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todrokishoto · 3 years

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bnha boys x tickles

character(s): bakugou, deku, denki, kirishima, todoroki

warning(s): tickles, blood (nosebleed), swearing?

a/n: random idea i had. enjoy this hc/scenario thing while i work on some longer fics. p.s. i’ve never really written headcannons before so idk if i did it right lmao

B A K U G O U

mans isn’t ticklish

trained himself to tolerate it bc being ticklish is for the weak

won’t tell you that tho bc it’s a valid excuse sometimes ok??

like,,, let’s say you’re tracing mindless patterns on his abdomen right

the two of you are just lying on his bed in his dorm room

and while it might have been innocent enough on your part

he can’t help but be... flustered as your hand moves awfully close to the waistband of his pants

feeling his cheeks heat up, straight up refusing to let you see how much your touch affects him, he swats your hand away with a grunt

“that tickles, dumbass,” he huffs, his voice slightly strained. you pretend not to notice.

your eyebrows lift upward in surprise at his statement. not once had he ever mentioned he was ticklish. propping yourself up on your elbow, you let your eyes trail over his features, studying him.

his eyes are closed but only after mere seconds of feeling your gaze, they open back up. his crimson orbs stare into yours, neither one of you breaking the prolonged silence. you, frankly, didn’t want to. bakugou, on the other hand, refused to - fully aware his voice would betray him again.

he couldn’t believe he had just lied about being ticklish. but, letting you believe your soft touches had tickled him rather than admitting they made him feel things he know he shouldn’t seemed like the most logical option. yes. there was no way he’d reveal his less than innocent thoughts.

“what?” he grumbles, quirking a brow questioningly. “take a picture. it’ll last longer.”

you fish your phone out of your pocket, holding it up above him. “okay—”

your words turn into a squeal as he smacks the phone out of your hand and grabs your arm, pinning it above your head. he hovers above you, eyes full of mischievousness, his teeth exposed by the grin dancing on his lips. you stare back up at him, eyes wide, body tense as you attempt to gauge his next movements.

“how ‘bout a taste of your own medicine, huh? since you seem to find it so funny.”

and before you can protest, his fingertips dig into your sides, eliciting careless giggles from you as he tries his best to find your most ticklish spots.

K A M I N A R I

would tickle you on the daily just to hear your laugh

pls he’s a total sucker for your squealing giggles. they’re his favorite

this boy will find any excuse to tickle you; pinching your sides, blowing raspberries on your stomach while lying in your lap - you name it

one of his favorite ways is to use just a teeny tiny bit of his electricity, making the ticklish that much more unbearable

we all know his love language is physical touch, so he just can’t help himself really

but don’t even think about tickling him. boy will practically screm bloody murder and literally run away from you like a child running away from their parent when it’s time for bed

you’re bored. so bored, in fact, that you’re even thinking about purposefully provoking your boyfriend’s explosive friend just for some entertainment. you quickly scrap the idea, not feeling like being the target of his harsh words today.

your boredom quickly dissipates, however, as the yellow locks of your boyfriend come into view. he’s chatting animatedly with kirishima and sero, his back facing you. you put a finger to your lips as a pair of red eyes look at you curiously. luckily, the redhead understands and says nothing as you sneak up to the table they’re currently seated at.

“hey, babe!” you greet loudly, your voice dripping with fake innocence.

before he can turn around, your hands are at his sides, pinching and poking with all their might. an odd sound - something between a gasp and a grunt - escapes your boyfriend at the feeling and he flails his arms, desperately trying to escape your hold.

you underestimated just how ticklish your electric partner is, it seems. because before you can dodge it and sero can warn you, denki pushes his chair backward, knocking you over in the process. your boyfriend whips around immediately at the sound of your body colliding with the floor.

“oh my god, baby, i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean—” his apology trails off at the sound of your loud laughter.

you’re clutching your stomach with one hand, attempting (but to no avail) to silence your laughter with the other. denki rubs the back of his neck, eyes full of confusion, while he tries to regain his breath from your surprise attack. once again, he catches you off-guard as he crouches down next to you, his fingers finding your tickle spot with ease.

your laughter gets louder and he smirks. “not so funny now, is it?”

