young Sea Wolf adventurer with a friendly and boisterous personality. Rather naive and clueless. Loves helping others. Both WoL and non-WoL flavors. (PLD/DRK. IC: gladiator w/o a soul stone, unless she does the DRK questline. Has some conjury ability.)

Victor Kresnik (Adamantoise) -expy of Victor from Tales of Xillia 2. Mostly for fun and looking sharp in a suit. Sometimes I play an AU version of him. Doting father, enthusiastic culinarian, estranged son of a wealthy Ul'dahn businessman. (DRG/NIN/WAR/MCH/CUL. IC: who the fuck knows but it involves the black market and murder.)

N'valyh Tia (Adamantoise) ["Val"] -Miqo'te mercenary and incorrigible flirt. Useless bisexual. Blind in one eye. Ends up in relationship w/ Akiv'a after double-crossing him, losing a fight to him, then later saving his life. (NIN/MNK. IC: fights with knives/fists/wrestling type moves, no formal training.)

Kototsuki Malaguld (Adamantoise) -Raen from the western mountains of Othard. Witnessed the fallout from Bozja. Hates Garleans. Exiled from her pacifist clan for having extreme anger issues, lived among the Malaguld tribe for a time before heading to Eorzea looking to fight stuff. (BRD/WAR. IC: fights with a bow & axe)

Nergui Malaguld (Adamantoise) -Steppe Xaela. His parents took Tsuki in when he was young. He's rather intimidated by her. Quiet and thoughtful. Loves to fish. Ended up in Eorzea when his parents sent him after his sister hoping she'd keep him safe. Now lives near Idyllshire with Akiv'a's cousin Sef. (BRD/FSH. IC: hunts with a bow but dislikes fighting.)

Faunh Seket (Adamantoise) -a Miqo’te from Meracydia who fled to Eorzea to escape an arranged marriage. Worked as a barmaid in Limsa before becoming an adventurer. Good friends with Akiv'a’s father. Anxious and judgmental but fiercely loyal. (BRD. IC: uses a bow, plays a mandolin-like instrument.)

Elouan Linvernois (Adamantoise) -Ishgardian astrologian. Falsely accused of heresy but miraculously survived his execution. Joined Faunh's adventuring band after they saved his life. Still heavily scarred & missing fingers. Bookish and a little awkward. Has a huge crush on Faunh that she's too nervous to admit she reciprocates. (AST/WHM. IC: Technically uses conjury but learns some Sharlayan astrology later on.)

Arst Outway (Adamantoise) -Expy/AU version of King Gaius from Tales of Xillia because I couldn't resist plonking him down in a DIFFERENT version of Fantasy Mongolia. (DRK eventually. IC: a big ol sword.)

Weinblyss Galeturner (Balmung) [Eyngeim Klynkestwyn] -Imry's long-lost cousin. Lost her family to a shipwreck as a child, raised by pirates. Now a drifter after her captain vanished in the turmoil of the Calamity. Offers her services as a mercenary and healer. Ruthless, amoral and a bit vain. Triple Triad fiend. (WAR/WHM/MCH/ALC. IC: Uses conjury, esp wind magic. Also proficient with axe & musket.)

Sivana Villeneuve (Balmung) [Noline Sellecerre] -XIVth Legion deserter. From a tiny northern village in Islabard. Joined the army to feed her family after her father perished at Carteneau. Decided self-preservation was more appealing after van Baelsar's defeat and faked the deaths of herself and her partner while on patrol. Worked briefly at Garlond Ironworks before becoming a courier. Irritable & no-nonsense. (DRG. IC: Was an eques. Fights with a spear but has passing knowledge of other weaponry.)

Aerling Dorne (Balmung) [Keiho Oshiga] -XIVth Legion deserter. Son of a Doman woman and a Garlean officer. Joined the army to escape the miserable circumstances of his birth. Was scouted for the Frumentarii but deliberately failed aptitude tests, apparently content to be a grunt forever. Strangely attached to Sivana, would probably do anything for her. Outwardly jovial, cowardly, doesn't seem to take much seriously. (PLD. IC: Was a hoplomachus.)

Pyha Sharpshade (Balmung) -Sky pirate. Former Coeurlclaw. Under Captain Tohnrune Rokren, her crew mostly raids slavers and other pirates who prey on the weak. (Much of the crew are escaped slaves themselves.) Laid-back, friendly, "cool big sister" type, a little impulsive and hotheaded. Doting partner of Duua Kagon. (NIN. IC: Fights with knives.)

Raiya Ceigwardwyn (Faerie) -Imry's older sister by four years. Introverted and a bit awkward, fascinated by all types of magitek. Likes to build things. Eventually follows her sister out into the world to accomplish her dream of joining Garlond Ironworks. (SCH/MCH. IC: dislikes fighting and avoids it as much as possible.)

Nennali Durant (Faerie) -Ala Mhigan refugee, was brought to the Shroud as a young child & raised by a Duskwight couple. Has a strong sense of justice & quick temper, but is a kind and loyal friend. (NIN/WHM. IC: Uses knives to defend herself, has some healing ability)

Tache Wystlan (Faerie) -Ala Mhigan refugee, was abandoned as a baby shortly before the city fell & brought to the Shroud along with Nennali. The two girls were accepted by the elementals on account of their strong innate conjury talents, but the woman that brought them there was turned away. Tache was raised by an adoptive family & in training to become a Hearer when Nennali left the forest, and eventually followed, her desire to be with her friend stronger than her sense of duty. Sweet and friendly and a little timid. (WHM. IC: Conjurer but not afraid to hit people w that stick.)

Yulili Yuli (Faerie) -A girl from Summerford with dreams of adventure and very overprotective parents. She met Imry at the Moonfire Faire one year and took the opportunity to run off and start her own adventuring career. (They actually dated very briefly before Yulili called it off, on account of Imry being too busy for her.) (BLM. IC: thaumaturge.) (also Imry's in game retainer)

Ketenbraena Skaetfyr (Faerie) -the result of Imry getting the DRK soul stone. An autonomous being of darkness born from Imry's despair and her inability to process her grief. (Ultimately sort of a mashup of Esteem-Fray and Myste. This was done before SB came out.) Imry views them as a separate person and wanted them to be able to experience life for themselves, and willed them a body of their own with...mixed results. Eventually she gave them the soul stone and gave up using it herself, since they can't maintain their form without it nearby. (DRK. Very literal here.)

Ragna Estelwede (Famfrit) -a mysterious scholar from Gyr Abania. [Working on this.] (SCH/RDM. IC: Arcanist, dabbles in other disciplines.)

Enzel Silverfist (Faerie) -Ragna's apprentice, a tall and reticent girl who, despite her training in the arcane arts, seems to prefer solving problems with her fists. (MNK. IC: PUNCH STUFF and a lil magic.)

Ehr Tohl (Faerie) -A young dragonet from Nidhogg’s brood trying to find his place in the world after the end of the Dragonsong War. Curious and friendly. Accompanied by his surrogate mother, a white aevis named Faye, formerly an Ishgardian noblewoman from 600 years past. (WHM. IC: Dislikes fighting and and avoids it if possible.)

Relulu Relu (Cactuar) -Adventurer/healer, constantly exasperated. (The result of my WHM of Darkness headcanons being jossed and deciding to make an OC w them instead.) (WHM. IC: conjurer)

Memenu Menu (Mateus) -One of Faunh & Elouan's adventuring companions. Died at Carteneau. Sassy grandma. Formerly of the Order of Nald’thal. (BLM. IC: thaumaturge)

Whispering Glacier (Zalera) -A young mountain Hellsguard who has decided to see the world. Curious & clever. (BLM/RDM. IC: Would be Dancer if it exists. Uses a variant of thaumaturgy.)

Laelius Valens (Goblin) [Laelius dus Valens] -Pureblood Garlean. Commoner who left home & took on a new name & became a security guard for a scientific facility in Islabard. AFAB NB, presents as male. Sharp-witted, dislikes attention & prefers to keep their head down. Self-preservation first and foremost. Reluctantly befriends a young scientist & does their best to keep him out of trouble. (PLD/DRG/MCH. IC: Trained with sword & shield, halberd, firearms.)

Estellise Sidos (Tonberry) -Expy of Estelle from Tales of Vesperia. Mostly a placeholder character b/c Tonberry was my first server and I like to visit. And use the game as a dress-up doll simulator. (PLD/WHM)

Other characters I don't have in game but use in RP:

Uriah Bellveil: N'valyh’s in game retainer, a merchant and old friend (and lover) of his Jaliqai Malaguld: Nergui's in game retainer, his cousin, excitable and hotheaded Grehwyta Swygwaenwyn: Imry & Raiya’s mother, captain of the merchant ship Lively Gale Ceigward Styrmwolksyn: Imry & Raiya’s father, navigator of the Lively Gale J'ranmaia: bodyguard & first mate, Lively Gale J’majha: Ranmaia's twin sister, ship's cook Zezeruda: ship's accountant & the one who told Imry adventuring tales Yvelle: conjurer & ship's healer Imry Crewe: Ala Mhigan adventurer, Imry's namesake. Missing, assumed deceased. A'rhaya: Ala Mhigan adventurer, Raiya’s namesake. Missing, assumed deceased. Sylbund Hyltkoensyn: pirate captain, the closest thing Weinblyss had to a father. Killed by a rival captain, avenged by Wein and Melchior. W'doyagha: Sylbund’s trusted friend & navigator Fyrilgeim: Innkeeper who often took in pirate orphans & unwanted children, the closest thing Weinblyss had to a mother Melchior Ortels: Wein's childhood friend & surrogate older brother, took over as captain after Sylbund’s death. A brilliant navigator. Wherabouts unknown since the Calamity. Theldry Masterman: a young girl who joined Melchior’s crew seeking vengeance against the pirates who killed her parents. Other crewmates:

Sora: a mysterious Doman man. Saved Kamui's life, being the only person present who'd seen an Au Ra before, was able to translate for him. Armelius: a one-eyed sharpshooter. Half Highlander/half Hellsguard. Kerrich Fairclough: (all I've got is a name and appearance here) Kamui: a Hingan Raen found adrift in the ocean. He joined the crew with nowhere else to go. Loyal but doesn't talk much about his past. (Two Lalafell brothers who don't have names yet.) Paoriri Paori: XIVth Legion laquearius, was Sivana’s first army buddy. From Southern Islabard near Thavnair. Tannem: XIVth Legion signifer, originally from Dalmasca. She and Paoriri are an item. Céline & Maixentais Durant: Nennali's adoptive parents.

-I do in fact have a couple NPC alts for fun but idk if I'll do anything with them anytime soon.

Some of my partner's characters who are important to mine:

Akiv'a Ryaol: a Miqo’te from a remote Keeper tribe deep in the mountains of Coerthas. His father was a wandering adventurer from the Basilisk (P) tribe who took his young son with him. Saved Imry's life once and they became (reluctant on his part) friends. They are now nigh inseparable to the point where they're often assumed to be a couple. (They aren't; both of them are painfully gay.) Khai Ryaol [P'khai Tia]: Akiv'a’s father. His relationship with Akiv'a’s mother Kiht was unusual in that they had children due to mutual affection for each other. Deceased as of the Calamity. (Akiv'a is named after his grandmother, Akiv, in a slight deviation from regular keeper lore) Iiriku Rururiku: (former) Sultansworn and reluctant adventurer. One of Faunh & Elouan's companions. He and Memenu were old friends. Sanlie Kierha [N'kierha Sarre]: N'valyh's half sister by their father N'sarre. They didn't grow up together and only met as adults. Sefika Ryaol [Sef]: Akiv'a’s cousin, a fierce hunter with a wicked sense of humor. Calgaran Talareis: a mysterious Duskwight woman who trained Imry when she was a fledgling adventurer for a time. Montienne David: Nennali and Tache’s childhood friend. Nennali's parents took him in after he lost his remaining family to the Calamity. X'lhenai: an Ala Mhigan refugee Nennali meets on her travels. They have a tempestuous relationship at best. Duua Kagon: sky pirate, formerly of the Steppe.

#someone take the character creator away from me #enzel.txt

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insurrection-if · 4 months

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With Mockingbird (I want to say mockingjay really bad, thanks Hunger Games) gift being so centered around biting and consumption, could it be easy to imagine some mcs have more mouthy behaviors? Like Mc has a subconscious/nervous tic to lightly bite at their own hand or bite at their close friends and families.

How the ros react to seeing it happen? And would they have a particular reaction to Mc lightly biting them casually in romantic relationships (never enough to draw blood)?

｡ﾟ ( ﾟ^∀^ﾟ)ﾟ｡ I can deeply relate to the tendency for biting and mouthy behaviors as a means of comfort . . . just not when it comes to biting other people, haha! Goodness, I bit and chewed on everything as a kid! Thankfully, I’ve settled down to only biting my nails and having a horrible relationship with gum, haha! (Seriously, give me a single piece of gum and I won’t be able to eat or speak the whole next day due to the soreness of my jaw.)

But yes, I imagine that mouthy and biting behaviors are super fitting for some MCs—I really love the thought of it! (　´∀｀)b

Akil

Biting Themself: His first instinct would be to chide against such behavior, thinking it unsanitary, unsafe, and simply a poor habit for self-conduct. He might try to catch Mockingbird's hand before it can reach their waiting teeth and open lips, careful to not hurt them as he does so, and guide it to rest within his own upon a table or their lap. If they had a penchant for biting their hair, he might form a (mindless) habit of brushing it behind their ear / shoulders so it may be out of reach from their mouth.

Akil would also likely gift Mockingbird gloves of some kind in order to prevent the skin of their hands from taking much damage or stress from this habit.

Biting Him: The beginnings of soft curses die out on his lips whenever he feels your teeth capture his skin, his instinctual resistance eased into a tired sigh when your bites prove to be curious and light. He prefers to have your bites on his hands when they are protected by gloves, and those that wander closer to his shoulders and neck are better received once the day is done.

If you must bite him to soothe yourself, unable to control this habit by sheer will, he would request you do so solely in private.

Kamiko

Biting Themself: From anyone else, she would assume it to be yet another eccentricity among the odd company she holds. She resists lifting a brow towards this unsanitary habit, and the fixation of her gaze as you engage in this behavior carries a soft layer of concern. It seems to be harmless physically and mentally. You seem to take comfort and satisfaction in those unconscious bites. She tells herself it is cuter than it is disconcerting, but these internal words don't always ring true.

If anyone else had anything to say about this habit, whether it be teasing or shaming, she would not think before rising to your defense.

Biting Her: It does not make sense to her. Your gift, strange and ever-changing as it is, has always longed for the bloody connection to your fellow Gifted alone. In the beginning, she had assumed your habit to be a manifestation of its insatiability . . . of the natural predator's instinct that laid behind the odd and alluring surface you presented.

But she is no Gifted. And yet, even still, it seems you are still drawn to nip and tug at her exposed skin with a gentleness both thoughtless and dangerous from a mouth so ravenous.

It used to frighten her. Beneath the false serenity she tried to wear when she first started to lose her heart to you, there had been a cold dread that weighed in her stomach whenever your teeth casually grazed and caressed her. Self-discipline had kept her still. A longing for trust, unquestionable and true, kept her vague horror contained to a stoic tension easily misread as shyness.

In time, in a process as gradual as it was subconscious, that fear had been lost. Instead, it has been replaced by the presence of the faintest blush as she "tolerates" the strange habit, only pushing you away with a light hand whenever a professional air needs to be kept.

Sigmund

Biting Themself: Once he recognizes this to be a common nervous tic, he will be vigilant in keeping an eye out for it.

He will ask if something is on their mind, if something is troubling them. If there is a burden they are keeping to themself, mulling over and coping with through this behavior, he would want the weight of it to be shared with him.

As he tries to coax them to speak on whatever matter might be worrying them, direct yet patient in his approach, he too would reach out his hand for Mockingbird to take hold, either so he can examine the extent of irritation that may have been caused to their skin or simply to hold their hand as a means of support / keeping it from their nervous bites.

If Mockingbird is not troubled by anything, simply having fallen into the act by absent-minded habit, he would be relieved to hear that is the case. Still, he would consider this a sign to perhaps distract Mockingbird with some shared company or activity in order to pull them out from whatever daze or mood urged them to bite themself in the first place.

Biting Him: He hates how much he enjoys this.

He hates how easily his smiles come as your teeth gnaw and cling to him without hesitation or thought. How laughter threatens to seep past his lips as you nip with the odd and dangerous cuteness of a pet.

It stirs something within him to know you are so comfortable with him, bearing trust in him to not hurt or reject you as you soothe yourself with these soft bites. Even when his pulse seems to spike when your teeth meet his skin, burning with a worry and excitement you must practically taste, he cannot help but enjoy the moment that would seem so strange to another's eyes.

He cares little for who sees this little quirk of yours. Whether your bites stay fixated on his hands or stray upwards to nip at his neck, it would be a rare occurrence for him to ever fully deny you this small habit of comfort.

Imka

Biting Themself: She would notably worry, from acquaintanceship to the crushing stage, over Mockingbird potentially hurting themself with such a habit. Then again, she possesses her own nervous tics that some of the others have occasionally tried to dissuade, and she knows how hard it is to quell something so ingrained and comforting.

If she saw them particularly distressed / antsy / rough in their habit, she would shyly request to hold their hand in hers. Her touch would hover lightly above the stressed skin, trying to observe potential irritation or scratches caused by the pressure of your teeth. If there is need to tend to it, she will. If not, then she will hesitate a moment before asking if there's anything she can do to distract Mockingbird, hoping to occupy them from the mindless habit as best she can.

Biting Her: Sometimes, a tickled yelp escapes her. Other times, a flustered gasp slips past her lips. But when it comes to her most common reaction of all, rarely does she manage to voice the shock of her scattered thoughts through more than a squeak.

Her face burns with the intensity of embarrassment and desire all at once, the simple habit to you feeling far too intimate for any returned casual indifference. Your lips graze and tease her. Your teeth stir her heart with an equal sense of fear and excitement. To know you are drawn to her like this, feel comfortable with her like this . . . it's enough to make her a little dizzy.

She feels all the more like a foolish, lovesick pup to be so flustered by what is little more than a thoughtless habit to you.

Elouan

Biting Themself: "You should not be so cruel to yourself, dear."

There is no seriousness to his tone, the words given with a smile more polite than it is genuine. "You are the most enchanting creature I have ever seen. To sully yourself with the stress of your teeth, marring your skin like this again and again . . . I fear you might not understand just what kind of perfection you are tearing at with those little bites.”

Instinctively, his own hands tug at the ends of his gloves, his own tic of comfort at the thought of any ruin you might cause to your skin. Yet his smile remains, as empty a gesture as it is.

He will not force an end to the habit, but he would not wish to encourage it either. A tense smile, a polite one depending on his mind and mood, would be all he gives before diverting his gaze from your little habit.

He would, however, insist that you clean your hands / skin before and after indulging in this quirk of yours. He will assist in cleaning your hands himself if need be to ensure that you do.

Biting Him: If deeper into your relationship, the pressure of your teeth, light though it may be, pleases him all the same.

Never will he let your little bites mindlessly nip and graze the bare skin of his hands—the aching memories of their scars too sensitive even for the sweet toying of your harmless habit—but, with gloves adorned, they are yours for the taking.

Sometimes he will pretend to pay it no mind, casually continuing conversations with another as you capture his hand between your teeth. Sometimes he will offer the odd compliment to the brilliance of your teeth, the light brush of your lips, or the skill of your bites that satisfy you without any true harm to himself.

It calls to mind the lost companionship of his precious little birds, the occasional nip and grip of their beaks as they climbed and sought to share their affection with him.

It is no wonder then that he takes much more to calling you pet once this habit has fully revealed itself in time, though he does not take conscious notice of the newfound fondness he has for this endearment towards you.

Jae

Biting Themself: Once, she would have laughed at the sight. Like an itchy dog, you nibble and capture your own skin between your teeth without care or concern for whoever might see this odd habit at play. How could she not consider a quirk like this to be so humorous a thing to see?

Friendship makes her question her laughter. Love, slow as it might be, makes her laughter cease, replaced by a fond smile and fierce resistance to any who may make a comment in judgement.

She is not one to force change upon you. If this brings you comfort, then she will stand by and allow you this little, if strange, respite from whatever might trouble your mind. Yes, she will do her part in cleaning yours hands from any stray stains of your spit or kissing your irritated skin so it might feel a little better after such thoughtless kneading beneath teeth, but she will not think to chastise you for this.

Cope as you wish, so long as it allows you to feel better in the end.

It also helps that you are too cute to chastise when you bite at yourself like this.

Biting Her: She bites down her grin, excitement and pleasure bubbling as she all but fawns over the light grasp of your teeth.

Yes, she cannot help how this excites her. To be caught in the grip of those teeth usually made so pretty with blood, knowing that no true harm will come to her when she so clearly lays claim to your heart . . . Her excitement is one rooted in her sudden awareness towards how lovely a beast you can be, yet you willingly—perhaps unconsciously—tame yourself to bite her only in a manner so indulgently harmless.

There is something quite attractive in knowing that, hypothetically, at any moment, your ambition, your craving, or your cruel desires could tear through the skin and steal her blood for your own sole gain. Yet you do not.

All you seek instead . . . is comfort. How cute a sentiment.

It makes her love you all the more.

"Please", she'd drawl through smirking lips, "I know you can bite harder than that."

Perhaps the challenge is genuine. An invitation to let yourself loose with her, free from fear of hurting her. Or perhaps it is little more than a harmless tease, a joke more so for herself than for you.