K I R I S H I M A

mans has a hardening quirk

aka he can just harden his skin, so tickling him is basically impossible

once in awhile, when he knows you just want revenge for the times you’ve been tickled by him, he won’t activate his power

but still, he barely chuckles, which makes you frustrated™

he doesn’t really tickle you on purpose that often tho bc that’s not manly

will tickle you accidentally while rubbing your arms or breathing on your neck while cuddling

you’ll squirm in his hold and he will just apologize with a laugh and hold you tighter

you sigh, shuffling ever-so-slightly, stuck within your boyfriend’s tight grasp. the two of you had been cuddling on one of the sofas in the common room, but he had succumbed to his exhaustion and had fallen asleep next to you.

normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. you had no issue being his pillow once in awhile and his cute, little snores made it impossible for you to wake him. today, however, he had fallen asleep in the crook of your neck and his soft breaths were tickling you. with every exhale, your body tensed as you tried your best to remain still.

“kiri,” you whisper, his nickname slipping past your lips with gentleness. “babe, wake up.”

he stirs at the sound of your voice, his breathing halting momentarily. you wait in suspense but he only buries his face further into your neck, a long breath fanning against your exposed skin. you squirm instinctively. your movements must have alerted something in him because he begins shuffling shortly after.

you can’t see his face but you can tell by his breathing that he’s slowly but surely waking up. you practically hold your breath, praying that he will move before you have to voice your discomfort. unfortunately, luck isn’t on your side it seems.

“kiri, i love you, but please move,” you plead, pushing against his chest softly. his red eyes are filled with confusion as he props himself up to look at you. “you’ve been tickling my neck for the past fifteen minutes. i was going insane.”

he pouts then. “aw, babe, you should’ve told me. you could’ve woken me up, y’know?”

“yeah, i know,” you sigh, rubbing your neck where his breathing had been just a few seconds prior. “i just didn’t want to wake you, is all. you’re so cute when you sleep.”

“you’re cuter,” he quips enthusiastically, poking your nose with his index finger. “okay, your turn to cuddle me instead. i’m not ticklish so lay wherever you want.”

M I D O R I Y A

i feel like this broccoli bean would be ticklish everywhere?

either that or he’s not ticklish at all

maybe his body’s been beaten so many times that his nerve-endings are either overly sensitive or they barely feel anything

idk™ BUT

sweet, freckled little izuku would also not tickle you without consent

we stan a respective king

he would be so careful to apply a little bit of a firmer pressure to not tickle you

sweetie had been to flustered to ask if you were ticklish when you first started dating and it was too late to ask now

you’re sitting next to him on the gras outside of the doors, relishing the feeling of the nice evening air against your skin. the two of you are chatting mindlessly. well, izuku’s doing most of the talking and you’re mainly listening, but you don’t mind at all.

his arm is grasped between your two hands as you gently trace the scattered freckles and scars adorning his skin. he had been so flustered when you had grabbed it, unable to will the redness away from his cheeks. you had only giggled in response.

izuku didn’t know why you seemed to be so fascinated by his scars. you had always asked questions about them, wondering if he remembered where he got them. always made sure to call him handsome on days where he was particularly bothered by the markings on his body.

he loved it. he loved you.

but as your continue to trace them, your touch featherlight, he can’t help the shiver that runs down his spine. he squirms, his hand clenching together and forming a fist. you take notice and halt your actions immediately. he turns to look at you, meeting your wide eyes.

“did i do something wrong?” you ask quietly, feeling the guilt claw its way to your chest.

“no!” he practically shouts, his voice a few octaves higher than normal. he clears his throat. “n-no, you didn’t. it’s just that... heh. i’m, uh, kind of sensitive in certain spots, i guess? and while i really don’t mind you touching my scars, you were so gentle and i-i just... it tickled.”

his chin tilts toward the floor, his bashful gaze flickering away from yours. you notice the pink dusting across his freckled cheeks but decide not to point it out, desperate to make your boyfriend feel at ease again.

“zuku, say that next time! i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to tickle you. i didn’t even know you were ticklish, to be honest.”

he rubs his neck, peering over at you once again. he grins sheepishly. “i-i never told you, i guess. usually, i’m able to resist the urge to squirm, um, like that.”