However she means it, you are never left to question the fact that she is ultimately pleased to be held and used by your teeth.

Niccolò

Biting Themself: He cannot help but be humored by the sight of your bites and nibbles. You resemble more a small critter of the forest, wild and free, than an imprisoned and blood-drawn Gifted whenever he catches you in this act.

"You must taste so sweet," he hums with a smile as he studies the faint trails of marks left upon your hand, barely perceptible to the natural eye, "I wish I could have a taste of my own as well."

At odd hours of the day, he reminisces upon this habit of yours. Theorizes on whether it is another clue towards the secret of your blood, the veiled and suppressed essence of your gift's purpose.

He imagines what it must be like to have a tongue that tastes, to have teeth that in some sense or another feel, and how it might be if he were the one to bite gently at you as you do to yourself.

He adores it, of course, for it is another curiosity for him to examine, unfold, and, ultimately, love as another eccentricity of yours.

Biting Him: “Does it not hurt?”

It is not a question asked with concern or reprimand. His tone is light, curious, and the intense focus of his gaze upon your lips and teeth (bared to his sight now and then) speaks instead of his unquenchable fascination for you and all that you do.

He knows that he lacks the softness of a human touch. He cannot offer a hand that is anything but cold, anything but tough and false. And he marvels at how you do not mind; you do not care. Your teeth persist, almost as if they were determined to mark or draw something from him. Sometimes light and slow in their touch with mindful caution, other times firm and possessive with distracted abandon.

It delights him. Amuses him. Never will he deny the grasp and touch of your teeth. It is a curious, beloved, habit and he would never wish to deprive you of it.

Mutya

Biting Themself: "Don’t.”

The command comes out more bluntly than she would have liked. She frowns, recollects her thoughts, and tries again.

“Please . . . don’t.”

Eloquent as ever, her frown twists into something a little more bitter as she internally scolds herself. She sighs through her nose and tries yet again.

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” she begins with as much softness as she can force herself to muster when worry forces her to tense, “Your body is a temple, mahal. Biting at it, stressing it, hurting it without a thought . . . I’d rather we find better ways for you to reassure yourself. Healthier habits of control.”

She remembers her old habits. Rooting herself in the present with pain: self-inflicted bruises and aches meant to empty her from any and all thoughts. She had been little more than a child, as you must have been when this habit first began. And though she herself has not managed to fully erase those old reliances that promised her more long-term harm than short-term relief, she has come much farther than she once ever thought possible for herself.

As small a thing as your bites may be, she does not wish to encourage their frequency, much less your reliance on them. Especially with someone like Uriel across enemy lines, who can excite your emotions in the worst of ways, urging your methods of coping to manifest in as ugly and brutal a manner as possible . . . No, she would rather caution against the possibility of something like this ever becoming a source of true, self-inflicted harm upon yourself.

Biting Her: “Fuc—!"

Her curse is cut off by a hiss, the moment of shock quickly easing once she realizes it is only you. A grunt, perhaps a groan, rumbles into a relenting sigh as she forces herself to relax beneath the sudden hold of your teeth.

It is almost embarrassing how quickly she gives into this habit of yours. She worries now and then that it is dangerous for her to encourage it at all, knowing what an effect the mere proximity and pulse of another Gifted’s blood can have over you.

And yet, you do not seem to share her reservations or troubles. You claim it is a form of comfort, and other times that this is little more than a thoughtless urge.

When it is only her that you pose to hurt—though she knows you never would, not with intention— then who is she to deny you your nature? Worry may pinch at her brows, sighs may slip past her lips, but never will her hand push you away. She loves you for all that you are, and the strange habit of bites like those from a playful—if poorly trained—pet becomes easier to accept as time passes by.

Fyodor

Biting Themself: It is an adorable sight whenever he catches you nibbling at your own skin, leaving lovely indentations from your perfect teeth onto your perfect hands. It is all lovely because it is all you.

Perhaps he will begin to call you his little rabbit. That is what your small bites call to mind as he observes them with apt attention.

If you are his, then he will not hesitate to take your marked hands to caress, to coat them with generous kisses, hoping for their redness / impressions ache to be soothed.

Biting Him: He cannot deny you; not in this, at least.

It is a harmless habit to him. Your teeth tickle. They offer to him smiles and laughter, an expression flushed with joy and love as he feels your lips, spit, teeth, and heat caress him in pursuit of your own satisfaction.

It is cute like a puppy that teethes. It gives you comfort, and thus it gives him purpose. And if this succeeds in allowing your own skin some rest from your little bites, he is all the happier to offer himself in their place.

Though, in the presence of a busy public, he may at first fluster as your teeth pull gently and mark him lightly—without thought or intention—as an act so intimate to him is openly displayed for all to see. Deeper in a relationship, he would be incapable of paying mind to the presence of any others as his attention is solely captured by the touch of your lips and teeth against his skin.

#ro #react #c: akil #c: kamiko #c: sigmund #c: imka #c: elouan #c: jae #c: niccolo #c: mutya #c: fyodor

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insurrection-if · 6 months

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Sorry if this has been asked before (Tumblr search is a pain) but is Mutya Filipino? She has like the most Filipino name I have ever heard 😁

Aha, yep! ( ´ ∀ `)ノ

The Philippines is where Mutya was born (? - unverified to her knowledge) and raised.

Her (adoptive) father, Bato, was quite proud of himself after he decided on that name for her. You'd have to really press him to admit he spent a long time stewing over it, enough to have left her nameless for some time before the name Mutya finally came to him.

Also, just to tag on, I'll list out where each RO was raised and their parents' regional backgrounds:

Akil: Born in Egypt, raised there until early adolescence. Akil partook in international travel as a child, though rarely for vacation purposes. His main residence in the present is in the state of New York. It is his least favorite location for a home so far. Both his parents are native to Egypt.

Kamiko: Born and raised in Japan. Her first time outside the country was for work-related reasons. Her main residence in the present is the state of New York, a place made tolerable to her only in thanks to the presence of some loved ones. Both her parents are native to Japan.

Sigmund: Born and raised in Germany, though international travel was a rather frequent luxury afforded to him. Anything outside continental Europe declined drastically after the loss of his mother and his taste for travel vanished with her. He immigrated to the United States in his early twenties. His father is native to Germany whereas his mother was born and raised in Argentina.

Imka: Born and raised in the United States, second-generation on her father's side and third generation on her mother's. She never left the country until her abduction at the hands of her father. Her father was a Dutch immigrant, and her mother has ancestry from India, though she has been cut off from all familial ties there and in the United States.

Elouan: Born and raised in France. He rarely ever set foot outside continental Europe unless out of absolute necessity, though never very far from the continent still. His mother was born and raised in France; his father is entirely unknown to him.

Jae: Born and raised in Brazil. She had a few outings outside the country in adulthood and did not enjoy those experiences. Her parents and grandparents were all from Brazil.

Niccolo: Born in Italy, though claiming he was 'raised' there is a shaky description of things. In his years as a vagabond, he tried to make annual visits to Italy and Greece, and his sentimental reasons for this can be traced back to the fact that his father was from Italy and his father’s partner was from Greece.

Mutya: Born(?) and raised in the Philippines. She left her country for the first time in her late teens / early young adulthood alongside her older batch of siblings. She dutifully visited her home country whenever a family reunion was necessitated around an important event (milestones, holidays, ceremonies, etc.) Her adoptive parents are both native to the Philippines.

Fyodor: Born and raised in Russia. At the very start of the story, he has yet to set foot outside the country for the first time. His parents are both from Russia, and that is where his mother still remains.

Curadora: Born and raised in the United States, second-generation. She traveled out of the country now and then when her mother could afford it in childhood, always for personal matters. She has, however, become quite the international traveler in adulthood. Her mother was born in Mexico and her father (absent from her life, to her knowledge) is from the United States.

Dearil: Born and raised in an isolated, undisclosed cult commune that did not adhere to any national identity. Residents were a conglomerate of different origins and (former) nationalities all huddled outside any government's eye. His mother was Vietnamese whereas his father originally came from Poland. Dearil, however, would emphasize that their parental ties to him are largely limited to his conception alone.

Lempo: Born in Iceland (the native home of her biological mother) yet raised in Finland. She eagerly left the nation the moment she reached adulthood but later returned and settled back there to establish her (now disbanded) commune. Her foster / adoptive fathers are from Finland.

Retriever: Born and raised in the United States, third generation. Retriever and his family traveled to Europe on an annual basis throughout his childhood for visits to distant family. He keeps a present fondness for European holidays as a result of this. Distant branches of his family can still be traced by him in Switzerland.

Bones: Born and raised in the United States, second-generation on his mother's side. He first set foot outside the United States at age eighteen and never intended to look back. Not until shortly before Mockingbird's induction into the HAWKS. His mother was born and raised in Sweden whereas his father was born and raised in the United States.

Mishka: Born and (by their definition of their experiences) raised in Russia, though they traversed through many nations in their earliest years. Their memories of that time are fickle to them. Their parentage is entirely unknown to them.

#c: mutya #c: akil #c: kamiko #c: sigmund #c: imka #c: niccolo #c: jae #c: elouan #c: fyodor #c: curadora #c: dearil #c: retriever #c: lempo #c: bones #c: mishka

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insurrection-if · 1 year

Note

Ros reaction to pregnant mc 👀

(･⌄･)b The (needlessly long and messy) answer is below the cut for those uncomfortable with this topic!

The reactions are notably different depending on whether the MC is a HAWK or not . . . and that's putting it lightly! (；´∀｀)

There would be major repercussions towards a Gifted pregnancy within the HAWKS. It is considerably grim for those who would wish to retain custody of their child or a relationship with the other parent.

RO reactions to a pregnancy with a HAWK MC, thusly, would be heavily impacted by the external circumstances around the pregnancy. That isn't to say those circumstances can't and / or won't change in the actual narrative itself, but timing would be very crucial in determining the future their child would have.

Nonetheless, I’ll just say these reactions are ones that would be in the epilogue stage, assuming that both the RO and MC are settled, and certain events have taken place for each of them. If the pregnancy occurred prior to the epilogue, whether in either the "first" or "second" era of the main narrative, there would be other pressures that would determine their reaction.

Akil

He expected shock.

He expected dreadful concern. Fear. Hesitations and doubts, a paralysis or restlessness. He expected to be overwhelmed with too many emotions too foreign for him to process, to be crushed beneath the worries of his child's future.

He expected heavenly elation. Perhaps speechlessness, or joyful tears so unnatural to him. He expected a mindless state of pure adoration and a sudden thoughtlessness towards anything but you and the child.

Yet there is none of the grandeur he had predicated for this moment.

Everything, every detail in this life-changing scene on the brink of so many hopes and unknowns, feels perfectly natural. Fitting, and right. It is as though every trial and ache, every pleasure and sacrifice, has led to this moment where all his life falls into place.

This moment, he knows, is when his life has begun again.

And so the moment, by no conscious effort on his part, is greeted as though this were all meant to be. Calmly, warmly, as his worn features are eased by a smile that speaks only of a rare serenity.

There is something humbling within him as he studies your vibrant beauty, so fresh and new in this novel glow you wear, yet it is countered by the heavy rush of pride he feels towards you and all that you have become.

There is concern, but it is vague and conquerable. There is fear, but it is unfocused and revering. Hesitation and doubt wash from him in the wake of trust within you, together with him as one, and he moves with collected grace as he takes your hand into his own.

There is elation, but it is quiet and settled. There is a momentary speechlessness, and an unaccustomed joyful squint accents his eyes, but soon endearments from his native tongue flow from him at a slow pace for every little step he guides you to take closer to him. Heightened adoration does make itself known in the loving softness of his gaze, but it is surmounted by the renewal of unconditional devotion that blooms for you in his heart.

And soon his thoughts capture the entire world. Its condition, its quality, its worthiness as a home to his child. What hate lingers here that his child will face? What havens have been built to keep them cared for and safe? Where can the good be found, and where must it be grown? Every street, every town, every nation he has ever stepped foot in seems to require his judgement for approval or reform, all for the sake of his child and their ability to be free as you never had the chance to be.

But a word from you, a touch or slight change in the focus of your gaze, draws him back to the here and now. His apology comes in the form of a kiss on your hand, delicate and avowing.

“You are my heart, my life, my very bones and will,” he softly affirms as his breath brushes against your hand, "Thank you, my heaven and star. For everything that we've had, and everything that has yet to come."

Following the dissolution of his last relationship (prior to meeting the MC), Akil resigned himself to eternal bachelorhood and became fully married to his career. He did not (realistically) expect to ever have children of his own, especially not with someone he loves as deeply as you.

It would be impossible for him to not bask in the initial sense of warm joy and anticipation, but he would know enough self-restraint to not forsake the more practical matters that come with this news. Once the celebration-of-two between you (or, in this case, celebration-of-three?) begins to dwindle down, he will be quick to dive down into the logistics of the months (and, after that, years) to come.

The details of the nursery, potential schedules around visits to the obstetrician, dietary plans, health precautions, the travel arrangements for any of your family you might wish to have with you during the pregnancy / at birth, the timeline for baby-proofing the home, and so on. The moment you seem overwhelmed with it all is the moment he will end those discussions for the night, but these plans will still relentlessly rove around in his mind, nonetheless (even if he pretends to be living solely in this joyous moment with you). Akil is not lenient with caution when it comes to those he loves, and there is no question towards how much he will instantly love his unborn child.

He would, with your permission, want to be in close communication with your father to learn about any particular concerns, precautions, or general health information associated with your heretical gift (as experienced during your mother’s pregnancy). If the relationship you have with your father is tense / strained / hostile, then he would take immense care to limit the contact to the bare essentials of medical history and keep the man at far more than an arm's length.

Akil would likely not inform his family of the pregnancy, not wanting to place stress on his partner by summoning their outraged disapproval. It will break his mother’s heart, but he will wait until the child is born before notifying her (if you allow) since he knows she would not do anything reckless when the child is a physical, visible, breathing bundle that can be held compared to a bump attached to the 'son-stealing harlot' she sometimes accuses you to be.

For once, he would be open to a slightly spontaneous event over this news (if informed early enough in the day / night to arrange anything so last minute) - perhaps a date to a sentimental sight, or a taxing but special homemade dinner, etc. - without care for the tires and plans of tomorrow in order to truly appreciate one another's company at this moment in time during the waning days before your shared child very much makes their presence known and changes your lives forever (and, hopefully, for the better).

Fun Fact: In the original series, Akil never had children of his own. He was, however, a beloved (if distant) uncle-figure to Imka's children. Kind of like the classic mysterious benefactor type of uncle, haha!

Sigmund

Unplanned Pregnancy

The shock lasts no longer than a moment. A paralyzing rigidness, a tightening of his jaw, a marveled stare as though he were looking at a stranger rather than you . . . it all eased with a sigh from him.

It is in that sigh, that tired sound from his scarred lips, that you hear his fear. Silence stretches as he wrestles with his coming words; this is not a discussion to be rushed.

Not when it comes to a future he treasures so much.

"And you wish to keep it?" His arms cross together in tandem with the question: defensive, guarded.

There is hope in the question. Restrained, quiet, and longing.

"You know they will . . ." But his lips thin over what he intended to say. He doesn't need words to communicate his concern. Your child might inherit his gift.

No, more likely than not, they would.

That worried him, clearly, but not enough to forsake the desire for a child with you entirely. What worried him more, truly and unspeakably, was if you were against the chance— the possible guarantee and what it might mean for this world. What it might mean for your child themself if they ever harnessed their gift anywhere near the extent that their father could.

And in that doubt lied an even greater, deeper fear that he could not voice: Did you trust him enough, as a father, to raise this child to be a good, well-adjusted person?

Planned Pregnancy

Laughter, warm and deep, bubbles out from him before words have a chance. It’s a sound so lively, so free, that it seems better suited for the innocent joy of a child rather than the rugged and scarred man before you. It is especially not the reaction you would've once expected from the man who had seemed so terrified at the thought of being a father not so long ago, though you knew he hid his equal (if not greater) excitement at the prospect while shuffling his feet towards an agreement to try for a family.

His hands are cupped around your cheeks before you have time to let out another word, and whatever you might have intended to say is interrupted by a kiss as passionate as it is seemingly quick. Laughter again breaks it off sooner than he wishes.

"Meine bessere Hälfte, with my child," he murmurs, devotion and disbelief near palpable in his every word, before trailing kisses from your lips to your jaw, across your cheeks and nose before rising up to your eyelids and further up until he reaches the crown of your head. The sensation tickles you, and your squirms only make him laugh even more as one hand of his plants itself on your hip to keep your body close to his. "Mein Schätzelein, you better not be joking with me. You'll see a grown man cry if you are joking with me."

He laughs again, and this laugh you feel all the more when he lifts you off the ground to spin you around once, twice, somehow managing to capture your lips in a tender kiss once again by the time your feet connect with the ground.

For this moment in time, he finds himself in the eye of the storm. Respite, fleeting and heavenly, feels as though it tugs him towards the brink of delirium as he allows his heart to lead him as it may. His kiss lingers, deepens, breaks and starts again for a necessary moment of breath. And he knows this weightlessness he feels will not last. Fear will rise in him again. But fear for his child, for you, briefly withdraws from the present. Guilt for wrongs he has not yet committed and faults he has not yet revealed as a father quiet until, for this wonderful moment, it is temporarily released and forgotten.

"So ends the fun part," he eventually manages to mutter through a soft grin, his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you as close to him as he can possibly have you. "Soon it will be aches and tears, messes to clean or prevent."

His tone is coated with a warm sarcasm, but the pinch in his brow implies the truth he anticipates in those words. Yet it is the softness of his smile when paired with a gaze so full of love that assures you in what he says next.

"I look forward to it."

Sigmund, if asked up to the earlier stages of an official relationship, would state that he's indifferent towards having children: fine if he has them and fine if he doesn't. Deep down, however, he is fond towards the idea of having a child or two of his own, but the appeal is dimmed by his fears towards the kind of insufficient or scarring father he might turn out to be (an insecurity rooted in the similarities he shares with his own father).

He doesn’t have an adequate parental role model for guidance, and so he would feel anxiously lost in the balancing act of parenthood: when to protect and when to let his child be free, when to punish and when to forgive, when to wait and when to act. He does not want to be soft on them, but he does not want to be harsh to them either. This stress towards the future would linger, rise, and decline in cycles throughout the pregnancy. In the meantime, he'd at least find some relief in over-prepping for the baby's arrival (trying to garner some sense of control in the midst of his insecure worries) in projects from nursery construction / baby-proofing home design, reading through parenting books, asking to check out local parenting / pregnancy-related classes, meal-prep for his partner, etc.

Ah, but really, the moment Sigmund is able to hold his child in his arms for the first time, experiencing first-hand their little breathes and clingy fingers, all his fear will quiet down into the faintest whisper in the wind in the face of the absolute devotion and papa-bear energy he'll have towards your shared and vulnerable little miracle. A total flip of the switch, like a man born anew, and soon you'll be struggling to pull him away from anything not baby-related as he becomes horribly attached to them and all their needs, quirks, and milestones. And it's best that he enjoys that time of infancy and toddlerdom while he can (when his child is needy towards him for attention, love, and assistance yet is also growing into a more defined individual with an emerging personality and interests in equal amounts) before the (for him) considerably grating years of teenage rebellion and demanded independence. But that's all getting far too ahead of things, haha!

He might attempt to reconnect with his father in response to this news, only for his child's sake (and only with his partner’s permission). There would be no reconciliation in this outreach but, knowing his father, it would be reassuring to have this distant and reliable assistance towards any material needs, comforts, or opportunities for his child to have . . . especially if something were ever to happen to him.

All in all, the anticipation of becoming a father would be a reason for elation with pride in his growing child and ever-growing love for his partner through the trials of parenthood, but it is a quiet contentment often tainted by early and worrisome guilt, fear, and swallowed hopes towards all that is to come - the finite moments of good and the inevitable conflicts he will never be able to take back.

Fun Fact: In the original series, Sigmund eventually had one son. The later years of adolescence with his son were the most contentious, though their relationship eased immensely once his son passed through young adulthood. He had one granddaughter as well in the far future who differed greatly from his son and daughter-in-law when it came to personality, which was a source of some (di)stress for him, haha!

Elouan

There is a moment of cold silence before a weak smirk shapes his lips. The humor it tries to convey does not reach his eyes. No, the truth lies in the challenged composure of his voice, though it is a challenge you alone could ever notice.

"You're joking."

An attempt to call your bluff. You sense the hope behind those words. The hope that it is indeed a bluff: some poor joke he can offer a breathy chuckle towards before waving it aside.

But it isn't. It is real. This child is real, and the truth of this slowly twists his expression into one of tired regret as it becomes undeniable through your firm silence. Regret, and pity.

For you, himself, or the child? Likely for all parties involved in this 'unfortunate' circumstance, or so he would put it.

"You know me, mon amour. You know my . . . reservations."

That is gentle wording on his part, for your sake, but he keeps an even tone as he says it. He maintains a courteous smile, but not eye contact, as his hands fold neatly together.

And it all makes him feel so distant. These are his barriers. Cordiality like this, like strangers, urges the need for concern.

As if sensing your sympathy, he dismisses any notion of distress through a (by his standards, horribly forced) laugh. (It would be a sign for the worse, more concerning still, if he couldn't even attempt to fake it.) And still his eyes cannot meet your own, fixed on some distant image buried into the nearest wall.