“you’re so cute!” you gush, grabbing ahold of his hand once again. “i’m ticklish too, y’know. but i’ll let you find my tickle spots on your own.”

and, for the umpteenth time that night, your boyfriend blushes as he thinks about exploring your body to find your very own tickle spots.

T O D O R O K I

we all know he had a shitty childhood fck u endeavor

he never had tickle fights with his parents or siblings when he was little

so poor bby probably doesn’t even know he’s ticklish until you accidentally find his weak spot one day

let’s say you’re both cuddling in your bed right?? and things are getting a little heated

so,,, you detach your lips from his, placing a kiss on his cheek, then his jaw, then his neck

and let me tell you - this poor boy doesn’t know what to do

he tenses up immediately, slamming his chin down to protect his exposed neck, his jaw banging against your nose in the process

“y/n!” he calls out immediately, chest heaving, his body still tense as if on high alert. he reaches out to you when he spots you holding your nose, your brows furrowed in discomfort. “i’m so sorry. i don’t— are you alright?”

you nod, releasing a hum to confirm your response. your nose is throbbing, but when you open your eyes and meet shoto’s wide bicolored ones, your pain subsides quickly. poor boy looks so helpless - torn between reaching out for you and distancing himself.

“hey, sho, it’s okay. i’m alright,” you remove your hand clutching your nose to shoot him a smile but you stop midway, noticing the crimson liquid on your palm.

“you’re bleeding,” your boyfriend observes quietly, the guilt obvious in his voice. “i hurt you. i’m so sorry. i... what you did made me feel weird and my body just reacted. i, uh, i’m sorry.”

he scrambles out of your bed, reaching for the box of tissues he knows you have stashed in your desk. he hands you a handful of them, awkwardly lingering by the foot of the bed as you wrap the paper over your nose, clamping your fingers shut around it.

you shake your head with a gentle laugh. “sho, it’s okay. i didn’t know you were ticklish there. i can’t really control what my body does when i’m tickled either, so i don’t blame you.”

“ticklish?” he repeats aloud, almost as if testing out the word.

you nod, the innocence of your boyfriend once again surprising you. you feel your heart ache slightly at the thought of him not knowing what the action is. had nobody ever touched him enough for him to find his tickle spots?

“yeah. most people are ticklish somewhere on their body. usually either on their waist, their armpits, feet or neck - like you. it’s normal. typically, when people are touched where they’re ticklish, they’ll squirm and laugh.”

he nods and you remain quiet as he processes the information. then, much to your bewilderment, he leans forward and grabs ahold of your side with his fingertips. he pinches gently and you jerk, narrowing your eyes at your boyfriend smiling harmlessly.

“so, is that your tickle spot, then?”

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atmo-spherique · 3 years

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Kaminoan: Phonetic Inventory and Counting System

While discussing clone things with @daitoshi, they offhandedly mentioned the weirdness of the number of clones in a batch (and incidentally the general structure of the GAR). Apparently this was all the inspiration I needed to decide I was going to create base-4 counting system for the Kaminoans. 32 clones per batch seems pretty random, but it is just 2 x 16 (2 x 4^2), so in a base-4 system, it’s no more random than say 200 (2 x 10^2) is in base-10. Base-4 also ties in thematically with DNA irl, so that’s fun for a bunch of cloners!

I’ve put together a guide to my process and rules for the enjoyment of all. And by enjoyment, I mean frustration because this counting systems it incredibly upsetting.

We normally assume most human counting systems are base-10 due to our (standard) number of fingers. How the heck to do count to four with three fingers, then?? Well, this is how Imma say the Kaminoans count on their fingers:

Does it make sense? I guess. Does it seem probable? Not really. But the joy of conlanging and worldbuilding for aliens is you can always just be like, “Whatever, their alien brains are built differently.”

Anyways, we’re gonna want some names for these numbers, so we gotta come up with some mouth sounds to represent them.

We do not have a lot of canon (or legends) words for Kaminoan stuff, and what we do have is of course plagued by the same issue that every collection of made up words in SW suffers from: absolutely no internal consistency. Okay, well maybe there is some internal consistency, so let’s look at what we got:

PEOPLE

Taun We Lama Su Kina Ha Ko Sai Nala Se Erla Halle Burtoni

PLACES

Tipoca Timira Derem Baran Wu Su Des Slici Tal An Glascretia Razoral

STUFF

aiwha nahra

AIWHA POD STORY

Protas Melkorr Kikla Thalina iiaa oii sso uded

DAITOSHI

Sre Len

Taun We, Lama Su, Nala Se: these are iconic of the vibe I want the phonetic system to embody. So, what features from this data set should I keep for the phonetic inventory?