"I cannot imagine that you would want to," he starts, but the words die behind the pursed lips of his soured expression. Because perhaps you would want to raise a child with him, and he cannot dare to deny that fact on your behalf. His gaze flickers down to the tightened grip of his joined hands, their scars, and it is as though his entire visage dims in spite of the false smile he flashes.

"I am not fit to be a father," is what he settles on, a statement delivered in calm matter of fact, recited like lines in a prepared script, "As much as I force and welcome change, I remain the same. I am selfish. I am cruel. I am feared, and despised, by others and myself. I am no better than the monsters that raised me. Perhaps I carry this . . . this Curse of the Chevaliers, or whatever we were supposed to fucking be.”

And here his laugh is genuine: bitter, spiteful, and tinged with unaddressed sorrow as the past threatens to resurface. Time has yet to bandage all his wounds . . . And there remains uncertainty in whether it may ever be enough to heal them at all.

“No, I would not condemn a child to my care,” he affirms weakly, his body vaguely curling into itself as his hand partly covers the grimace he wears. Silence softly settles itself, filled instead with quiet thoughts not yet ready to be shared.

When it is broken, it becomes the first time he has managed to meet your gaze with his own. And he looks at you with the love you have become so accustomed to, unshaken and endless, but fear lies behind it all the same.

"You are magnificent.” Here is the moment his smile reflects something genuine, strength seeping into his voice once again. “Anything you put your mind to, you will accomplish with more grace and strength than any other could ever hope to replicate. Any child would be far more than fortunate to have you in their life."

Any trace of softness that graced his features before, a quality so natural whenever he spoke of you, vanished into something cold, adamant, at his next words.

"Whatever you decide, I will be there. But the moment I slip . . . as a father, the moment I am more harm than good, cast me aside as harshly as you see fit."

Elouan cannot name a single parental figure in his life who had been a healthy or stable influence / attachment, all despite having four different options to choose from. He has been shaped by each and every one of them, these individuals who (as much as it pains him to admit for some) had no place in caring for a child. It is Elouan's belief that he, too, is not fit to be a father.

It is his belief that, somehow or another, he will do nothing but cause a child of his own harm or ruin. Even his most well-intentioned guardians, those he is convinced were better people than him, had the very same effect upon him. The responsibility of a life so delicate and impressionable in his hands, scarred in remembrance of all the wrongs and suffering he has wrought onto the unfortunate, vile, and innocent, seems unsuited to him, no matter how repentant or redeemed he and others might claim him to be on any particular day.

But perhaps this all glosses over the deepest horror of all, a lurking truth he fears lies in his heart and soul and may only be unveiled by the arrival of his own child. The potential confirmation that he is no different than his mother, and the possible affirmation of this kindred lack (he declares it to be) would utterly tear him apart to a point of no recovery.

The deepest, truest, manifestation of his fears lies in the possibility of him feeling no love for this child at all: an absence of attachment or care that is instead supplicated by the horror, and humiliation, of forever falsifying some foreign paternal instinct . . . or, somehow worse, not bothering with such a facade at all.

It had taken years for Elouan to accept the fact that his mother was simply not capable of a maternal love for him, that it was not a reversible ‘opposite’ of love she truly held for him (hatred) but a sincere, apathetic detachment from him as though he were little more than a stranger's child playacting as her own. The love he desired could not be forced, and to think that such a love might not only be unnatural from him but impossible as well is a reality he does not dare to tempt.

It is not as though his biological father, or his other parental guardians, offer much reassurance in this realm either: similar either in an absence or diminishment of love, especially when placed at a crossroad with alternate, personal desires. No, Elouan cannot (or, at the very least, struggles to) imagine himself as someone who could consistently, sufficiently place the needs of a child (even his own) above his own - not after he has proven himself to be a lowly, self-interested beast for most his life.

Thus, the thought of an impending child would be considerably distressing for Elouan as a confrontation with his innate and taught nature when given charge of a creature, a small and helpless and unwanted thing born from his love for you, that will either free him from this self-degrading fear or affirm him as everything he has feared himself to forever be.

Fun Fact: Elouan never had any (known) children in the original series, but he warmed up to being an uncle for Sigmund's son, and to the children of other once-close associates as well (in a more distant manner). He would have been the "cool uncle" type with lots of gifts and stories to share, always coming and going without much a 'hello' or 'goodbye' but with an undoubtable love for them all the same.

Fyodor

Your name falls softly from his lips as though it were a prayer.

It is a dream. How could this ever be so? He does not deserve to feel this much joy, so much gratitude and fulfillment that it feels painful to carry it all. He has yet to deserve you. How could he think to be worth the honor of having you carry his child? Loving him had been more than he could ever wish to ask from you.

To have a child with you, and have them be loved you . . .

His lips cannot contain a smile large enough.

His heart, body, and soul cannot contain all the love he feels at this moment for all the world: for you, his child, luck and fate and miracles like the beautiful wonder that is life and the greater bliss that is a life shared with you as a family to this little wonder you've together made.

Never have you seen so much love in his eyes, his wide gaze tearful and searching.

His hands encase your own without a thought, his expression conflicted between blissful elation and giddy shock. His lips fumble over words that cannot be spoken over the sudden urge to sob, the silent tears and their stains around his breathless smile having gone unnoticed by him until now. And this touch is not enough.

His kisses are sudden. Intense, deep, fleeting, and scattered. His hands caress all he can reach: gentle then firm, worshipful and possessive. He curls around you, lifts you, carries you, and loses every sense of himself in all that you are.

Perfection. You and his child, as perfect as any man or creature or disembodied soul could ever hope for the manifestation of their love to be. You, his family, through joined blood and eternal promise. And it is as though, deep within him, a love bottomless and all-consuming that he once held for you alone has multiplied ten-fold, a thousand-fold, more and more, until a love for everything and everyone and every moment of this life in past, present, and future is all he feels.

It is a love that he expresses as much as he can through physical affection showered upon you. If you do not reign him in soon, this celebration will quickly find its way into the bedroom.

Fyodor knows he will not inherit the vices of his father. It is not a concern that crosses his mind. He would never repeat the violence or degradation he experienced at the hands of his father onto his child(ren). Though he will by no means be a perfect father, especially not by his own standards, he will be a father who approaches everything in relation to his child(ren) with a love that is genuine and deep.

In boyhood, Fyodor longed for the day he would have a family of his own. His vision of this dream back then was, of course, quite innocent and idyllic. It stemmed deeply from his desire to escape the environment of his own household and become the man / father his own father never was. Nevertheless, with age, this dream became more independent from the thought of his household and more personal to him as an individual.

To him, there are few expressions of love deeper or more fulfilling than those shared in or through a family. A family is both one's home and heart, loyal bonds meant to nurture and tend to one another in servitude and sacrifice. He cannot imagine a greater purpose than sacrificing all his labor, his riches, and his minutes on this earth in service to the well-being of his very own children and spouse, dedicating his life to their happiness and betterment.

Family, in his mind, offers a means for him to be both virtuously selfless and indulgently selfish. The selflessness, to him, is blatant: the idea of living his life in accordance with the needs and wants of others, his children and spouse, whether by material means (food, house, education, gifts, etc.) or the intangible (attention, time, aid, comfort, etc.). The selfishness, however, comes from the pleasing thought that his family is his. These children and their love are unique to him as their father, unique to him as children born from the love of his life who is reflected in their features, mannerisms, wants, fears, hearts, and souls. His household, his lasting legacy and mark on this earth (or, rather, the only mark and legacy he would truly care to be remembered by) is his alone to cherish as a father may. He is spoiled by their inherent love for him, their natural devotion to him, and is more than happy to return these rare treasures towards them in return. His affection is rewarded through their growth, joy, and care; their smiles and laughter more enriching than anything else (or, at least, anything other than you).

Family is eternal. Its love is unconditional, innate as no other love than that of soulmates can hope to achieve. Always there, undeniable (to him), a deep impression that can cause the heart to sing or ache in the sweetest and bitterest ways. It is a means of joining together as one unit, a seemingly collective being with a shared heart and an ever-growing love for each person added to its fold. The larger, the better, the happier (or so he would say).

Truly, atop all this, there is also nothing that can compare to the innocence of a child which inspires in Fyodor a hope in everything, for everyone, and especially towards himself as a father, husband, and simple, mortal man. Fatherhood is a gift and honor to him alike, and he does not wish to take a moment of it for granted.

Mm, Fyodor would also very much want his mother to be near during the pregnancy, and an oncoming grandchild would helplessly ingratiate her towards the MC regardless of the (sometimes, depending) bitter and cold demeanor she's held towards them. Frightened once by the influence you held over her son, disturbed by yet another force that threatened to tear him further away from her, an arriving grandchild would melt all her defenses as she wishes for nothing more than their happiness and well-being - sacred things (precious things she could not ensure for her own son, leaving her with unappeasable shame and guilt) best aided by settling her displeasures, distrust, and fears towards you for their greater good.

Fun Fact: In the original series, Fyodor had eight biological children: four sons and four daughters, including a set of twins among them. He was also the stepfather to a ninth child he loved as dearly as all his other children. Suffice it to say, he had a lot of grandchildren as well, an approximate seventeen of them! Fyodor held a generally positive relationship with all his children throughout their lives, with unavoidable hiccups here and there for a number of reasons, but each had a unique perception of their connection to him in their own special way: some with pure adoration, some with occasional humiliation, some with unfocused rebellion, some with quiet disappointment, some with buried envy, and so on.

I mean, really, there's so much development I put into all his kids, haha! (๑′ ᴗ ‵๑)♥ In my mind, there had been the prequel-era of Insurrection with Curadora / CARDINALS / Sigmund, the modern-era with Curadora / [spoilers?] / Fyodor, and then the sequel-era with Fyodor's children as its core ensemble cast (the eldest [biological] son of Fyodor, Stepka, often taking the center stage of them all). I had countless AUs for them, their spouses and love stories all detailed, their children developed, just so much overall! I just love them so much, even if they're only as canon as a headcanon now, haha! ┐(￣ヮ￣)┌

Niccolò

. . . Ah, and Niccolò is not applicable in this case! ╮ (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.) ╭ But if his partner did decide to use a sperm donor or hire a surrogate (preferably, to him, someone trusted and close to them both), he would be overjoyed to hear that his child is on their way into this world.

Of course, he would prefer to hold off plans for children until some years into the epilogue stage at the earliest, not wishing to so quickly jump from one set of crushing responsibilities to another. He still wishes to travel the world some more (especially when he may freely do so with the MC at his side), satiating his wanderlust as much as possible before settling down into a life of greater stability and routine.

Aha, though even with a child / children, Niccolò will still be the kind of father who frequently and excitedly arranges long-distance vacations to not completely forsake his love for exploration and adventure— and in hopes of transferring his passion into his child(ren) as well. His kid(s) should never expect to have a lazy weekend with Niccolò as their dad, haha!

Fun Fact: In the original series, Niccolò had a more . . . ambiguous end in the eyes of his old friends. Yet, as uncertain as his future was, it would not have been so strange if (many, many years into the future) he and his partner did come to settle down with adopted children of their own, perhaps even finding contentment as foster parents or the caretakers of an orphanage in a calm, quiet corner of the world.

And as a bonus with the minor ROs . . .

Dearil

Try as he might, indifference is difficult to project as the past and future seem to crash down on him all at once. The news first seems akin to a poor joke shared in malice, or some torturous trick to skin back the crude scars of his younger days.

But you would not approach a matter as sensitive as this—as precarious as this—with such disregard for his mental state.

If he had been approached mid-activity, he would resume that task without more than a breath’s pause, his movements mechanical and his expression placid. Whereas his surface doesn’t allow a drop of his emotional turmoil to surface, his thoughts are all-consuming as he relives the torment of his youth.

If unoccupied when approached, he adjusts into a pose of picturesque calm, gaze fixed firmly, harshly, towards his gloved hands.

He considers what this child might become. An inheritor of his will, his gift, or a mixture with your ravenous power. A reclamation of all his ambitions, vicariously achieved through this beast born from your union. Your impending demise: a sacrifice he may remedy, though he would never again be the same once it came to pass.

With the deliverance of this truth, he feels as though he is dying. He feels the mortality that clings to him still. His fragility, his fear. His desperation and longing for what is doomed to die in his care. For what has been lost, and what is impossible for him to regain.

Ruin has no end for him.

“Mea vita, don’t think you can use this against me,” he warns in a near whisper, lips twisted in a false grin with a voice eternally rough and, for you alone, warm despite the sharpness of his tone's edge. “Whatever may come, I will not let anything tear them away from me.”

This so-called death incarnate would be equal parts repulsed and intrigued by the thought of his own child. It harkens back to a time he wants desperately to forget. A time where he was more commodity than child, more animal than god or human. He hates the thought of granting them this victory beyond the grave, yet he cannot deny that his modern interests may align with raising a child of his own blood.

Dearil will express grim solemnity as he ponders what this might promise, and it does not take an observant eye to note his resemblance to a man in mourning (far more than an expectant father). His mind seems to be lost elsewhere, fixated on shadows that he cannot escape. The names of the dead linger on his tongue, murmured when he suspects he is alone, and the memories of them attach themselves to his surroundings. Sometimes, it is as though his gaze cannot register who you are. In his eye, you resemble a ghost more than a lover, a past more than a future.

His moods become mercurial, more so than you have grown used to. Some days are the gentlest he’s ever been: loving, worshipful, trapped in his quiet contemplations of pure devotion to the once-vile divinity he faithfully adores in you. Other times are spent beneath the coldness of his spite: accusative, disgusted, enraged almost towards the sight of the life you carry within you. Detachment and apathy are all he can summon for the unborn child one moment, distaste and revulsion arise in the next, and soon the storm calms into a forbidden sense of longing and hope for its health and happiness before this too vanishes on a whim. One moment is spent with him unable to tear his gaze away from the perfection you project in pregnancy, the next he is repulsed by the sight of your swollenness and what it means for you both. To speak of it (the child) in terms of love leaves his tongue with an acidic taste. To speak of them in terms of spite leaves his stomach weighted with the foreign sentiment of guilt and shame. He loves it all the more for the pain it brings him and hates them all the more for the remorse they cause him.

And it is not right for them to prosper when the other never had a chance. How could they deserve to be loved when his cor et animam, innocent and unborn, never - ? For this all to happen now, with you, seems both a joke and punishment unto him as much as it feels fated and blessed once it has come to pass. And perhaps you very well may live past this with a soul like yours, aided by the possessive bond his own greedy soul shares with you. Your souls, together as one, will endure in this little parasite. He will do all that lies in his power to ensure this is so. And so, as months come to pass, he forces into himself a desire, an acceptance, and a tolerance to this emerging life born from the false love of Death. The tranquility he obtains is fragile, but if nurtured by you, there is very well a chance for it to persist above the turmoil he otherwise suppresses for his own greater good.

Nevertheless, Dearil will feel a possessive claim to his child from the very moment he learns of their impending arrival. The thought of it broadens his perception of the world, breathes into him a semblance of revitalization towards the wants and desires of his past as much as it reawakens old anguishes and unhealed trauma. To him, a child promises a use. A tool made in his image and yours, and what better image could he ever hope for them to replicate? Yes, he will not allow this cursed, miraculous little creature to fall to waste - he will not permit them the fate his own guardians once tried to condemn him into.

Godhood and greatness await them, and he will ensure they grasp it for themself no matter the cost.

My advice: take your child as far from Dearil as you can!

Fun Fact: Dearil did not have any (claimed) children in the original series.

Retriever

His chest rises with a deep breath, and he can't seem to decide whether to grin, laugh, or cry. Messy is a fitting term for his reaction. Euphoric is more accurate.

Gradually, inevitably, all three urges win out, and it's clear that Armend has been reduced into an absolute muddle of raw, rapturous emotions as his belly-deep laughter is interrupted by choked sobs, his all-too-perfect grin glistening beneath tears of pure unbridled joy.

“I love you,” slips past his lips without a coherent thought in his head, “My God, I love you more than anything on this earth!”

There is no finer truth than this. And you know he affirms this not only to you, but to your child as well, small and distant as they may seem to anyone but Armend.

He tries to dry his tears as best he can, sloppily with his burly arms or the shirt he wears, before encasing you wholly in his needy bear hug. Like a furnace, he produces so much warmth that is contrasted with the colder touch of dying tears pressed into the crook of your neck. And his laughter bubbles still as he forced himself into a sense of calm, ticklish and interspersed with kisses light, lingering, heated, and firm.

He sways with you, almost dancing with you, as he continues to spill laughter and unfinished murmurs of absolute adoration.

"I love you," seems to become a soft mantra as he calms down from the high of his emotions. "God, I love you. You're perfect. Everything about you, perfect, and goddammit do I love you!"

Retriever has had pregnancy scares before with his partners, and has met each with nervous excitement, unshakeable concern, and eventual disappointment when it turned out to be nothing more than that - a "scare". Retriever longs deeply for children of his own and could care less if his children were born from years of a strong marriage or a spur-of-the-moment one-night stand. But to have a child with a committed partner he loves so deeply and would want nothing more than to start a family with - you can expect that he'd be nothing less than over the moon.

There'd be much whooping and hollering from him after this announcement. For him, it’s as though the whole world has suddenly become all the more beautiful and vibrant as it anticipates the arrival of his child. He'd be shouting the news from the rooftops, announcing it out windows, and sharing it with anyone he passes by even into the next (several) day(s). Aha, and in regard to his family, he'll likely be buzzing with non-stop anticipation towards telling all of them the 'very good news', only to then get caught up in a feedback loop of positive energy when outmatched in his excitement by some of them (or not, depending on the MC, maybe, haha!).

He has waited for this moment for what seems like most of his life. This dream, goal, and once-hopeless desire that always seemed to slip away or lie just beyond his reach has finally arrived in a manner that cannot be any more perfect. It seems that fate, or a greater plan, just kept him waiting until he could start this dream with you and this world you have together fought to make. Outside of excited pacing to ramble and shake off excess energy, good luck having him anywhere but glued to your side with cuddles, kisses, massages, etc. for some time.

Fun Fact: Retriever had one child in the original series, though the two would never meet.

Bones

His eyes narrow as his focus flickers between your expression and stomach. His lips drag themselves into a cold sneer without a conscious thought, contrasting darkly with the quiet, self-directed fury in his eyes.

"Shit."

In the eyes of Bones, any child born of his blood would be nothing short of an (unwanted) abomination . . . a conviction that could only be challenged if other parent happened to be a deeply (begrudgingly) beloved Mockingbird (particularly if they had a positive opinion towards the pregnancy). It is the same condemnation his father held towards him from birth, but at least he has a (slim) likelihood of on day overcoming this instinctual disgust towards any child of his.

His instincts tell him to leave. In that moment, in the middle of the night, as soon as this unborn child is all too real or while it's still far enough to seem detached from reality. If anyone other than the MC were with his child, he would vanish from their life without a trace, leaving a sum of cash for a termination and a note firmly urging them to end the pregnancy for their own sake.

He might request to have time alone to digest this information before discussing anything else further, practically pleading (if the MC is resistant towards letting him go off on his own) to be allowed some solitude to organize his thoughts and emotions. He would very much be bottling a storm of conflicted emotions in the MC's presence, not wanting you to take any blame for whatever he might express in this state of mind.

His second instinct (once alone) takes some thought into account, and it urges him to provide any and all assistance his partner (emotional, financial, etc.) needs to pursue a termination of the pregnancy.

If this is a firmly rejected avenue, and the MC is determined to at least carry the child to full-term, then he is trapped between denial towards the situation, regret over his carelessness, and a frustration over possessing the same fears he used to despise in his own father.

Mm, though Bones is generally very negative towards the thought of having a biological child, he isn't necessarily against having children. He certainly does not hope to be a father as a young adult, far too occupied with turmoil internal and external to be a healthy parental figure. If he had a child in the timeline of the main narrative, he would more than likely be a disgruntled deadbeat of a father. (In that sort of case, Hopscotch would go out of his way to assume a sort of "godfather" type of role to Elov's child, hoping to befriend the other parent as well so he might remain in the child's life . . . maybe hoping to keep an avenue open for them to one day connect + reconcile with Elov in the far, far future.)

Neither is Bones against the prospect of, later in life, adopting or fostering children if his partner so wishes, or even having a surrogate / sperm donor provide a biological child for the MC. Past the epilogue stage, he would appreciate in-depth discussions about these options if children were so important to his partner. Even then, however, his reaction would be, though not cold, cool and, though not regretful, doubtful.

His core reservation would be children who have the potential to inherit his gift (knowing the toll it takes on the pregnant partner - especially a partner he cares about - and the lifelong consequences to the child themself). It's not a chance he wants to take, and he firmly desires to be the end of his gifted bloodline - or to at least contribute to his bloodline's end in whatever way he can. Still, no matter what, you'll have a free extra set of hands to help with child-rearing from Hopscotch . . . and Scales by extension if this is the epilogue stage (depending on the state of those two by that time).

But, accidents happen, and if the MC were to insist on carrying and raising his biological child . . . Elov would stick around, somehow even more quiet and subdued than he had been before. Good luck wrangling him down to have a healthy discussion about his reaction though. (；´∀｀)

Fun Fact: Bones had no children in the original series. He was, however, a somewhat beloved, and sometimes feared, grouchy, stern, and reluctant uncle-figure to the children of Hopscotch.

#tw: pregnancy #ro #c: akil #c: sigmund #c: elouan #c: fyodor #pregnancy ask #c: dearil #c: retriever #c: bones

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insurrection-if · 3 months

Note

Rate how angsty all of the ROS routes from 1-10

( ;´д｀) Oh goodness, I’m not the best at determining numerical values based on subjective criteria. The extremity of angst can be rather subjective, right?

Uh, I’ll give a number (or, rather, a range of numbers) for each route, but take them with a pinch—probably even a handful—of salt!

There’s also a lot that could amplify the elements of angst for different routes. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

This is a very general scale, one that makes some assumptions to reach an 'average' angst rating.

I’ll also try my best to distinguish general drama (which, honestly, can reach soap opera levels for some of these ROs) from actual angst. And I’ll try to focus on angst that is exclusive(?) / emphasized in a romantic relationship with them vs. a platonic one.

Akil: 7-8? (Earlier Stages), 4-5 (Later Stages)

Starts relatively high, petters out quite a bit after a major plot point (and progressive recovery from his grief). He’s still a little existential about everything (romance-related and otherwise) through to the end, haha!

Kamiko: 5-6

Kamiko’s prejudice, fears, and bad habits are more painful to her (and thus emphasized) in a romance. Her struggle to communicate emotions that might make her seem pitiable, weak, or wrong for how she feels can cause more angst as well.

Sigmund: 6-7?

General angst that all the HAWKS routes have (that being the illicit nature of romances) which he is especially fraught about (in his own way). The man can sometimes seem addicted to some self-imposed angst, haha! Also, ex-fiancée shenanigans.

Imka: 2-4

Relatively low, more so internalized within herself. The angst in her romance is more sad and anxious than dreadful and painful. It sharply spikes whenever her parents are around, especially when her mother involves herself.

Elouan: 6-7?

Elouan has a lot of fears, scars, and doubt when it comes to a heartfelt romance, especially when it involves someone he cares for in a way he hasn’t cared for anyone before. The shadow of his former fiancé looms over him still as well, and any broaching towards that relationship and its impact on him plunges the romance into a dark pit.

Jae: 3-5?

Even when angst has occasion to arise, Jae doesn’t like to confront it directly. She’ll dance around it for as long as she can until it explodes into something much more harmful than it would’ve been or hurts too much to bear any longer. There’s a lot of fear when it comes to commitment and dependence that wrings out some angst when explored.

Niccolò: 2-3 (Earlier Stages), 7-8 (Middle Stages), 2-3 (Later Stages)

Starts low, inches upwards with some existential quandaries. It soars immensely after an event that involves Fyodor, and it will take a long period of time before the angst in the romance will fully settle down after that. Still, Niccolò is Niccolò, so he’ll try to be positive through it all once he has some of his bearings again.

Mutya: 2-4?

Pretty low to standard levels of angst. Mutya likes to be self-sufficient, meaning she’s more in favor of working out things internally or independently, so an angst-prone situation will be less intensified by her desire to internalize the issue or work it through on her own first. Tension is much more likely than angst, but the two can blend together.

Fyodor: 3-5 (Earlier Stages), 7-9 (Later Stages)???

Eh, it’s muddled for me. The romance starts off as ‘conscripted’ enemies, but Fyodor doesn’t consistently treat Mockingbird like the enemy they are when he can avoid it. It’s the later stages where I’d say the angst really kicks in as, by then, Fyodor will be much more truthful and direct about his past and how it has scarred his perception of love. I use truthful in the sense that he will disclose things in a way where he’s no longer reiterating the comforting lies he tells himself about all that occurred before his time in the CARDINALS. He’s been broken down, and he’s desperate to be ‘fixed’. This mentality bleeds into the romance in a way that manifests as angst.

Dearil: 8-10

Dearil does not love anything or anyone in the traditional sense of the word. He is obsessive, dangerous, spiteful, and cruel. He cannot let things go, including the memory of and grief over his first love who he will always and inevitably compare Mockingbird to with or without intention. He considers himself ruined beyond repair and, by extension, sees his love as something that will inevitably ruin all those around him.

Curadora: 8 (Early Stages), 10 (Middle Stages), ??? (Late Stages)

The undisclosed major plot point can be cause for a lot of angst, though that might be dependent on the MC (especially if they have a main romance with someone else). The late stages, I think, can be pretty subjective on angst levels person by person. I’d guess they’d be pretty low at that point, with vibes more melancholic than angsty.

Retriever: 5-7?

It depends on whether Mockingbird expressed a desire for marriage and children in their future (even if not specifically with him, but rather just in general). A more ‘casual’ romance with Retriever (not exactly ‘end-game’ in his head) is far less angst-filled since he’s more invested in a good time with good company. A more ‘serious’ romance with Retriever (again, in his mind) is a lot more conflicted with his hesitation over loyalties, right vs. wrong, and the resurgence of an old flame.

Lempo: 2 (General), sparser bouts of a 6(?)

Lempo desires mutual pleasure and happiness with Mockingbird. Generally angst-prone topics in her romance will likely go in one ear and out the other, dismissed or laughed down as she ignores the reality around her. Much of her angst is likely to be coupled with whoever Mockingbird’s RO might be. And her life plans towards the end of everything, maybe, depending on the MC.

Bones: 10

I am far more comfortable rating Elov’s romance as high up there compared to the others, haha! He is quite literally (painfully) contemplating the possibility of killing Mockingbird one day for the sake of his ideals, and any romance with that sort of confused animosity is doomed to a heavy dose of angst.

Mishka: 8-10

Mishka is only available to Fyodor romancers, so they’re defaulted into a toned-down ‘love triangle’ (?) from the start. Maybe a “love line” might be fitting for those who are purely loyal to Fyodor, making Mishka’s affections unreturned (even if only on the surface) so it’s like Mishka -> MC <—> Fyodor, haha! (Again, it’s optional for Mishka to be attracted to the MC, though it’s a choice only available to those romancing Fyodor.)

They’re also a doomed romance, but that truth might be more brushed under the rug or skirted around when Mishka has a romantic investment in Mockingbird (for reasons both selfish and hopeful).

#ro #minor ro #c: akil #c: kamiko #c: sigmund #c: imka #c: elouan #c: jae #c: niccolo #c: mutya #c: dearil #c: curadora #c: retriever #c: lempo #c: bones #c: mishka

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insurrection-if · 3 months

Note

ROs reaction to that "I want a baby" meme?🤭

Oh, I love this meme! (ㅅ´ ˘ `)♡

I wanted to add the minor romances too, but that exceeds the maximum screenshots per post (10). ╮(╯∀╰)╭ For the sake of scrollers, I’ll place the screenshots for the main romances below the cut:

Akil

Kamiko

Sigmund

Imka

Elouan

Jae

Niccolò

Mutya

Fyodor

If you remove the ‘let’s wait’ aspect of the first response, he’s a mixture of these:

Thank you so much for this ask! (��´∀｀)b

#ro #c: akil #c: kamiko #c: sigmund #c: imka #c: elouan #c: jae #c: niccolo #c: mutya #c: fyodor

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insurrection-if · 5 months

Note

TW: trauma, and others.

"When an MC drinks the blood of a Gifted, they become connected to their heart, mind, and soul. They may feel past sensations, experience current emotions, or become foreign in their own skin."

After reading this from an anon's romance-centric ask, I suddenly have terrible ideas.

Just imagine MC experiencing the following:

Drinking blood from a dying/suddenly killed Gifted

How about blood from a badly tortured Gifted?

Then there's blood drinking from some psycho Gifted with zero remorse for the inhumane crimes (up to your imagination) they committed

Bruh. The side effects alone can either make the MC more intimate with their ROs or traumatized to the point that they might be averse to drinking Gifted blood. 👀

You've considered this as well, right? Will this be tackled on the story? How deep the darkness goes?

Extra: If you've got some ideas and time, how would ROs (minor and main) deal with a gentle, caring MC who was shaken and pitifully terrified after experiencing any of the scenarios?

(；´∀｀) Yes, when it comes to blood drinking, certain dark elements may be touched upon depending on one's choices, particularly in relation to trauma from other characters. Hence, uh, an aversion to blood drinking is certainly a possible option for the MC. Their experience with Elov in adolescence will inform them of this risk.

It’s also not as though their mother, who shared the same gift, didn’t struggle with the very same ‘costs’. The MC’s father has deep (and occasionally silenced) reservations against the MC developing a dependence on their gift due to the toll he witnessed on their mother.

I will say that Mockingbird should have an awareness towards certain individuals offering a higher risk of these unsavory linked experienced when drunken from. Drinking from characters such as Retriever, Imka, and Lempo would have a much lower (though a non-zero) risk of scarring mental or physical experiences compared to, say, Dearil, Bones, or Fyodor. Not that those characters lack past horrible experiences / prevailing issues in the present, but there are notable differences in their states of emotional healing and mental fixations (as well as the side effects of their gifts) which would influence Mockingbird's experience with their blood.

Onto the (considerably generalized) scenarios . . .

. . . with a general assumption / vibe(?) of an already established relationship for some, most, maybe? I don’t know it’s all loose. ʅ（´◔౪◔）ʃ

Main ROs

Akil

"It is not your fault.”

For someone with a heart so kind, with care even for those who deserve none, he says what should be known. His voice remains even. Enunciated, clear. On the surface, he is the pinnacle of reliable calm.

“You are not the cause of their pain. This is theirs to bear, not yours.”

He reassures with inarguable truth.

“It is a phantom pain. Breathe, please."

He tries to guide the pace of your breaths with his own. Sorrow cuts through him, but it does not surface.

If possible, he will order for the source of your blood, the one who acts as the origin for this translated pain you carry, to be tended to. That is where this pain is most tangible, most addressable. He cares not for who or what they might be—Cardinal or Hawk, innocent or vile—so long as the easement of their suffering reaches you.

But he knows that the mercy of your heart will cling to the miserable knowledge that such a pain like this exists at all in another. Physically inflicted, mentally imbedded, emotionally ingrained. Fleeting or constant. Dull or sharp.

He knows that the most crucial moments in helping you has yet to come. The hours and days after this shock are when he must become vigilant against the scars that can form, scars not as simple to address as those on skin.

He will be there for counsel, for support, however you require. He will be there to guide you through this darkness. He will do all he can to preserve what innocence remains from a trial as horrendous as this.

Kamiko

She calls your name in a tentative whisper. Her entire body seems to ache for a nearness to you, yet she does not close the gap of space between.

A gloved hands hovers above your cheek, her dark brown eyes searching for a sign that it is okay to touch you in this moment. A sign that her presence in this moment is accepted.

More than anything, she hopes for her presence—her support in this moment—to be wanted.

To be useless to you here, now . . . She could not forgive herself if that were the case.

She finds herself unable to ask of you what she would demand from herself. To bury this, to swallow any pity or fear in exchange for cold indifference. But you have a heart that bleeds. A heart that takes in everything—everyone—with such depth and grace. It feels acutely, intensely. Even for someone like her, human and unworthy of you, you feel her love and pain as though it were your own.

She loves your heart more than anything, but it is at times like this she cannot help but dread its vulnerable nature.

How can she ever hope to protect you from yourself; this sensitivity that defines the one she loves.

"You . . ."

Her voice sounds strange to her own ears. Weak, afraid. Protocol for this moment runs through her head. She knows what she is supposed to do. The routine, the procedure, the manual that lacks the human quality of this ache that is witnessing your pain.

". . . Please, tell me how to help you."

Sigmund

“I’m here. I’m here for you.”

Worry seeps in against his will, yet he curses at how hollow a comfort his words are.

He wants to wrap you in his arms. To anchor you with his heart. If he could only ground you with a touch, or a wisely spoken word— but his uses are limited, and the fault of your pain lies on him for not being enough to keep you from the blood and its toll.

“Songbird, Herz,” he tries again as his hand reaches for your cheek, a slow and visible reach as to not frighten you more, “Look at me.”

Your fear is tangible in the grit of your teeth, the vague tremble beneath your skin.

"Focus on me." It is as gentle a command as any man could ever give. His hand lowers to rest beneath your chin, urging your gaze to meet his as delicately as he possibly can. It is your delicacy that frightens him. It is your pain that hurts him more than anything else ever could.

Actions will always mean far more than words. Words are weak, quick to fail, and never seem to do what needs to be done.

If his love allows, he will (take you into his arms / guide you away from here with his strength as support) his hands squeezing for a moment - gentle and firm - as though to say, 'I am here, and beside you is where I will forever remain.'

He moves without thinking, a sole purpose guiding him forward. To take you somewhere safe. Quiet and calm, where you can scream or cry, laugh or rest, tremble or cling to him without fear of harm from the eyes and hands that have led you to this pain.

And if there is no quiet and calm to be found, no haven to steal you away into . . . then he will have to make such a refuge. Those who stand in his way will not be met with any hint of mercy.

Imka

"It's not right."

The feeble plea to the world falls past her trembling lips. Her hands seem to bear the most of her overwhelming sorrow as they reach for your own, caress your own, before making a panicked and tender journey to cusp your tortured expression. Her fingers stretch across your cheeks, worried at the thought of tears staining the face she loves.

"You don't deserve—Your gift shouldn't have to hurt you like this. It's not right."

She wishes she could take you away from here. She wishes she could take you somewhere where you never need to think of this pain again, where you can heal and rest and forget.

A place where you never crave for this agony, and never need to forsake yourself to it. This blood . . .

“I’m sorry,” coats her every shallow breath. She does not know whether she should hug you with all her might or pry herself from you so you might find your own breath again.

“It’s my fault. I’m sorry,” she whispers to you, to no one, as though these words held the power to transfer all your anguish onto her. If only she had a stronger gift, a less painful life, for your sake alone.

In the days and nights that follow, she seems lost, her hesitant smiles and cautious touches all distracted by the unshakable memories of your pain. She searches for an opening to approach the subject, scared to reopen this emotional wound when you are not ready or willing, but finds her attempts to speak comforts weak. Yet she does not for a moment give you doubt that she is here for you to lean on, a willing and loving presence that will listen to everything that needs to be said and will stand patiently beside you through all that cannot be spoken.

Elouan

His hand has yet to release your own, his bared touch offering a small presence of light and warmth. A string of curses flow beneath his breath, breaking now and then when he brings your hand to his lips to kiss, their soft texture pressed against your skin with an almost desperate touch.

“Curse them,” he mutters bitterly, blue eyes focused on nowhere and burning with a victimless rage, “For every ounce of pain ever felt or caused, curse us all. Mon amor, you have me going mad, helplessly mad. Here I sit useless, wishing for utopias and condemning victims just so you never have to feel this again.”

His sarcastic grin falters beneath unswallowable concern, his facade of control crumbling beneath your every shaken breath. He kisses your hand again, eyes fluttering closed as if to hide from the sight of your hurt, before summoning a weak smile once again.

“You are too good for us. You should not be made to bear our evils like this. Not mine, not theirs, none but your own—and, my love, you have no evils. Only pain inflicted by others, taken with such selfless grace that I fear I love a saint.”

It terrifies him. There is not a day that passes where he does not fear for the purity of your heart, a trait that once aggravated him to no end.

The blood is too tainted. His own blood especially—strawberries, rich and too sweet, you now attested it to be—had always proved itself far too foul for your lips, too ruined to ever be an offering to you. If he had been a better man before you met, he would have been worthy of you now. This truth is one he will forever regret.

"But you are alive, at least. You are alive and that is all a man as selfish as I can ask for. Live another day with me, ange, and I will do all I can to ease your pain."

Jae

"You'll make it," she chants breathlessly for the umpteenth time, the mantra affirmed more like a threat against the world for what would happen if you did not.

"Stay with me." Her arm secures itself around your hips, pulling you tighter against her, pressing you together as if she could physically transfer her strength to you by doing so. "Birdie, eyes on me. Please, fuck, please look at me."

The blood coils around her fingers, filthy crimson strings that she draws from your lips like it were poison. Fuck, that's exactly what it is.

Poison. Something so against your nature that she worries it is killing you ever so slowly with each drink. Something that takes from the light in your eyes, the gentleness of your touch. Something that takes and gives nothing but rot.

She summons what she can from your teeth, your tongue, any trace that might further trigger your gift with its taste. The blood obeys. It glides seamlessly from your opened lips to her tense hold.

She sneers at its presence.

When the last drop is lured from your lips, she casts it away somewhere far and unseen. Its stain should not remain anywhere near you, her pure-hearted love.

"It's gone. It's over," she promises, though she knows the memories of this will be scarred on you for countless nights to come. A rage burns within her at the thought of this truth.

Rage towards the CARDINALS, the HAWKS, the source of your blood, and the source of the pain you felt. To turn your own gift into a weapon against you, to twist the beauty of it in this way . . .

She forces a smile over the acidic fury that boils within her. A smile for you and you alone, hoping to inspire one of your own.

Hoping to help you leave this time in the past, buried and forgotten beneath whatever may come tomorrow.

"Leave here with me, please."

Niccolò

“It will end. You are you, and no one else. This pain is not meant to be kept.”

There is a soft gravity with which he speaks, his words as delicate as the touch he offers to your arms. His fingers brush against you in hopeful want for an invitation to hold you.

Despite your panic, your agony and grief carved so harshly and wrongly onto your being, the smile he shares is sincere. Small, and uncertain, but it is a smile born from an endearment towards all that you are, even the sides of you that are frightened, shaken, or slowly being lost to a gift you cannot tame.

“They are a sickness to you," he states as though it were the most blatant truth, a firmness mixing into his warm tone, "But you are resilient, and you will heal. I promise you, cuore mio, that I will not rest until you are comfortable with yourself again.”

And he knows that time will come again. The time will come for you to smile again, laugh again, just as you will inevitably cry and shake and break at the hands of this gift you cannot contain.

Mutya

“Dammit!”

Her voice pierces through the haze around you, forcing her to the front of the world that is your muddled thoughts.

Her hands are quick to follow—desperate, grabbing, caressing, only to retreat into curled fists that punch down onto her thighs. She has kneeled beside you without a thought, practically collapsing into a heap of furious cries.

"Fuck, I can't - I can't let this happen to you!"

She wipes the blood from your lips with her hands—as if that could sever the bond and all its costs—and chokes on all the curses and blame that overwhelm her.

She doesn't know what to do. How to help. Her panic only endangers you both, her thoughts pressing against her skull with the ache of her fears wishing for life.

“Mahal,” she whispers above the splitting pain that rings in her ears, “I can’t lose you to this.”

She is harsher on herself in the days to come. Vigilant for any signs of your distress that lingers, the memory of this pain that haunts your wounded gentleness. She vows to never let someone allow you to be hurt like this again.

She vows to be all that you need to heal from whatever this gift threatens to scar upon you, to make you become.

Fyodor

"Why are you frightened, душа моя?"

This is not the response he had expected.

Mishka says the blood is good for you. Necessary, like how Mishka is to him. And just as blood is needed, so is the pain.

Only with the blood would you be free. With the blood, you would be content.

But this . . . this he cannot allow.

"You are too delicate for them,” he affirms as a truth that should have been so obvious is only now seen before his very eyes. “For us.”

He kneels beside you with the slow movements of one approaching a nervous animal. The focus of his gaze does not stray from red gloss that wrongly coats your lips; something akin to hurt, a muddled picture of remorse, only heightening the natural intensity behind the way he looked at you.

“Little heart,” he calls. Beckons, truly, for the brush of his hand against your cheek is his wordless plea for you to draw nearer to him. To want—to desire and cling to—his presence as he would yours. “Ask me to change our fate, and I will.”

He is impatient. He tilts your chin so your gaze might meet his, guides those lips colored by ruin so he can briefly capture them with his own. Chaste and soft is the gesture.

When he draws away, he tastes what remains of the cause for your pain.

Yes, in this moment, his patience is lost. For the Hawks that cannot protect you. For the Cardinals that have pushed you to drink this dirty blood.

The human eye cannot perceive what occurs next. There is a light, then darkness. A warmth that encompasses you entirely. A rumble reminiscent of thunder in its strength, leaving cracks within the earth.

In a moment, you are stolen away. Until it is safe, until the world has once again earned the privilege of your grace, he will keep you where no further harm can be done.

Minor ROs

Dearil

"It's an acquired taste," comes the low hum of his voice from above, his looming figure visible just from the corner of your eye. Crumpled to the floor, almost lifeless at his feet, you feel his gaze pressed upon you like a weight, cold and foreign as though you were strangers once again.

Dreadful are those seconds that pass, their silence broken by his crooked and false laughter.

“Don’t play cute, little bird. Even children are quick to learn that there are consequences to greed like this."

On one knee he kneels beside you. He does not make to reach for you, to hold you.

He simply studies you. The focus of his eye flits over the panic you wear, the blood that stains your lips—at any other time, such a sight would please him.

Instead, in the weariness of his features, you see . . . disappointment.

"You take and take, more and more without a thought, so helpless and innocent on the surface. You fret and worry over those around you like someone truly sweet of heart, endearing others with your pleasant grace, pretending like blood doesn't stick to your teeth behind those patient smiles . . . Songbird, you feed like a starved beast living its last days."

And there it is. The endearment cuts through his former cold with a savored warmth that unsettles you. Fondness, so sudden that it is almost frightening to witness yet again how quickly he turns from cruel to . . . this.

The gloved tips of his fingers graze against your cheek. A light, careful touch that erases the trail of old tears. Reverent, almost, but you know how easily that will change on a whim.

“Are you not open-hearted enough to accept another’s pain? My dear martyr, is your heart not as bottomless as you proclaim?"

His harsh laughter again fills the room. It is imposing like him, bitter in spite of his smile.

You know that smile to be true. Whether it is for you or the ghost of another, however, is impossible to tell.

“Perhaps we should work on your tolerance."

Curadora

“It’s alright. You were so brave.”

She guides your head to rest on her shoulder, her arms loosely wrapped around you as she leans her head against yours. Her hums and whispers hope to soothe, to heal. Gloved hands run smoothly up your arm and to the gentle pulse of your neck, down again until her fingers can entwine with your own.

The mask lies beside her on the ground; a humiliating prop that hinders her ability to offer the human comfort she spills onto you. Fully visible is the worried squint in her dark gaze, the tension in the kind smile of her lips, and the thick texture of her hair messed in her initial panic to reach you.

Grace and panic all in one; her fear and love toil in a quiet battle as they threaten to overwhelm her. Yet composed she remains, trying to distract from the near past and approaching future.

“Remember yourself. Remember who you are.”

She is all too familiar with invasive memories. Unwanted images, unwanted thoughts, alien and intrusive yet craved for all the same. Her former love taught her to resist their call, and it had taken all her strength to see this as anything beyond cruel.

“Let me take away your pain. Forgive me, my love."

Her hand caresses your cheek. How familiar a cold, delicate touch. It gently guides you to meet her gaze, and it is as though she is trying to drink in every detail of your visage through the slow start of tears. Of course, for she wishes to remember this moment. This forewarning to herself, her weakness, and her dwindling reserves of time.

She will remember this moment for you. Protect it, guard it, and return it once you have the strength to endure this battle you should not have yet fought.

Her lips are tender as they brush against the crown of your head.

In the blink of an eye, she steals what was not yours to take and buries it within her own heart, cursing herself as quiet tears begin to fall.

In the mere moment of a kiss, you forget.

Retriever

“Okay, it’s okay. You’ll be okay, darlin'. Breathe with me,” he assures with a voice so tender, his own sorrow threatening to crack through.

His large frame blocks the visage of all else, all others. Like a shield, he curls himself above you as he tries to coach your breaths to be deeper, slower, leaning on all his experience in times of crises.

For a moment, it's just as it used to be. The panic, the fear, the innocence challenged and breaking beneath the weight of a sudden pain without just cause—the hope, the wanting, the need for someone to reach out and save them, even if he knows he can't and they know he can't—He forces down the memories of those days as his teeth grit behind his comforting smile, the facade of confidence he wears recovering before its slip can be noticed.

“You have me,” he affirms, “Right here, for as long as we need. Let it out. Lean on me.”

The Gifted are beautiful. Blessed, wondrous. You most of all, your gift especially—one so perfect and dangerous for a heart as empathetic as yours. He worries over what you saw, even more for the one you took it from, and yet no worry can near the amount he feels for you.

In the coming days, years from this moment . . . He worries over the loss of what makes you all that you are. He fears the loss of you to this gift that demands so much.

Lempo

“Darling, my sweet, are you okay?”

Her fingers brush (your hair away from / near) your vacant gaze, tender and placating in the light graze of her nails along your scalp. She coos softly, her other hand trying to guide your head against her chest, as she continues to murmur worries through a doting pout.

The air is sickly sweet, thick and perfumed as a dense honeyed smog eases into your gasping lungs. Once she settles your weight comfortingly against her, her guiding hand shifts to caress your cheek, your chin, and then trace the outline of your lips.

It is a patient urging, but an urging nonetheless.

“Muru," she gently calls as if trying to draw you out from a dream, her voice offering comfort through the tender hum, "I am so proud of you. You, with a soul that is everything and anything, can shine even in the darkest hours of another."

Her words are genuine, so perfectly honest and true. They carry in them her faith, her love, and her admiration in you.

"In death, in pain, in madness: in anything the world deems evil, wrong, or undesired, you take from them strength and purpose. You take it, and it can do nothing but strengthen the beauty I see in you."

Bones

"Fucking hell!"

It’s bitter and harsh, breathless and scared. Not a whisper, yet it’s soft. Not a scream, but it’s desperate.

And this moment is all too real. He can’t tell himself that your cries are a forgotten regret, that your tears are a punitive illusion—that the blood staining your (trembling) lips is no more than a memory of his in some torturous and temporary nightmare that scars no one but him.

This has happened before.

The madness, the fear, the repulsion. It is different, but underneath all the senseless details it is the same.

It will happen again, so long as you drink.

So long as you crave.

"Hjärtat," he practically pleas, hisses, through anguish and rage, fear and a love reawakening to a life so full and helpless that it hurts.

His instinct is to take you home. Back then, that had been your father. Someone more capable than him in caring for you. Someone who could comfort you, protect you, and put you back together when all he could do was further tear you apart.

But what has home become to you? Not that old little house on the wood's edge. Not the arms of your father, not the company of Mr. Flecther, and not in the shadows with him. Not those aged bricks in the city of angels, nor the Gifted that dwelled in their lonely streets. Home had become somewhere he could never follow.

Those damned, traitorous HAWKS. If you did not return to their grasp, it would mean the end of everyone that loved you before.

It could mean the end of you, and that would be the end of him.

A bitter farce of a laugh pushes past his grief, the barked sound broken by the threat of cries in his throat. "We haven't changed a bit."

He holds you in his arms. Buries his head in the crook of your neck. And he is so cold to the touch. Cold enough to ground you in this moment. So cold and coiled around you to the point that it almost hurts.

"For once," he whispers against your skin, his lips pressing momentarily against the pulse of your neck in the ghost of a kiss, "for fucking once in our lives, could helping you not mean having to let you go?"

To your father, to the future, to the HAWKS. What's best for you is never what he can provide. They can help you. Comfort you. Protect you. And he, all he can do . . . all he ever does, when it comes to you, is boil in his own selfish regret.

Mishka

“Endure, my dear.”

These foreign hands of theirs, designed to your preference, struggle to capture the sense of touch as much as they wish: fail to offer them the warmth of your glistening skin, the brush of your shallow breaths as they graze their fingers across your lips. As if that practiced gesture could be enough to silence your pain.

It is strange that you would think this painful. How can this be unwanted to you, these sensations and impressions that leave their mosaic of scars upon your soul? Is this not what you were born to desire? Born to become?

And yet, you seek escape from this. You come to them with hands that curl with regret. You reach for them with pleading eyes; eyes that wish to release what has been taken by those darkened lips.

You are a marvel to them, truly. A curious wonder that's lured them into an odd state of sympathy. In their lips and brows, it is almost as if your pain were being reflected, though it is more so a pain of uncertainty that disturbs them.

“This anguish is an earthly trap; you are stronger than it could ever be. Heaven, you are everything they can never be.”

And it is true. It is the very splendor of your soul, even if you wish for nothing more than to be rid of it. But wants cannot always determine what things truly are.

This is pitiful. And this vile sentiment—love, the vessel dares to call it with a faint challenge on his tongue—makes this scene all the lower and more horrific to bear. It is disgraceful.

Beneath them.

And yet . . . their attempts to harden themself to your frightened visage cannot help but soften into a sorrowful need to end all that troubles you.

When it is certain that you cannot endure, their hand is forced to interfere. It is with solemn purpose that they relieve you of this agony—its grip, its memory—as there is nothing to be desired in senseless pain onto the one they think they may love.

It will take them time before they become comfortable speaking about this event with anyone.

#ro #gift #c: akil #c: kamiko #c: sigmund #c: imka #c: niccolo #c: elouan #c: jae #c: mutya #c: fyodor #c: curadora #c: dearil #c: retriever #c: lempo #c: bones #c: mishka

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insurrection-if · 6 months

Note

Barbenheimer season: would the ROs watch Barbie, Oppenheimer, both or neither?

Aha, I've been gone so long that this answer might no longer be relevant by now. (；´∀｀) Apologies, truly.

Also, uh, admitting my bias here and now . . . I fell asleep during Oppenheimer. ( ;´д｀) But I also don't really remember what happened in Barbie all that well, so please take this answer with a grain of salt! Anyways . . .

Akil would prefer to watch Oppenheimer but is willing to watch Barbie if that's the preference of his company. He has no nostalgic sentiments about Barbie, but he does have an inclination towards the historical. Really though, neither movie would normally draw much of his interest on their own. Akil, being an absolute workaholic, is not one easily swayed by or much aware of pop culture trends.

Kamiko would defer the decision to whoever she was with. She has little interest in films, and less interest in the loud and stuffy environment of movie theaters. I don't think she would much enjoy either film, really. Any enjoyment from her would be derived from the joy / investment of whatever well-liked company that has managed to drag her to a theatre in the first place. And her enjoyment from their reaction would be more than enough to make the experience pleasant for her.

Sigmund would verbally suggest Oppenheimer, but he would have more enjoyment from the Barbie film due to the more comedic moments. And yet, it wouldn't really cross his mind to be the one to suggest Barbie if whoever was accompanying him didn't have some previously expressed nostalgia / interest in the film. Maybe if he saw some memes about the film, and knew they appealed to the taste of someone he knew and wanted to spend time with, he might come to the idea of recommending and watching it with them all on his own. Otherwise, it's a blip on his radar.

Imka would prefer to watch Barbie, enjoying the vibes and aesthetic of the film, and would most definitely have a far better experience than if she were to watch the more pensive and troubled mood of Oppenheimer. A viewing of Barbie would leave her pleased and charmed whereas a viewing of Oppenheimer would leave her thoughtful and quiet. She's open to either, however, and being such a people-pleaser, she'll likely feign an equal interest for both films if asked to pick which she'd prefer to watch / whether to watch both in order to direct the final decision onto someone else.

Elouan would suggest and prefer Barbie, not too keen on enduring a long and (to him) tedious film that takes such a serious and dour tone. I think he would enjoy Oppenheimer well enough if he were to watch it, though, and he'll have much to say on it in the hours after the film. If he really likes his company, he'll endure the "wasted time" of watching both and pretend that he's having a wonderful time through the whole experience. Movies, however, are a bit of a sore point for Elouan, so do expect some wistful nostalgia to distract him from whatever he's watching now and then.

Jae would push for Barbie right out the gate. The events in Oppenheimer do not interest her in the slightest, a fact further aggravated by the mere run time of the film. She doesn't have an intense personal attachment to Barbie dolls either (though she likes the fashion and messages she sees in the brand) but the trend of dressing up for the film would really catch her excitement. Expect her to go all-out for it and assist anyone who wants to join her for the movie with dressing the part as well.

Niccolò is down for whatever, whenever. He'll love Barbie as much as he'll love Oppenheimer, and he'll definitely want to hop on board the Barbenheimer trend the moment it comes to his attention. Dressing the part is a fun boon on top of it all, especially if he can coordinate his outfit with others to maximize the 'meme potential' (which is the phrase he will use without fully comprehending what it even means). He'll laugh and smile through Barbie. He'll watch with rapt attention all throughout Oppenheimer. The meme makes the entire experience a double win - one that becomes a triple win when it also gives the excuse of light-hearted goofing around with those he cares about for the sake of a mutually enjoyed meme / joke / trend.

Mutya would voice support for watching Oppenheimer if pushed into giving her opinion on which to watch and may just enjoy that more than the Barbie film. Mutya doesn't care much for the Barbie brand, but she would find the film to be serviceable as a piece of entertainment even if it's not quite to her tastes. Similarly, Oppenheimer would not leave a major impression on her, but she would leave the theatre with a nod of approval, nonetheless.

Fyodor would choose whatever seems the most lighthearted based on the promotional material outside the theatre, hence latching onto Barbie. Especially if people were partaking in the pink attire trend at the theatre which he would consider humorous and cute, thus assuming the film to be just that (humorous and cute) as well. Honestly, Oppenheimer would likely have one of two outcomes if he were to watch it: drag down his mood for the rest of the night (leaving him uncomfortable and a little lost as he watched it) or lulling him into a nap as it seems to drool on endlessly. Fyodor does not enjoy depictions of troubled homes and relationships, takes little interest in much anything academic or historical, and has a mind that is likely to wonder in a such a long conversation-heavy film.

Then again . . . The whole concept of a doll wishing to find her own human independence, and Ken’s struggle to find meaning beyond his blind devotion to someone he desperately wants to be loved by, might stir up more bad memories than it’s worth if he were to put much thought in it. It’s more than a little reminiscent of his former ties to Dollmaker and any current romantic prospects he may be pursuing (or even platonic ones, if romance is not applicable). Best to keep him distracted with snacks and comments during the movie so he doesn’t have an existential crises by the end of the night.

And as for the minor ROs . . .

Curadora would state that she'd prefer to watch Oppenheimer. She does enjoy historically based films and would hope that interest will translate to Oppenheimer as well. If she ended up watching Barbie, however, she would admit that she enjoyed that film experience more due to the tone and positive messages it attempts to convey.

Dearil would rather watch neither simply due to the public (and, in this case, crowded) nature of theatres that are prone to filthiness, incessant noise, and human eyes that seem to burn him with an unshakeable discomfort. If the films were to be available for an 'at-home' watch, he would much prefer Oppenheimer, not particularly keen on the aesthetics, humor, or brand of Barbie. Plus, as someone raised in deep isolation from the outer world for his entire upbringing, Dearil rarely passes up a chance to learn more about historical events and notable persons from the past.

Lempo would definitely push for Barbie, delighted with nostalgia, and would leave the theatre more elated than usual. She would urge everyone she knows to watch the film with her and partake in the trend of pink dress-up. She would absolutely adore the film from top-to-bottom and would be a bubbly ball of energy in the hours after from the great time she had while watching it.

Retriever would be down to view both, especially back-to-back for the meme alone. He doesn't have much nostalgia for Barbie, but he appreciates the often preppy and positive vibes of the Barbie brand as well as the nostalgia so many others have for it. On top of that, Retriever is the type to have a passive interest in American history which would make him keen on the depictions of historical events in Oppenheimer. Overall, though, he would have a better time watching Barbie, and would enjoy it most with others.

Mishka would have to be worn down by much insistence and coaxing to bother with either. Oppenheimer, however, would be a more enjoyable experience for them due to the historical nature of its events and the more complex, messy relationships it depicts. Might have a lot of questions after the showing. Maybe too many questions.

Thank you for the ask, and apologies again for the outdated response! （；^ω^）

#ro #c: akil #c: kamiko #c: elouan #c: jae #c: sigmund #c: imka #c: mutya #c: fyodor #c: curadora #c: dearil #c: lempo #c: retriever #c: bones #c: mishka

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insurrection-if · 1 year

Note

Are any of the ROs (and minor ROs) Yandere? Some seems like it

（；^ω^） Aha, to various degrees, some ROs may fall into (or near) that category. I'm not confident in actively applying the label on anyone other than Dearil (hence his minor route being harder to access / more forewarned than the others), due to his openness towards violence, possessiveness, and obsession in the realm of 'love'.

Mishka may be second place for the title of yandere, but I wouldn't necessarily claim that's what they are (though perhaps the archetype is applicable in the eyes of others). Mishka is very willing to go to extreme lengths for the appeasement and (in their eyes) well-being of the ones they love, and they may oftentimes find themself on the brink of acting autonomously in this manner with little fear of consequence towards their actions . . . but, in reality, they can remain somewhat harmless if firmly 'leashed' by an expressed and heartfelt want for them to not act in such a way. This is witnessable in their platonic relationship with Fyodor, their first instinct and urging always being to kill whoever is perceived as a threat to him, yet a firm rejection from Fyodor silences them into a brooding (and rigid) tolerance towards the unwanted presence. Mishka, however, while very devotional to their love is not so much obsessive, and even less so possessive (instead falling more into being dangerously protective). They talk a lot, and what they say can be very concerning to hear, but their capability to act is strongly capped by whoever holds their heart. And rather than greedily and relentlessly pinning the object of their affection down beneath the iron grip of their claim, Mishka is instead one to eternally pine and crave the affection of their heart's desire with no expectation to ever have a drop of their love be genuinely returned.

Fyodor can display associations to the yandere archetype, especially in terms of turning from sweet to deadly, but I would only ever go so far as to call him a 'soft yandere', maybe. His love can border on obsessive, reigned back and sometimes spilling over that brink, and its influence can be as harmful to him (and others) as much as it is reformative. It is no secret that he does often venerates his love to unhealthy levels. If push came to shove, he is also capable of some truly heinous acts on behalf of the MC, though it would come with a crushing sense of compounded guilt and shame once removed from the immediacy / intensity of the situation. Mm, but to call him full-on yandere . . . eh, I'm not so sure. Fyodor may loath separations with his love, but not so much so he would insistently stalk them without their knowledge (◯ロ◯) - he would more so be very clingy and drag out their departures as long as he can before anticipating their reunions with warm excitement. He would kill, harm, maim, disfigure, etc. with the simple command of a word or look from the MC (deep in their romance), but he would not do so on a whim / suspicion / urge born from jealousy or possessiveness. It's not as though Fyodor is intentionally portraying a two-faced persona to lure in the MC only to then reveal the "true depths of his perilous obsession". Fyodor knows he struggles with mental and emotional instability (for which he seeks help, currently, through his association with the CARDINALS) and tries to be honest about his state of being, though his skewed perception of himself and his actions may make him seem like a "wolf in sheep's clothing" to many. Much of his violent tendencies are a byproduct of lifelong nurture, associating it with expressions of love through service, and will wither in time with the necessary support. His borderline (if not outright) obsessiveness as well can temper itself with time, easing into something healthier and more stable (but still not losing its sense of reverence and passion) as Fyodor recovers from the influence past relationships scarred upon him. My (personal) verdict: Fyodor is dangerous, and lovesick, but not yandere. d(´￢｀)b

Other ROs such as Elouan, Sigmund, Kamiko, and Jae are capable of doing some questionable stuff for the sake of their loved ones (especially romantic partners) but they lack the depth of obsessiveness / possessiveness / mental or emotional instability to really reach yandere levels. Sigmund and Kamiko have strong levels of devotion, but not the obsession or a degree of possessiveness to warrant a yandere label. Elouan and Jae have a comparatively open attitude towards cruel or violent means in the name of their love, but not to a degree of extreme irrationality and certainly not out of a jealousy / possessiveness towards their partner.

Niccolò, Curadora, Akil, and Imka are far cries from anything yandere. (Other than, perhaps, someone initially mistaking Niccolò's open curiosity towards all there is to know about the MC as obsession.) Mutya has issues with her anger (sometimes intense enough to be considered wrath), but her emotional outbursts are by no means 'yandere'. Lempo lacks any of the jealousy, possession, violence, or obsession of a yandere as well, even if she can pose as arguably problematic in other ways. Retriever can be horribly quick to jump the gun on commitment, diving too fast and too deep into new relationships, but he doesn't have the dangerous qualities or delusions of a yandere - just different degrees of obliviousness and misguided passion. Bones is not yandere but has his own set of issues all the same, haha! ╮( ╯∀╰)╭

Thank you for the ask! (･⌄･)b

#ro #yandere #c: akil #c: kamiko #c: sigmund #c: imka #c: elouan #c: jae #c: niccolo #c: mutya #c: dearil #c: fyodor #c: curadora #c: lempo #c: retriever #c: bones #c: mishka

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insurrection-if · 1 year

Text

900+ Followers! ♡〜٩(^▿^)۶〜♡

My goodness, I absolutely do not deserve this much support with how silent I have been lately! Thank you all so much from the bottom of my heart! I cannot express in words how much this milestone means to me, especially when the sight of the current follower number leaves me pretty breathless, haha! (ﾉ∀`♥)

You are all so gracious and kind, and I am incredibly grateful for this absolutely wonderful IF community. (๑′ ᴗ ‵๑)♥ Thank you, thank you, thank you everyone! ʚ♡⃛ɞLᵒᵛᵉᵧₒᵤʚ♡ɞ(ू•ᴗ•ू❁) I'm so touched and honored to have received this much interest from everyone thus far!

(´∀｀) I haven't much anything grand to celebrate this achievement, but I did put a little something together to add onto this post. It's a collection of (largely short) playlists for all the main and minor ROs. Some songs played into their inspiration, some are reflective of their stories / arcs / desires / characteristics, and others are little more than in tune with the vibes. These songs sometimes date back to my middle school days, whereas others can be quite recent to my music tastes, so it's (in my opinion) a bit of a mixed bag(?) overall, haha!

Some songs were simply not available on Spotify to add (ahem, Skeleton by Bloc Party for Bones) but that's life! Of course, some songs have also been excluded due to being too deeply associated with a relationship between characters rather than characters as individuals (ahem, Kettle Drum by Pale Young Gentlemen) but others were given some leniency in that regard (ahem, People and Their Bits by Shoe). (･⌄･)b

Without further ado (hopefully, without overhyping these little things) . . . Here are the playlist links! ヽ(･∀･)ﾉ

Akil | Kamiko

Sigmund | Imka

Elouan | Jae

Niccolò | Mutya

Fyodor | Mishka

Dearil | Curadora

Retriever | Lempo

Bones

Again, I must extend my deepest and most sincere gratitude for all the interest shown so far: you're all simply the best! ✧⁺⸜(●′▾‵●)⸝⁺✧

#personal #c: akil #c: kamiko #c: sigmund #c: imka #c: elouan #c: jae #c: niccolo #c: mutya #c: fyodor #c: dearil #c: curadora #c: retriever #c: lempo #c: bones #c: mishka

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insurrection-if · 2 years

Note

Hi Rosita! How are you? Can I please ask you for the main and side ro's reactions to mc who is a clingy sleeper, leg throw overs theirs, mc's head on their chest, sleeping to the sound of their heartbeat? Hope you have a great day or night!

ヾ(＾∇＾) Hello! I’m doing well, and thank you for asking. October is almost over, which means I’ll soon have more freedom to go places without constant paranoia about my phobia, haha! It’s tough (and super embarrassing) to be walking around public spaces with my eyes squinted heavily onto the ground as my siblings help guide me around, but that’s October for me. (；´∀｀) Ah, I can’t even walk to my Grandma’s house anymore without freaking out . . . I really can’t wait for November, haha!

Aha, this may be my personal opinion, but an MC like this is so cute! Then again, I might be biased with my own sprawled-out cuddle preference with blankets and pillows while sleeping, haha! ╮ (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.) ╭ Anywho . . .

ROs

Akil

It would take some adjustment for him. Akil treats sleep as a very practical and crucial necessity for his daily work and mental function . . . not quite a time for cuddles, haha! He wouldn’t necessarily complain beyond a sleepy grumble or sigh as he felt you settle yourself like so, unable to deny the light smile it gives him from the quiet comfort your weight and nearness provides.

He has little experience in sharing a bed with another, and this would be quite the jump from his usual solitary nights, but he’d be patient in adapting to this habit of yours. He might return your touch himself with a light brush against your cheek or an arm wrapped around your side but otherwise his main focus would be on actual sleep as soon as possible, haha! Overall, he would be very touched by deep down, perhaps sentimental as he reflects on this trait of yours in the daytime, but by the time sleep comes calling for him he’s down for the count before he can truly express his eventual appreciation for your clinginess.

Ah, also just make sure you drag him to bed before he spends another long and usual night asleep at his office desk.

Kamiko

She wouldn’t mind, willing to go along with your odd desire to cling to her when the relationship stage has been reached. She’s a bit confused about your habit since she’s certainly not known for her cuddling, but it would urge from her a faint smile nonetheless. Early on, she would give you looks or gestures questioning where her own hands should go, how her own body should lay to be most comfortable for you.

A trait like this would only enflame her protectiveness over you as you seem so vulnerable around her like this. She might be haunted by worries of being too restrained to defend you against a sudden nightly threat when you lay with her like this, unable to sleep as she imagines endless scenarios of fighting off a sudden invading threat without simply (and, unfortunately, harshly) throwing you off of her. That worry might reach her features, her thinned lips or furrowed brow above a gaze focused on shadows, but she will try to use your nearness as a calming balm; one that tempts her to simply enjoy this fleeting moment while she can before dawn arises.

Truly, her main concern would eventually be untangling herself without disturbing your slumber when she rises so early in the morning, haha! She would have a hard time forgiving herself if you were unwillingly roused by her routine.

Sigmund

A clingy sleeper is in good company with Sigmund, haha! He too would be that sprawled out and entangled bed partner, even more so when he's sharing that bed with his lover. Awake or asleep, he has a hard time keeping his hands off you, but to have a partner so physically clingy in return would be an absolute treasure for him. He’d keep a hand on your back, or your hip, to press you firmly to his side as he takes comfort in your weight against him. His touch may stray to softly explore the feel of your body against his, encouraging the close of a gap between you here or massaging against a point of tension there. Through the drowsiness that clouds his thoughts he would mutter half-awake confessions of his love for you, how you reminded him again of just how helplessly he really has fallen for you throughout the day.

You steady him, ground him, and to have you rested against the beat of his heart is to experience a completeness, a perfection, that he cannot find anywhere else.

To have you like this assures him that, for this night at least, you are safe in his arms.

Truly, the simple thought of having the chance to wake to you still nestled against him like so would be all the reason he needs to endlessly fight for another tomorrow.

Mm, his only concern would be whether or not he can still sleep in the nude like he usually does when you’re all wrapped around him like this, haha! He wouldn’t mind much either way, though he certainly has his preference.

Imka

Imka has never shared a bed with anyone before (other than with her parents post-nightmare in early childhood, haha!), and so it would be quite the startling (and very pleasant) change for her to have a partner so close and warm by her side. It would take some time for her to not be absolutely stiff beside you, her head turned to the side as she awkwardly debates in her head over where her own hands should rest on you—or if she can should return your kind of touch at all without causing discomfort.

Still, she grew up quite the cuddler with her parents and stuffed animals, so she’s overall happy with the habit despite being initially overwhelmed by the novel extra layer of intimacy it has with you. Her voice might squeak and crack as she whispers to you in a position like this, but never does her smile seem to dim in the comfort of your drowsy touch.

Softly, with a slight yawn she sleepily pushes through, Imka would have the courage to whisper across the short distance between you the words that laid upon her chest through the day: “I love you.”, “Thank you for being with me.”, or “Stay with me tomorrow, please.”—words made so easy to say beneath the oncoming veil of mindless sleep and the loose tongue it brings.

Elouan

Ah, he might internally question if you were seriously intending on falling asleep like this the first time it happens, haha! Elouan is no stranger to clingy bed partners, but never in a serious relationship—and he might be a bit taken aback by how different the intimacy feels (or perhaps how the foreign sense of genuine, reciprocated intimacy from his end feels) when it’s with you.

He’d bite back a smile, schooling his expression so that his contentment is only undeniable in the gleam of his eye. His hand would reach to entwine with yours, his other softly brushing the hair from your face / brushing down the length of your arm in a slow and gentle gesture of affection. He might whisper drowsy sweet nothings when you are so near, wondering how the thrum of his voice felt against your cheek, or be cautious towards the disturbance his breath may cause to your precious sleep.

Mm, honestly . . . I think, deep in the relationship, Elouan might also have a sudden existential moment where he might be holding back tears from the overwhelming gratitude to have a partner so willing to hold him like this in such a casual (habitual) way. It’s like a dream to his childhood self to have this sort of trust and comfort with someone else . . . especially compared to the time in his life when he would sooner sleep alone with a knife kept in quick reach than dare to trust someone’s touch around his vulnerable sleep like this.

Jae

It’s a change of pace for her, but she wouldn’t mind such a clingy bed partner at all. Jae would happily hop into bed and, as her first order of business, extend her arms in eager acceptance of your clingy reach for her hold. Whereas she might have once felt smothered by such a habit, she cannot ever being herself to deny your wish, and soon your desire for this clingy slumber grows into her own enjoyment of it.

She'd give you a fair warning about how she stirs a bit in her sleep though, and would croak laugh through her grogginess if she did happen to accidentally roll over with you still in her arms. It's almost childish to her, this bundled up way of sleeping together, but she can't deny the grin it draws from her when you have your head so sweetly rested above her heart. It's difficult for her to resist your shared need for sleep when all she can think about is dragging you up for a million kisses; a proper punishment for your crime of being too cute when sleep settles your features into a fragile serenity.

Niccolò

Being so cold to the touch compared to those around him, he would be taken aback and delighted when you consider him suitable for such a snuggle through the night. Considering the fact that he doesn’t sleep, Niccolò wouldn’t mind the long and still hours with you wrapped around him as he occupies himself with the study of your sleeping features (which fuel his theories for whatever might be occupying your dreams) and daydreams of his own.

He might take this time to impart to you stories, those lived and heard by him over his many years, to help ease you into sleep and (maybe) play some influence on the sweetness or fun of your dreams. He would sing lullabies if you so wished just as readily as he would command from himself a silence if you so desired. His eyes rarely stray from you as your mind slips further from his grasp and into that of a restful slumber; the sole distraction that could hope to capture his attention being the appearance of stars he might compare your serene brilliance to.

He will not stray from your side until your eyes squint open, wishing to watch you reawaken as some of his companions over the years did not have the luck to do come morning. It is this reassurance in your waking yawns and relieved stretches against him that allows him the confidence to start a new day with you once again.

Mutya

She would consider the habit to be amusing, if not downright adorable, but she'd be stubborn against verbalizing just how much she likes to have you against her like this. She prefers to keep her penchant for cuddling "hush-hush" around the others for the sake of her image (even if she isn't fooling anyone on the team) and so she would try to put up an initial front of confusion towards why you would want to cling against her at night . . . even if her front is completely undermined by a fiery blush and humiliating yelp of shock (thinking her “guilty pleasure” for cuddles has been "exposed").

Really, this is perhaps her most preferred style of sleep with you. When the world seems so determined to tear you apart, it’s almost a moment of victory for her to have you by her side after another won day you’ve both survived through together. She doesn’t notice her own smirk as she traces light designs against your stomach, your side, in a rhythm that soothes her as much as your warmth does. Sleep comes easy when you’re by her side, your presence a balm for her common fears towards the danger her dreams always seem to promise. For once in her life, with your weight and scent and touch a blanket of familiar comfort that strips away her usual tension, a good night’s rest doesn’t feel so impossible for her anymore.

It’s also almost like childhood again for her, back to when she and her siblings used to all bunch up and fall asleep together, never wanting to be apart or give each other the idea that they were going to disappear into the night anytime soon. To have you curled up against her side is yet another form of that promise to be right there for one another when you each wake up; an unspoken commitment she cherishes with an unconquerable smile.

Fyodor

To him, there’s no better way to sleep with his partner than to be wrapped up together as close as possible! He grins through the bashfulness of his blush when you are so near to him, too drunk on his joy to ruin it with his self-conscious doubts about his every breath and thump of his heart being bothersome to you in some way. In the first handful of nights, his hands almost seem to shake as they hover near, hesitant to return your touch. His caresses are gentle, curious, as he bites his tongue from spewing clumsy praises towards your warm weight against him or your divine allure when you sleep so peacefully atop his heart—he would rather not trouble your slow lull into sleep with his loving rambles least he lose the chance to share a bed with you entirely.

He would struggle to find sleep himself when you are so near to him, his focused gaze on your sleeping features noting any sign of a bad dream to protect you from. (Strangely enough, nightmares becomes an impossibility when sleeping in his arms. Another byproduct of his gift, or so you recognize this coincidence to be as time goes on.)

It is times like this, moments spent united with you in the vulnerability of emerging sleep, when he thanks fate for giving you to him as a warm love to have and to hold. By his side, attached to him as you are, his love feels reaffirmed all over again—a love that seems entirely born anew, if not stronger than it had been the night before, when he is allowed the miracle of awaking with you in so intimate a hold.

Mm, if you so requested deep in a relationship, he would offer you the use his wings to further cushion your sleep and tuck you against him. They have the potential to be impossibly soft, and their sturdiness + flexibility could withstand the any lover he had beside him.

Minor ROs

Dearil

Mm, well, you'll need some good luck catching Dearil asleep in a conventional bed to begin with. Dearil often prefers to sleep on the ground / slabs of concrete, seated, or (if need be) standing against some wall since that's what he is most accustomed to . . . and beds simply feel too unnatural for him, old memories of guilt and anger from his childhood enforcing his aversion towards spending a night in them. Maybe if the cot were stiff and cold enough he might try it out willingly, but he might still settle for the ground with a blanket instead. Really though, he’s more likely to settle under the bed itself if it's elevated enough.

If he were to somehow be coaxed into one with an MC that has smitten him entirely, Dearil might yet again be disturbed by the abundance of intimacy and touch in such a position. Mm, depending on his mood, he might bear through it with a tight smile atop grit teeth as he gently runs his hand along the stretch of your back, traces light patterns on your shoulder, or brushes through your hair (if possible, and with the occasional tug just as it seems sleep is about to claim you) until you can no longer resist the need to sleep . . . allowing him to promptly disentangle and calm himself in the night air.

Otherwise, he might be rather harsh and firm in his discouragement of your touching him like this—entrapping him, he cannot help but think—as he tries to swallow down the rage brought on by memories from the past.

It would take a lot of time for him to feel truly comfortable like this, a process so gradual and slow as he subdues memories from the past. It’s not like such an entangled bedmate is unfamiliar to him, but it’s that very familiarity that worsens the experience.

Curadora

Sleep is a rare privilege for her these days, and it is made all the more precious when rest can be had while encased in the arms of her love. Her sole lover in the past had been somewhat clingy in their sleep as well and so she has become used to such a touch (whereas she had been hesitant towards it before).

It allows for such a quiet, comfortable intimacy that she cherishes, and she would be thankful for the darkness of the night that obscured the extent of her blush; a blush that never seems to calm no matter how routine this entangled sleep becomes. For once, sleep might come quickly to her as she takes solace in your presence being safe and content against her, your slow descent into sleep allowing her to adore your relaxed state without the echo of thoughts scratching on the surface of her mind.

As common a memory this scene might become, she treasures them all in her mind. Treasures them even more in her heart which falls in love yet again at the sight of you resting so contently atop her chest. Her touch might trace along your jaw, brush against the edge of your lips, or trace along the shape of your cheeks as she drifts into a deep sleep, dreading the thought that her time with you like this cannot even last past the near dawn.

Retriever

Retriever tends to sleep in the odd bouts of downtime he has through the day, seeking out an empty room to sleep in some chair or asking to have a nap on someone’s couch for a bit while stopping by. The habit started during his hero career with near constant on-the-clock (self-delegated) hours . . . alongside other occupying nighttime hobbies he had at the time. Sleep still alludes him as a CARDINAL since he’s always forcing himself to stay up as a guard or he takes on more time-consuming responsibility than he can chew. Nevertheless, if he ever did allow himself the pleasure of a full night’s sleep with his partner . . .

Retriever would absolutely love to have you so close to him as he slept, perhaps preferring this shared weight and heat compared to the distant loneliness he otherwise hates to endure when alone in a bed. There would be no better way to start his morning too than to awake with you still clinging to him so cutely, your drowsy peace an immediate reminder of everything he’s fighting for. It would pain him to start the day when it meant leaving this little heaven on earth, but alas, it must be done.

Not to mention that this isn’t his first rodeo with clingy sleepers considering that some of his brothers were just the same back in childhood—which means he’s also mastered the art of slipping out of your arms and bed unnoticed when his odd hours start again.

Lempo

She would love to have you to close to her as you slept, all peaceful and calm while kept in her sleepy hold. She would take the time to hum lullabies so you might feel the thrum of her song alongside the rhythm of her heart, to softly brush her fingers through your hair / along your features as she relishes in the opportunity to admire you at your most vulnerable.

Her hands would wander about you lightly, curiously, as she offered soft ministrations to help ease you into a serene sleep. Come morning, she would certainly despise the idea of untangling herself from you, and would likely push aside the day’s demands to keep you like this for some time more . . . Until Boar inevitably barges in and drags you apart, haha!

Mm, she might also take the proximity as a chance for copping a feel, so give her a warning if you’d wish she not do so! Ah, and like Sigmund, also give her a heads up if you’d rather she break her habit of sleeping in the nude before you start to cuddle up for a night’s rest.

Bones

Despite his tendency to sleep wherever and whenever in his youth (something well-known by the MC back then), modern Bones rarely sleeps until he's essentially knocked out by exhaustion—meaning you’ll more likely find him asleep at some table or in the back of a car rather than a bed (though that too had been normal in his youth). If you somehow did manage to convince him to sleep in a bed for once . . .

He would feign a disgruntled attitude, forcing a small sigh through his nose for show as he bites back a grin whenever you start to wrap your legs with his or lay your head on his chest. He remembers the nights he spent beneath a lonely tree or on some bench back in boyhood—back when he did all he could to avoid the torment of his home—wishing you had been there to ease the fear he felt. Back then, he couldn’t even force himself to spend an entire night at your house, too scared to be so near you as he slept. Too scared to become attached to the idea of having a place in your home, by your side, when your fates as Gifted loomed on the horizon. Scared to experience the peace and joy he would feel when awaking to the sight of you; feelings he knew he would never be allowed to keep.

His hand is firm on your hip, his arm anchoring you to his side, as he focuses on the controlled rise and fall of his false breath. His heart is silent. His skin is cold. He does not know why you still bother to hold him as you do. He has even less of a clue as to why you won’t just seek out some other warm body (one with a better personality stapled onto it) to satisfy your drowsy clinginess.

It’s a mystery he contemplates as he lies awake beneath your touch, your soft breaths that tease from him a shudder and curled fingers that his spare hand cannot help but cautiously lay itself above. His touch strays to your pulse—the rhythm of your gift—and it is with its lull that he eases into a light sleep.

He vows to awake before you ever have the chance to see him leave come morning.

Mishka

Mishka doesn’t sleep. At least, not in the usual sense as their slumber is often self-imposed due to boredom or for stepping out of a situation rather than a biological need for rest.

They would entertain the odd ritual of laying about in bed as though they were to embark into the realm of sleep and dreams as others do, only finding the strength to endure such a 'humiliating' act with the reward of having you so nicely paired against them like a missing piece. It’s silly, they think, to entertain this charade just for the chance to have you like this. Silly, and yet they are helpless to their desire to rest themself beside your dreaming form in the dead hours of night.

It is . . . cute. Beautiful? They haven’t the word to describe your appearance other than, perhaps, a serviceable “ethereal”; but when do you not qualify for such a title?

Sometimes their boredom without your wakeful presence is rewarded by an adorable trail of drool that traces from your open lips. Other nights are generous in the loose mutterings of dreams beneath your breath. Every shift, every tightened grasp of your hold, is committed to their memory.

No night lacks a sense of being a precious miracle when spent in observance of your slumber, and this sentiment is amplified when they have the privilege to accompany this slumber with you rested against them like this by your own volition.

#ro #c: akil #c: kamiko #c: sigmund #c: imka #c: elouan #c: jae #c: niccolo #c: mutya #c: fyodor #c: dearil #c: curadora #c: retriever #c: lempo #c: bones #c: mishka #minor ro #react

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insurrection-if · 1 year

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🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔

"When an MC drinks the blood of a Gifted, they become connected to their heart, mind, and soul. They may feel past sensations, experience current emotions, or become foreign in their own skin."

Me, thinking: MC constantly drinking their beloved (main/minor) Gifted!RO's blood = ultimate intimacy 👀👀👀 Fite meh!

Aight, kidding aside, I wonder how would ROs react to that, especially on the early stage when they just met MC and, due to a valid reason, have to give their blood. Then they find out about the side effects O.O

Add to that, later on if a RO is secretly and deeply crushing on MC and has to give blood, I don't doubt that they would be in for a treat. Imagine the awkwardness and blushing and embarrassment 😈😎👌

(*´∀`*) Haha, I mean, some ROs would hold the opinion that it’s quite an intimate experience to be so helplessly vulnerable to this empathic experience with their partner / crush—others, well, are not too keen on it!

Ah, I fear I might veer into spoiler-y(?) territory since “revealing thoughts and emotions they most definitely did not want revealed, including romantic sentiments” is a planned possibility within the narrative for those drinking from their intended ROs. Mm, in more generalized terms I guess, the run-down for the HAWKS ROs would be:

Early Stages

In the case they had been unaware of the side effects prior to offering their blood (for a valid reason) . . .

Sigmund

Sigmund would be pissed, to put it lightly. It is too reminiscent of violations he has experienced in the past, whether they were attached to the antics of the Gifted or instigated by purely mortal whims, and he's practically grinding his teeth to dust as he holds back all he aches to shout. His glare is piercing, sometimes intended for Mockingbird themself and other times (when reason finally surmounts the blind rage he feels towards this unconsented exposure) simply towards the circumstances that forced them both in such a situation.

He will find a time and place to corner them somewhere, to interrogate them on what they had seen and . . . and, perhaps, what they had felt - what his gift felt like when experienced by the hands and heart of another.

"Next time," he more so growls than warns, "you will trust me to keep you safe: with or without the blood."

It is no question which scenario he truly demands you abide by when danger comes again. At the very least, his vow for protection is fully intended to be true. But whether he truly may prove enough on his own, without you to fight with his gift alongside him . . . that is a risk, a test of faith, you must be willing to take.

Imka

Imka would be more focused on her concern for Mockingbird’s emotional and mental well-being after undertaking such foreign sensations from others, not fully processing that those sensations are rather private to her. She worries their lack of mastery over her gift isn't worth of cost of adopting the burdens she never intended to force upon them, and she quickly insists on carrying a sense of blame for imposing this pain(?) onto Mockingbird.

Only in time, once separate from the immediacy of her panicked concern on Mockingbird's behalf and the shock of the revelation, will she flush horribly in embarrassment for all the unknown exposure she unwittingly bore to a near stranger - a violation she cannot help but think as cruel when she realizes how her most intimate thoughts and emotions had been made vulnerable to this theft in exchange for . . . power? protection? defense? Even if Mockingbird didn’t witness or experience anything truly personal, something she would never have willingly shared, the risk itself is unnerving to her.

Ah, but in that case, perhaps she is selfish to place her privacy above Mockingbird's ability to protect themself as a HAWK, as someone otherwise mortal and disadvantaged against the threats they face. Yet, even still, she cannot help the tears of shame that blur her vision at the thought of their judgement towards the most private parts of herself.

Elouan

Elouan would be conflicted between a cold curiosity to witness firsthand how exactly these side effects manifest in Mockingbird and a desire to keep what lies beneath his surface under lock and key.

He will feign absolute calm and confidence upon learning this, acting as though he does not have a plethora of unwanted skeletons to hide. Ah, is Mockingbird gazing at him differently than they had before? With contempt? Morbid curiosity? Acceptance, perhaps? An unlikely notion, but he entertains it all the same. Nonetheless, he knows it is best to not give reason for suspicions by insisting on interrogation or confrontation over what might have been unwittingly witnessed. In the meantime, he would be best served by building up Mockingbird's goodwill towards him before its current shaky foundations are inevitably torn down by what they will eventually come to see.

And yet, on his end, his sense of trust of them shall never be fully sound after this oversight in disclosure.

Jae

Jae, in the heat of the moments following Mockingbird's consumption of her blood, would purely be on an adrenaline high that fuels a sense of excitement towards seeing just how her gift fares in the hands of another - as novice or clumsy Mockingbird may turn out to be with it on a first try (which makes the entertainment all the better).

Learning of the consequences may first go through one ear and out the other, a trivial detail to be waved aside.

But once the truth settles in . . . her smile becomes sharp, eventually easing as her expression is softened by thought. For a time, the past occupies her present, a force almost alive and encompassing as she considers what you might have seen in the midst of what had been experimental fun to her not so long ago.

"You owe me, sneaky bird," she soon manages to tease through a sigh, her lips now able to lift in a peace-offering smirk. "I wonder what you have to offer that's as precious as my kindly given blood and memories. Two weeks' worth of laundry duty should be a good place to start, no?"

As much as her laughter implies this is no more than a joke, the sudden spark in her eyes suggests otherwise.

If you ever wish to disclose what you had seen, she would not halt your attempts to share. She may interrupt with a joke or correction, some input or rebuttal intended for no one but herself, but the way she leans close with eyes to intensely focused upon you is all the reassurance you would need towards her genuine interest. But she would never be the one to first make this approach for answers, not wishing to disturb the possible past or the fragility of her present by actively sticking her nose in a matter like this.

Mutya

Shit.

She never would have offered her gift to Mockingbird had she known. She would have told them to stay behind her, to not be the hero, to let her protect them.

It's not even the rage towards this unwanted exposure that twists her lips with frustration, stabs at her heart and hardens her glare. It's her damned fear for the danger they pose to themselves that causes her to coil up with a burning anger, an emotions directed at them as much as it is towards herself.

They never should have handled her gift with a mind split like this. The thoughts they manifest are not theirs alone, or risk not being so, and that unpredictability frightens her. Frightens her for their sake, her own, and everyone around them.

This is not a gift Mockingbird should wield if this is the case.

She is not someone Mockingbird should bind themself to in this way.

When all is said and done, it takes all her resolve to not knock some sense into them - the sense they clearly lacked when taking her blood without disclosing the extent of the risk.

From then on, she tries to live in ignorant bliss towards what Mockingbird might have seen and learned from this cursed bond.

Deep Crush Stages

Um, in a rather simplified and very general overview:

Sigmund: I should be enough. He has yet to acknowledge the sneer he wears whenever you drink from him, an expression he instinctively calms when your gaze flitters towards him. And yet, beneath his firm belief that he alone should be enough to keep you safe - to make you feel safe whenever you are by his side - he knows there too lies a selfish fear whenever you drink from his blood. Beneath the worries for your long-term health, the guilt for allowing you to carry his burdens, there lies the fear of his own honest heart. Unrestricted by his will, open and bare to you . . . he fears you will see him for the common man he is. Someone who, weak and afraid, will not ever be enough for you.

Imka: Be gentle, she silently pleas as her blood meets your lips. Please, soul or heart or whatever it is you are . . . please, be kind to Mockingbird. She avoids your gaze when you reunite, quelling the nervous shake of her palms by clasping them together in a hold as tight as her smile. Whatever it is you saw, I wish I could have told you myself.

Elouan: Please, he prays, do not be repulsed by my affection. His blood is yours to take, and he is a fool to leave himself to open to the hurt of your rejection . . . and, perhaps, disgust. As you endure the weight of his soul, he laments on not having been a better man. And though he may never have you, he may at least prove to be of some use to your wellbeing at the risk of his own selfish comfort.

Jae: This feels like a love letter, she muses with a grin, only wincing the slightest bit at the strength of love when she lacks a better word. Written all over my blood is my fondness for you, and you oh-so-conveniently happen to favor my vials. You must think you're sly, she ponders, wondering if you too can sense her amused accusations. I hope you enjoy the ego boost, songbird.

Mutya: Damn it, she internally groans whenever she catches herself thinking about you in the odd hours of the day and quiet moments of the night. With her accursed luck, this solitary intimacy she holds is bound to be shared to you in the midst of some inconvenient battle, dumping onto you her ridiculous wanting in a time where every moment holds a risk to you. She tries to silence these thoughts as she does for her own gift, these fixations on you in your daily and mundane lives, and yet . . . this self-discipline in regard to you, perhaps, will prove be the toughest battle she will ever face in this life.

And as a bonus for the non-HAWK ROs . . .

Early Stages

Fyodor

His hesitance towards allowing a stranger to wield his gift, one that should be directed by his will alone, would actually diminish upon learning these consequences. To have the chance to be understood so deeply by another, a near and supposed stranger they may be, is quite the alluring thought to him. Perhaps they will have greater insight into how his gift might best be translated into a force for good, or simply be tamed enough to be used solely by his will at all.

Please, if you will . . . tell him who he is, who you felt him to truly be.

Please, tell him what he might yet become.

Dearil

Aha, no.

His hand slips quickly, slyly, from the security of his glove. You will not cling to life long enough to sense the coldness of his touch, nor the strength of its bruising grip.

This is not a risk he will take.

Curadora

She quells the sense of betrayal that threatens to arise within her. How hypocritical. The self-given accusation is quick, and true. She is thankful for her mask as it rests atop the storm of emotions that are slowly, patiently, calmed by her will.

Ah, so this is what it feels like to be on the other end of this unfortunate deal.

She quiets her worries, focuses on her shaky trust in this Gifted that relies in equal turn on her blood. It is not as though she is helpless towards fixing this lose end in a harmless manner, one that will not leave her anguished for nights with guilt and fear.

The more accepting she appears towards all this, the easier it will be to lure them close and make matters right once more.

At the very least, she will leave them with the memory of her gratitude.

Retriever

Retriever would be somewhat lost for words at first. Maybe he would first offer a breathless laugh, short and instinctual in balance with his mixed emotions with routine politeness, as he ran a hand through his hair—only to then find himself unsure as to where to rest his hands next, a revelation matched with a throat suddenly too pinched with discomfort and uncertainty to speak.

By the time he collects himself enough to share his thoughts, any thoughts, on the matter he finds himself without the courage to share them with this near stranger.

And so, he settles with asking if they were comfortable through that whole experience, kindly halting any attempt from them to share whatever they had felt or seen.

Lempo

She's delightfully intrigued by this revelation, eager to see just how this mesh of psyches manifests in Mockingbird. She has nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of, and so she is happy to witness just how Mockingbird will respond to the truest, deepest parts of herself.

When all is said and done, she will have no reservations towards offering her blood again.

And before you depart, please, let her taste to see if your ambrosia differs in any way from hers. It is only fair, after all.

Bones

In the very early days of becoming acquainted with the MC in childhood, he would have fought tooth and nail to protect his psyche from them. It is not theirs to see, to judge, and much less to feel just so they can use it to hurt him or - worse- pity him.

Mishka

Mishka would sooner kill the MC quickly and quietly before allowing them anywhere near their inner psyche.

Deep Crush

Again, briefly and in a very generalized manner:

Fyodor: He hopes it confesses all he cannot properly convey in words and actions alone.

Dearil: If this binds you more to him, then he can handle the consequences.

Curadora: She worries that, with every taste, you will only grow to despise her more.

Retriever: As long as you like what you see, he's glad to provide. Just . . . please, don't mention what you've seen.

Lempo: She would love to recount every moment of your connection together, enamored with your descriptions of how this bond felt.

Bones: He doesn't want to hurt you like this.

Mishka: Their frustration towards this exposure is restrained by their gratitude towards your survival after such an intense connection.

Thank you so much for the ask! (･⌄･)b

#ro #gift #c: sigmund #c: imka #c: elouan #c: jae #c: niccolo #c: mutya #c: fyodor #minor ro #c: dearil #c: curadora #c: retriever #c: lempo #c: bones #c: mishka

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insurrection-if · 2 years

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How will ROs react if in relationship stage, whenever they are worried about anything or are even in the slightest of distress, the MC knows, and hugs them from the behind, rests their head on RO's shoulder and kisses their cheek while nuzzling them? In other words, MC always knows whenever they're in distress even without them telling the MC and always offers comfort.

Akil

At times, as he takes solace in your hold, the reality strikes him as almost absurd enough to draw from him a smile; vague and bemused but a gift that averts his pain nonetheless. To think you, a Gifted, have become to integral to his life that he cannot imagine a reality without you is more fit for a dream than reality. Yet here he is, leaning in with an almost humiliating degree of need to your caress and warmth.

In private moments, he allows himself to fully return your embraces, touches, and closeness with no need for words exchanged. The first time he truly allowed himself to shed the weight of the world in your arms, you could have sworn that he trembled in the slightest from the sheer relief from a stress burdened for far too long on his own.

Yet, when it comes time for him to resume the face of a Commander needed by those around him, Akil still hesitates in his indulgence to subtly return the squeeze of a hand, to not keep the assurances brief even as his touch lingers a moment too long for decorum. Yet never does he scold your persistent attempts, placing his needs above needless image when the trust he has earned is enough to warrant him a bit of relief in front of everyone. You restore his faith in himself, and it is quite hard for him to summon anger towards such a selfless gift.

Kamiko

It has taken time to adjust past the initial shock towards your ability to read her as no others can. Long had she prided herself on an emotionless mask, determined to have none question her inner strength so she too might fool herself into thinking she possessed no weakness in her mind and heart. To have you address her inner turmoil so easily, so readily and openly, nearly broke her entire shield of a façade with tears of relief in earlier days.

In time, she has come to seek that comfort, and never is she left waiting more than a breath before it is offered wordlessly, wondrously. Without judgement. Without shame. It is freeing. Liberating, allowing her to shed the weight burdened atop her shoulders for too long without the self-given mercy to cry for help.

And though she can still feel her face burn when such gestures are offered in the public eye, a quiet voice in her head protesting for the sake of her desperate need to cling to her unbreakable persona as a mortal woman before would-be gods, she has become unable to resist the natural serenity you offer with a love that feels so secure.

You set her at ease, and you set her free.

Sigmund

In the sanctuary that the world becomes when it is you and him alone, he responds to your touches and holds as though they are as precious as the air he breathes. He cannot voice how much you mean to him, your comfort that is a steadying anchor from the storm threatening to break him from within, and so he lets his body speak for him instead as he latches onto you like a man drowning. A quick kiss to break the spiral of his thoughts is deepened by his need, and a light touch is grasped and pressed tighter against him to appease the ache of his heart for you.

In those moments, there is no world beyond you. You are all he wants, all he needs, and all he desires to keep. He wants to be the same for you. To read you as you do him, to serve you with this comfort and security and instant love as you do without a conscious thought. He presses his lips against your skin and, while his voice chokes on his true troubles, so easily does it espouse his love and adoration for you.

The shame he once felt to reveal his burdens to you has been eased, and never has he felt more grateful to allow himself the safety that is found within your accepting embrace.

Yet, when an audience is present, he does not allow himself to bend to his inner turmoil as he does when it is you two alone. Offer him comfort, and he returns the offer to you in equal measure to distract - mask- from his own pains while assessing your own. His jaw relaxes with a vague smile at your caress, his gaze softening its worried squint behind the shield of his aviators. His hand constantly seeks to keep a hold on you without a word of acknowledgement from him. Other than his usual tension or gruffness towards mere acquaintances, few could read the true depth of his worries as you do.

But how tolerable those worries silently become with your gestures still, even if he must exercise much of his focus and will on not fully indulging himself with them.

Imka

Her hands curl tighter around the fabric above your chest, her face pressed against the warmth and comfort that you provide. She is so close to your heart, so sensitive and mighty that it is have both this innate awareness and action to support her as it does, and it only makes hers pound harder in her chest. Rather than a calmness, her nerves give way to a new suffocating sensation. A breathless, speechless love and gratitude that courses quickly through her like an electric touch wherever your hands and lips press to distract her from a fading distress.

She does not know how someone like her has come to deserve you, to draw your eye or keep your heart, but she does not dare to be so selfish as to waste the time she does have with you by dragging you down with her questioning and fears. In this moment, she is thankful. So thankful to have you that it almost hurts, though it is a pain that causes her to smile all the same.

Every time you are there for her, before she even knows she so desperately needed someone to be waiting for her with open arms and a shoulder to cry on, she vows once again to never take you for granted. Never could she take the wonder that you are for anything less than her everything to treasure and cherish.

Elouan

It frightened him at first. Remorse strikes him whenever he thinks upon those early days when he flinched at your comforting touch. A time when his pride, his past, would not allow someone that intimacy ever again. What a fool he had been then.

What a fool he is now, though only a different kind.

All his life, he has trained himself to deflect from his distress; to force a suitable face and carry on until he could deal with his emotions in private, lonely solitude. Yet you, so perfect as you are, do not allow him to so easily burrow amidst this poisonous misery and fear. No, you draw it out from him these vulnerable truths and toxins with your gentle caress and soothing voice, seeking to replace all his troubles with thoughts of you alone. Or, at least, he tries to escape acknowledgement of his troubles with nothing but your image, presence, and touch.

And when it comes time to part, his spirit healed beneath your endless care, still he finds his hands reaching and guiding you back to him for a moment more. A moment longer in this paradise amidst a storm you have created for him, to cherish you for as long as he can before the world must be faced again.

Jae

Through partial laughter, and with a vague note of tense concern around her beaming grin, she whispers in your ear her thought that going a day without you and your magical sixth sense for her would be the worst withdrawal in the world; a tragedy where she would have to fend for herself with no hug or nuzzle or kiss from you. In truth, she has learned to quickly bounce back whenever the world pushes her down, and a small moment of your instant reassurance is enough to put the energy of the sun back into her step; its brightness into her smile as well.

That said, she still loves to take advantage of the affection you so readily offer by indulging in it far longer than she truly needs to in order to feel better. "Ah, just one kiss!" She exclaims with a mock gasp, a hand dramatically pressed against her chest as her genuine smile and unspilled tears undermine the act, "But, meu amor, I need at least ten more if I am ever to be happy again! All on the lips, I'm afraid . . . though perhaps my heavy heart might be willing to negotiate . . . !"

Still, in time, the natural repetition of your instinctual support will wear down her defenses, allowing her to feel safe enough with you and you alone to be genuine with her worries, her fears, and her desire for comfort. But she would also try to ensure she does not drag down your mood with her own, sprinkling in between her distress attempts to make you smile and laugh as well.

Niccolò

Once he has enters a relationship with you, he does not think to hide his genuine emotions (unless the situation is grave). Yet you are so quick to perceive his dour shifts that you cheer him up with how magical your sensitivity to him is alone.

The moment your arms wrap around him, he latches onto them as a means of begging you to not let go. His grin is instinctive upon receiving your touch, reassured by your presence and your insistence on being there for him. Simply knowing that you are always ready to chase away his dreary clouds with a touch, a kiss, or a would-be crushing hug is enough to return his joy, his laughter too when he is so charmed by your persistent need to offer this comfort until you are certain he is alright again.

You are a marvel to him. Your synchronicity to his heart's whims is perhaps the greatest mystery and treasure to be found in this world, and he does not know what he would do if he were ever to lose it.

Yet, it is in these moments when worry and doubt collide with his grasping need for you and your love, that immortality becomes more fearsome than ever before. A memory could never suffice for the wonder that you are, and a new dread strengthens quietly in his heart.

Mutya

With how intense her emotions so often threaten to become, you have become an essential fixture in her life. A partner capable of calming the shadows her mind turns to monsters and perceiving the ant hills that seem so mountainous to her as what they truly are.

Though she has always tried to be a reliable pillar for others through her actions, it is you who has proven so steady a presence with loving gestures that give her more joy than she knows what to do with. With you, she feels like she can breathe again.

Even after so much time, she finds herself rendered speechless again and again by your ability to see through her. To sense her suppressed struggles and rescue her from herself with something so small as a kiss or touch. She fears her possible dependency on something this good, this perfect. Yet, so easily does such fear slip from her mind when it is replaced by a reignited resolve to never lose you.

You, her life and hope and love all wrapped up in one being too precious to her heart, who is so unspeakably, perfectly fitted to her like a missing piece of herself that she has needed her whole life.

Every assurance, every comfort, so instinctively given only makes her helplessly fall in love with you all over again.

Fyodor

He does not know how he lived a day with you.

All the moments of terror and panic, misery and pain, are no more than forgotten echoes in the wind with you by his side. More than his usual veil of humor atop the scars of his heart, you have given him a relentless grace and love to guide him from his darkest thoughts. You are an instant cure to the poison that lingers beneath his skin. Like the angel you are, you extend to him this unearned mercy and, in doing so, have given so much to protect him from himself.

To lose you would be to lose his sanity. His life itself, for no longer could he tolerate a moment on this earth without the assurance that somewhere you are there to offer this addictive splice of heaven.

You truly are the second half to his soul. So naturally, effortlessly without thought or complaint, do you work in tandem with the chaotic mess that toils within him. And every time you are right where he needs you to be, he feels his love for you become born anew. You are a miracle to him. A Gift in the truest sense.

A blessing, someone born from divinity or fate to be so perfect.

A touch is enough to calm his heart. A kiss is enough to tame it.

You are his true Gift. You are his . . .

Ah, but in the moment, he will put the thoughts of godhood and fate aside. With you, he is nothing more than a common man made content in his lover's arms.

#ro #c: akil #c: kamiko #c: sigmund #c: imka #c: elouan #c: jae #c: niccolo #c: mutya #c: fyodor #react

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insurrection-if · 2 years

Note

Who would the ro's and minor ro's feel about mc who is a very kind soul who doesn't want for more blood to be shed? Who wants for humans and gifted to live together in peace and that if they were asked if they would kill in a dire situation they answer "I rather die a thousands times than takes someones life" ? Thanks, Ros! Deep in the romance, please!

Oh, deep in the romance! (　´∀｀)b Apologies scrollers for the length, haha!

ROs

Akil

"You are my greatest wonder," he muses as he leans close enough for his lips to brush against yours. His kiss is soft, lingering, before he draws back with the faintest trace of a smile, "You are everything I needed to find myself again."

Since your proper induction into the HAWKS, a time before he had even suspected his inevitable love for you, Akil has affirmed that you would never be forced to kill under his command. For most situations, there is an alternative to be found. These are alternatives he will work to achieve alongside you. Though his own hands are not entirely clean, he perceives death as a last resort for any situation.

"I am human. I will falter. I may fall," he confesses as a witfulness coats the former serenity of his features, "A mortal man may do much to alter mankind's course, but you, my star, are a beacon I cannot dream to match."

His gaze wonders to the sky above, eyes squinted in thought rather than by the dim light to be found in the cityscape's night. And though he puts distance between you as he mulls over his thoughts, his hand never compromises its firm hold around your own.

"I will follow you wherever this dream may take us. May our path be bloodless as you wish. If not . . . There are painless departures I may employ on your behalf. Minimal in casualties, efficient in execution."

He has taken such routes before. Clumsily in his fledgling career, and the regrets born from his errors will forever linger in his mind. He squeezes your hand a bit tighter in his hold for a moment, a silent request for reassurance, and his pensive smile turns true.

"Let us work together so it will not come to that."

Kamiko

It is too familiar an argument: the co-existence between Gifted and Humans. She recalls the screeched cries that tore through her throat, the vile curses thrown back at her as this very idea fractured what had already been so delicate a home. She remembers the hatred, the disownment. The shame and pleas for forgiveness as fear and vengeance made her scars burn painfully in the night.

Yet she has fallen for you. Feels safe with you. As the fear ebbed away, slowly eased to allow room for love, she has come to question the convictions made when faced with death.

She had been a child then. Younger than Hanzō.

She once considered it a privileged position to espouse this doctrine of peace; this conviction for unsullied hands and a retained purity of the soul. Her very service, life, has been given solely to allow those such as Hanzō to cling to that delicate privilege in a world where almighty beings could kill him with a glance.

Yet your kindness has challenged her. Given her a faith, a trust, that urges her to stand by your side in pursuit of this dream world where her service is not needed. She has avowed herself to you, and that includes all you love and seek. As long as you are by her side to abide those taught fears, to inspire her with your generous heart, then she will see this through with you.

Kill or do not. If your command allows, whether with words or a glance, she will take the choice from your hands. She is more than willing to die for you. More than that, she will do all she can to live another day to support your ambitions however she may.

Sigmund

“I cannot compromise when it comes to your life."

Even still, he can feel his fingers pressing into his biceps hard enough to bruise as he listens to your adamance against your own protection. If you do not want to sully your hands, then that is fine. More than fine, he affirms to himself upon reflection of his own remorse, though he marginally regrets ever offering his assurance of this.

Yes, your mercy has done much to steal his heart, but there has to be limits. He groans every time he falls deeper for you as you defend those that have hurt you, endangered you, but dammit it is driving him mad (. . . .and further madly in love with you). He suspects his hair will become gray far sooner than his father's with how much stress your convictions place on his heart.

Unity, this Utopia, he has no qualms against it. If it is a world where you may live as freely as you please, without need to run or hide or fear, then he will burden the worst of your struggles in fighting for this future. It is a desire his heart has come to adopt as its own, this want for a world where rest and safety may be allowed for you both.

He pulls you tighter against him, his chin perched atop your head so you cannot see the way his lips grimace or his eyes glisten with a warring hope and fear. His hand splays its touch over your stomach as an anchor to keep you within his arms. “If you cannot do it then mein Schatz, let me.”

Though he does not voice it often, he knows himself to be at your mercy. If saving your life requires him to take another's then he will not hesitate, not beyond praying for you to turn your gaze from what must be done. But never could he forgive himself afterwards for how it might make you cry. Make you look at him with betrayal and spite.

“Even if you hate me for the rest of our lives, I will do anything to protect yours. I don't care if you spend it hating me, Liebling."

t is your gentle reassurances, coupled with those soft touches that make him feel weak in your palms and his mind sway into ease, that reawaken the ideals he held when he first came to America. Before his first kill, as a man sheltered in ignorance and denial who thought violence to be dirty and low.

He will do anything for you, even if it means reigning in an impossible peace. Blood, however, might just be an inevitability. If it is, he'd sooner die himself rather than force you to betray your convictions on taking a life.

Imka

"You . . . You are so wondrous to me," she whispers with excited adoration, her hands all but trembling as they fold atop yours. Habit urges her to bite down her elated smile, one that seems to brighten her every detail as a loving sigh escapes her. "Like a dream come to life, a vision that stays captured in my mind long after it has been lost from my sight. One that is home to me. . . and then I feel guilt to have this joy as other Gifted suffer from the dangers such a love might cause."

She lifts your hand to rest her lips against their touch. The hands that steady her, guide her. Reassure her of a love she once feared as impossible for her kind to preserve when faced with reality's call.

"I have seen what I should not. Places, actions, that never should have taken place. Not even my father could feign a blindness to it all."

Her hands squeeze momentarily as if gathering strength from your touch, and her eyes flutter close as if it could erase whatever past she envisions.

"To see the children cry as they do . . . to see the pain engraved on the faces of our people, on humans too because of our pride . . ."

Her words are cut by a shaken gasp. She swallows back her urge to cry. She pulls your hand against her chest, pressed faintly against her heart whose heavy thrum can be felt all the same.

"My love for you has given me a strength I have never felt before. With it, and you, there is so much good we can do. They say we were chosen for something greater. Lieve, what can be greater than peace for us all so none may have to suffer as our people have. As you have, my love."

And so her smile returns, hesitant but elated, as she considers the possibilities you two may strive to reach as one.

"We are not naïve to live by our ideals. With you, I wish to show the world what a heart with mercy can do."

Elouan

His grin is sharp whenever you reminisce on this idealist dream, old arguments that once lodged themselves in his throat having long embered in his heart. It is almost enough to resurface his guilt for latching onto the heart of such a kind soul, yet his greed for your affection and attention ultimately triumphs over any thought to let you go to a more deserving lover.

"Of course, ma moitié," he assures with a melodic tune, his head finding rest atop your shoulder. His hands gently take hold of yours, ungloved in their touch as he intertwines your fingers. The contrast between them emphasizes the scars imprinted upon him by humankind. Yet, despite the bitterness poisoning his heart at the sight of his marred skin, he cannot help but whisper the truth in so low a tone.

“Whatever you desire, I will help to deliver."

You have rendered him helpless to your desires. How could he ever think to disobey your pleading gaze, your shielding hands? Nowadays he cannot even stomach the thought of killing his adversaries unless he can guarantee your ignorance to the event. How soft he has become! Yet too blissful in love is he to summon any prolonged shame towards his sickeningly sweet mercy in your name.

"I . . . It is a miracle you love me still with your vision. I did not make life so easy for humanity back then. I bloodied my hands as they bloodied me, all with the detachment of survival and greed."

He draws back for only a moment so he can press a soft kiss against your neck, a rueful smile coming so naturally to him as he reminisces on the past. "Never have I tried to mislead you into thinking me a good man."

Though regret stained his fixation on his life before the HAWKS, it has been your mercy that taught him shame as well. With you, redemption feels so real. Almost tangible as he feels soothed by the natural warmth captured between your bodies together.

"Mon ange, you are too good for this hellscape. I do not know what humanity has done to deserve your love. But with a heart as beautiful as yours, such a love is made contagious.”

He tightens his hold of their hands. Caresses the skin beneath his ruined touch.

“For your smile alone, my love, I would give all myself to see this silly peace made.” . . . And if necessary, he will easily kill for your dream as well whenever you cannot.

Jae

Her lips scrunch with mirth, yet the tilt of her brow signals the concern it hides. As she leans against your side, arms crossed and head now turned to hide her expression from your sight, she nods side-to-side in consideration. Such a "serious" contemplation is feigned to further mask the true reason why her eyes had begun to squint and flutter.

"Oh, what an angel," she huffs through a laugh, though her genuine adoration overcomes whatever sarcasm she had tried to force. She presses her slouched weight against you even more, turning you into a quite literal beam of support as she bites down on her bottom lip.

"You know what I’ve done," eventually comes her quiet hum, a confession slightly hoarse and without its usual defiant pride, "I don’t regret a single thing other than the happiness they experienced as I strung them along. They deserved what they got. Deserved worse than what I gave."

Her nails are sharp against her skin as her lips press tightly around a bitter laugh.

“I don’t want another me. Gifted, Human, I don't care. As long as its not another kid ruined by this stupid, fucking hate . . .!"

She stops herself, launching up from her seat to spin around and grip your hand with hers as a source for comfort from the past. An uncommon seriousness marks her expression. You mean so much to her, and as much as she wishes she could simply laugh along with your convictions without a second thought she cannot will herself to treat them so lightly when they compose so much of who you are.

She cannot help but share with you the truth she so often runs from.

"Meu tudão I want to follow you, but it fucking hurts," she hisses with a rage towards ghosts, with a regret towards you. She considers you silently for a time, her gaze wandering across your features as if they hold the answer she's desperately seeking. " . . . And what upsets me most is how easy you make it for me to let go of the anger I've held till now. It defined so much of me, birdie."

She sighs, and with the sigh she seems to release the storm of emotions that had been brewing within her as she listened to your hopes, your dreams. This time her smile is more authentic, lighter and loving as she comes to terms with something in her own mind.

Without hint or hesitation, she practically pounces on you for a brisk kiss and draws away just as quickly, her hand still planted firmly against your chest. And how her smile has become a full grin.

"I guess I'll just have to fill the gap in me without it with my love for you, hm?"

Despite her hum seeking agreement, she speaks with enough conviction to assure you that's exactly what she'll do.

Niccolò

"Would you be mad if I killed someone?"

There is a gravity to his words. His head tilts, and his gaze flits across every inch of your person to fully capture your reaction to the question. You note the twitched corner of his lips, an artificial invitation to sense his willingness to throw the conversation aside if you so wish. If it upset you too much to entertain.

"By accident? On purpose? For you?"

He raises from his perch and, hurried but casual in his motions, he is quick to take a seat by your side. His hands pull yours into a gentle hold without breaking his gaze from your own. It is his unspoken way of keeping you here to listen to what he feels the need to say.

"What if it saves lives? What if it saves yours? Could I, for you . . . ?"

He would do so if you asked, though he knows you never would. It is this gentleness of yours, one preserved in a world that would largely wish you dead, that so greatly endeared his curiosity towards you. But his time in this world has taught him that morals and matters are rarely so black-and-white. Death is common. At times, it is necessary: a natural end to a chapter or tale. Not so frightening or grand as so many make it to be once the novelty wears.

"Killing is easy, amore mio," he whispers softly, hoping his smile eases your reception to this truth, "Living with what is done . . . that is painful. Sometimes, it is a mercy to end the suffering. More often, it is a mercy to kill before the suffering can be done."

He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering closed as he tries to sorts through his thoughts. He has no code against killing, though he uses his judgement to avoid its steep costs. Sometimes he is steered firmly by a whim for mercy, and other times he has failed to summon an empathy for the life before him. Yet he understand the priceless quality you place upon it, as it is a value he has come to universally see as well.

He eventually allows himself to lean back, leaving you with a forehead kiss before he does.

"You are so precious to me, cuore mio, and I worry. I like that you make things not so simple, but I do not like to think you might be hurt by these ideals. Humans, Gifted, it is all labels to me; like hair that curls and hair that waves. It is no more than a quirk or gene passed by blood. But to others it is a means to hurt you. Fear you, and justify what their fear urges them to do."

His smile strengthens to a grin, this one a genuine reflection of the desire he shares: "I don't want us to die with regrets."

Not wishing to wallow in possible gloom any longer, he shrugs the meat of that matter aside as he leans close once again, this time with a giddiness that spreads to the eager taps of his heel and sudden pull of your hands to his lips so he might plant an exaggerated kiss.

"Tell me more about your thoughts; your vision for this world. I want to imagine myself in it, with you."

Mutya

"Then don't kill," she casually agrees with a shrug. Her own convictions are similar. Never has she taken a life, and the rare moment of beating someone to the brink of death is less than what can be counted with one hand. It is respectable to her that you would share in this ideal. A shared ideal that makes her feel closer to you, connected.

She wraps her arms around yours, head head leaning against you as she considers the life that buzzes idly by, unaware of how vulnerable their lives truly are in the presence of you both. To bear her Gift comes with the grave responsibility to use its purpose for a higher good, and to not let the causalities of this enacted purpose needlessly pile until whatever change she hoped to bring its outweighed by the harm she's done.

"I have always thought that our people should be civil servants rather than gods," she muses through a bitter grin, the CARDINALS and their fancy rhetoric coming to mind, "But something more egalitarian between us, neither people above or below or, has a nice sound to it."

Its a world where her siblings would not need to feel pressured to give all themselves, prove themselves, to warrant a reason to live among humanity. She knows they do not all share her convictions, yet so vigorously do they jump through hoops to justify the embracement of their gifts by endangering themselves as they do. Yet to live as they truly desired would mean being forced into a double-life where they must suppress a cherished part of themselves, imprisoned in a false sense of self just to be accepted into approved normalcy, humanity.

"I know that the burden I put on myself as this thing," she huffs with a forcefully dismissive wave, "Gifted or whatnot to protect and serve, mahal, I know it's not something every one of us is meant to carry. Imka, Jae, Niccolò . . . I think they'd be happier far from the front lines of what I feel like I need to do."

Her eyes flutter closed as she feels her emotions well in her chest. She takes a moment to consider what she wishes to say. Hesitation, fear, towards how you may perceive her arising as it did in those early days of her infatuation. It is a truth she must speak all the same.

"If there's no other choice, I'll do kill for us both. I don't know if I could fucking live with myself after but for everyone to, whatever they may be, to live in peace . . . maybe I can do something noble with this life."

She keeps her eyes closed as she times her breaths, not wanting some outpour of emotion to dour the rest of the night. Yet she cannot help the tension around her lips, pressed nervously as her fingers dig a bit deeper into your arm as she reassures herself with your nearness beside her.

"Just promise to love me still if I do, please?"

Fyodor

"I do not deserve you."

He does not notice the tears that have begun to fall from his averted gaze. How could he meet your eyes, that comforting gaze so wondrous a shade filled with kindness and hope? His hands, these monstrous hands, twitch to grasp you for comfort, but to stain you with their past . . . yet how could a man as weak as him ever resist the temptation to touch the living angel that you are?

He kneels before you, his hands slowly seeking out your own with a cautious reverence. You are so little in his palms. Delicate, and so often does he drag in ruin. But you are always so good to him, patient and determined to treat him with a kindness he does not deserve, and he is all the more taken with you as you extend this loveliness to all the world and all the life within it.

It is the kindness he once wished to embody as a boy. One that become so illusive to cling to as the world swallowed him whole.

"I have taken . . . I have taken so much. I did not mean—Not always, but I—"

His voice is broken by a cry, yet he forces himself to calm by focusing on your pulse, your breath, your closeness to him. His voice is tender, frightened and soft, as it is taken by memories that haunt him in the nights spent alone. Nights you have made so much easier to bear.

"I had a choice. Never did I not. Had I not been so selfish, so scared, I would not have been as damned as I've become. I am less than human. I wanted to be what I thought was needed. I am a fool."

He knows his purpose. He knows what he has the potential to do. Killing had once been justice. Rightful, necessary. A burden for him to bear for those that could not, to spare them from the evil inflicted upon them. But as his trust began to wither, and truth began to reach the light, he continued with weaker reason and weaker will.

Yet for you, he would endure it all again. The grief, the pain. Perhaps, if it is on your behalf, it will not be so horrible an act. To think that he has the privilege to love you, to be touched by your bloodless hands! Yes, he would give anything to ensure your hands remain as pure as your heart.

"You are divine. And to think you are mine . . . "

He is breathless as he speaks. Joyous almost as he feels rejuvenated by your dream and his ignited desire to achieve it with you. Joyous because you truly are his, just as he is yours. His soulmate, his heart. You are his redemption. His everything. Together, impossibility seems like nothing more than a dream.

"I want this too. I want a home for us. Everyone, Human or Gifted, everyone. If I only—If I just fix myself I can, for you—us—I can make amends."

It is only now in this moment, as a sudden laughter spills from him alongside fresh tears, that he realizes he has worn a smile throughout this all. Whether it is one born from a hope renewed, his love for you, or some heavenly mixture between the two is unknown to him.

Beside you, smitten by your vision and grace, it is no wonder that he can do little more than smile like the fool in love that he is.

"Help me, солнышко. Help me make this dream come true."

Minor ROs

Dearil

He studies you with a cold detachment, his usual amusement towards your sweetness dwindling the more you protest against his dismissals of this fickle dream. By habit, he fiddles with the edges of his glove, mindful towards the bruised skin beneath and the ghostly strings tied to its icy touch. Blood and ash have painted nearly every inch of his being, but none more so than these hands whose flesh will never experience your touch. Not unless he finds the strength to put this infatuation - if he may pitifully call it just that anymore - to an end.

He could preserve you as only he may . . . but experience warns him that the outcome will not be satisfactory for his needs. The memories are vivid enough to draw blood from his tongue. It is this sharp taste that returns him to the present with a wistful ache for you.

Rage burrows itself in his chest, yet his expression betrays no emotion whatsoever as he considers what to do with you. Long has he considered breaking you in sufficient ways, in pursuit of obedience or by means of ruin, yet he fears it will sully all he has come to seek from your too-tender of a heart. Yet he despises how you weep and plea for others than himself. Hates how you seek to defy his very nature, his desires and soul, with eyes so bewitching with their fear and lips so tempting with their pouts.

"Verculum," he coos with mock sweetness, his sharp smirk softening when you still at the call, "For my sake, give it a rest."

Curadora

“You ask for so much.”

Unmasked, ungloved, she cannot hide her soft smile as she lays her hand upon your cheek. Her misty gaze retains its natural shade, her gift dormant without your expressed consent. A choked breath of laughter escapes her throat, though she purses her lips to silence it from happening again.

She does not wish to play a role when she is with you.

“Yet I have demanded the same, only to have my cries be swallowed by the roar of his crowds.”

Her touch lowers to trace the length of your jaw, brushing against you with a delicate reverence. Her gaze cannot meet your own as her other hand reaches for yours. It is the sight of your fingers intertwined that gives her the strength to summon her voice.

“I am not enough for either people: Gifted or Human. I cannot force sacrifices onto others as either of those men do. They make me fight to keep my hands bloodless. They tear down my words as a fancy trinket with little use beyond their friendly ears. I will not do the same to you.”

How could she do the same? As much of a fool as she has made herself to be with this conviction, this determination do act by what she knows to be right, she cannot help but endure this hopeless battle for a bloodless peace to be made. A movement of words, a bridge to unity. Perhaps it is a distant eventuality. Perhaps it is no more tangible than a dream. Still, she hopes.

And still she falls deeper for you as you share this crucial hope as so few dare.

She shudders through her sigh, her lip now tucked beneath her teeth. She wishes to be held. She wishes to be more for you.

“Forgive me, my love. I am a coward for what I am bound to do. But I will bleed for your vision and cause, knowingly or not. I will see it through.”

Retriever

It's no wonder that's he's head-over-heels for you. There's no mystery as to why he falls deeper and deeper for every life saved and spared by your words, your hands. It makes him young again to hear your dreams, your convictions, with a hope long beaten and torn from him.

He purses his lips around the stories that weigh upon him. Ones that would defy your hopes, would cause you to question your ambitions for peace between Humanity and the Gifted. His scars ache as you affirm your will to foster unity. Yet his grin bears through the ghostly pain, and the past quiets its wails as he focuses on you and you alone. As long as you may help to guarantee his dream, his purpose before he can ever think to retire to a mundane life . . .

“You’re a Saint.” Almost breathless with affection, he pulls you closer into his side. Close enough to where he’s practically guiding you to take a seat on his lap. “And God, I wish I could just marry you now.”

His arms, secure around your waist, feel as though they will never let you go. You’ve come so close to wrapping him entirely around your finger. Soon, maybe, even he might . . . But it is best to not put too much into such hopes. For now, you can only take solace in his firm kisses against your cheek, your shoulder, before he nuzzles into the crook of your neck.

“There isn’t a soul more beautiful. Not a lover more divine than mine. You guide me right, and I hope . . . It’s bad to put one’s eggs in a single basket. So I’ll keep some in Uriel’s, some in mine, and a good chunk in yours. Whichever future wins, I’ll be beside you in it.”

Lempo

She nods along as she listens to your worldview, interjecting hums of interest without posing any direct input or challenge of her own. Once you have shared all you desired to, a wistful smile shapes her lips as she moves to snuggle against your side.

"You are so soft," she ultimately concludes after some ponderance. She presses her cheek against you as her arms squeeze tighter, force you closer even when there's no space left to close. Her smushed words chime with laughter as she more so coos with affection. "And sweet. I have a toothache from your thoughts. They're bad for me, yet I love them all the same."

She shifts to bring her lips closer to yours. Her suffocating hold relents so her hands may guide you to her for a string of kisses; fleeting and endless. It is not until her smiles makes it too difficult to continue that she presses then her forehead against yours with a pleased grin.

"I like Uriel's idea for us. If I take a life for him, it is by accident and without regret. But you are so loving, and I love you. If you win, I will be happy too. Just don't leave me entirely for some human lover, okay?"

Bones

“That’s nice and sweet, Hjärtat,” he drawls, turning his head to the side to mask his lovesick grin, “But it makes it a headache to love you.”

When caught in your sight, he grimaces at the fanciful worldview, yet still you recognize the flash of his teeth to be a horribly withheld grin rather than a sneer.

Exhaustion seems to sink deeper and deeper into his bones at every mention of your dream for humanity and the gifted, your convictions to not take a life. You know that he's biting his tongue till blood is drawn, gritting his teeth to dust, as you assert your stance. What is equally transparent, if not more obvious, is the begrudging affection in his narrowed gaze. It had been your kindness that stood as his salvation in childhood. It had been your kindness that persisted in tearing down his walls to try saving him from himself.

Of course you would be so intent on saving others as you did him. You love so much. Too much, he fears, and he wishes that you could be more selfish with that bleeding heart of yours. Selfish enough to love him and him alone as he does you, maybe. That would certainly make his shamble of a life easier to burden.

"You're damn lucky you're cute," he finally huffs after being worn down your persistent attempts to focus his gaze on you (knowing he cannot maintain his grim doomsaying against your convictions when the mere sight of you causes him to bite down a soft and sweet smile). His mock glare couldn’t even fool a child as he catches hold of your jaw in a tender hold.

He leans close, his icy gaze flickering red for a single moment, as his raspy voice rumbles a message low enough for you alone.

“Blood and death is our thing, Hjärtat. You’re crazier than me if you think we could ever outrun that.”

With that, his lips capture yours. Any will for an argument is put to rest soon after.

Mishka

"No spilled blood? If you so wish, then so it will be," they muse after brief consideration, their shoulders shrugging aside the matter with minimal hesitation. What their love doesn't know won't kill them, and Mishka bears the confidence to clean up troublesome affairs without your notice if the necessity ever arose—without death if you so desired.

Though human lives are cheap to them, they cannot deny the sudden spike in their value when so cherished by their beloved. The Gifted, if it must be so, can begrudgingly be spared as well.

Their hand raises to support the weight of their head, long fingers tapping along their hollowed cheek as they consider the soul before them. The soul that has so sweetly captured their metaphorical heart, that commands them with gestures as simple as a glance. To have fallen for something so pure and selfless . . . love is an unusually harsh imprisonment when bound to their Mockingbird.

"But to demand co-existence, well, we cannot be so spoiled."

Their lips shape into a smirk, the sensation still so pleasant and strange, as their other hand reaches to lay atop their love's. A gesture to keep you anchored here, one without weight or force as they might have employed so naively long ago. They do not seek out arguments as they once did. To see their soulmate bothered by emotions such as anger or sorrow is a pain they have little tolerance to endure.

"You are destined for so much more than this mortal shell. Live with them, yes, but live above them. You deserve no less than worship. And if this worship happens to equate to peace . . . then may we both be content with that."

Their words are low for their love alone. As soft as they can manage when disdain for humanity threatens to seep onto their tongue. Warmth, love, seems to exude from them like a too-sweet stench as the gray in their eyes flickers instead to a gentle gold.

"I want you to be complete. To be satisfied. Steal away your rightful place, by any means you must, and perhaps fate might then be yours once and for all."

Their hold tightens to lift their love's hand for a kiss. And still are they breath-taken by the sensation of flesh and bone beneath their lips. They do not have the heart to drop their love's touch, instead resting their cheek upon the uplifted hand with a forlorn sigh.

“Or be mortal and mourned by me for an eternity to come. My love will not wither once you have passed on. No, most likely, I will follow you to the grave shortly after.”

#ro #minor ro #c: akil #c: kamiko #c: sigmund #c: elouan #c: imka #c: niccolo #c: mutya #c: fyodor #c: curadora #c: dearil #c: lempo #c: retriever #c: bones #c: mishka #c: jae #react

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