I dismiss Glascretia and Razoral outright since they have a very “fake English vibe.” Same with Protas and Melkorr, since they just seem to be plays on Proteas (Greek myth) and Melkor (Tolkien) respectively. Also, I throw Halle Burtoni right out the window because every other Kaminoan we meet sounds like their name came from the same language. What the heck happened here?? Whatever language she’s named in, it’s not the one I’m building.

Get rid of thalina, too; I don’t like the <th> just because. Additionally, I’m not sure what the <h> in nahra represents (is it silent? pronounced? part of a digraph with <r>????), so we’re gonna ignore it for now. Finally, the terminal <d> in uded doesn’t fit the vibe I want to go for. I consider keeping the terminal <s> in Su Des but eventually decide against it.

From Tal An and Erla, I decide that approximants can occur finally.

I take <c> and <k> to represent the same phoneme.

For absolutely no good reason, I have always assumed the <wh> in aiwha was inspired by Maori, so I’ll count that as one phoneme. However, I decide to have all approximants have a voiced and voiceless form. So, I end up not using the Maori rendering anyways.

Great, overall we’ve got what looks like it could be a very CV syllable structure. In order to match the vibe I’m going for, I won’t complicate that too much.

We have several C<l> consonant clusters, so we’ll say that it can occur initially. And since we said all approximants can occur finally, we’ll just say all approximants can occur in this position, too. Plus, since I’m mostly just doing this project to amuse Daitoshi, this also allows for their OC’s name to be permissible in the system.

Now, what is going on with these words from the Aiwha Pod short story?? Suddenly double letters. Okay. We’ll say <a> and <i> have long forms, and then we’ll say <u> does as well for a more balanced system. Same with <s> and then <h>, again for balance. Do these words represent diphthongs? Meh. I’ll say no, they’re bisyllabic because I want them to be.

After all that, we’re left with :

m /m/ n /n/

p /p/ b /b/ t /t/ d /d/ k/c /k/

s /s/ ss /sː/ h /h/ hh /hː/

lh /l̥/ l /l/ rh /ɻ̊/ r /ɻ/ wh /ʍ/ w /w/

i /i/ ii /iː/ u /u/ uu /uː/ e /e/ o /o/ a /ä/ aa /äː/

ai /äɪ̯/ au /äʊ̯/

(C1)(C2)V(C3)

C1 = -approximant if occuring in cluster

C2 = +voiced approximant

C3 = +nasal or +voiced approximant

Yay! Let’s work on naming some numbers now.

We’ll obviously want unique names for 0-4. Additionally, the number 9 is very significant in the GAR; squads consist of nine troopers, so every other division ends up divisible by nine. Cool, let’s give 9 a unique name and let it play a role in counting. I also give 36 and 144 unique names, thinking of things like “dozen” and “gross” and “score” in English. Aside from these, we’ll want the various powers of 4 to be something simple.

Futz around with the phonemic inventory, maybe drop it into a word generator, and here are the unique number name around which all other numbers will be based:

And there you have it! The basics, at least. I’ve worked out the names of number 0-64 with which, as long as you know the powers of four, you can work out any number you’d like up to 206 billion~!

Additionally, I decided to create a numeral system (I mean, it’s only four characters, so why the heck not?) very loosely inspired by the structure of the DNA nucelobases (adenine, guanine, thymine cytosine), so here’s that:

And here is a list of the names of all of the numbers through 64! The general rule is simply that if the smaller integer appears first, it is multiplied by the following. If the larger integer appears first, it is added to the following. Aside from a few of the earlier numbers, it’s pretty regular! 9 lends its name to its multiples, and of course 36 (and 144) have unique names, as mentioned above. After hitting 64, the numbers repeat (the same way that they do in English after 100).

*both rai hhel and kwado lho are used, though the latter is rarer

Aaaand for examples in this system, I thought I’d convert some clone designations into it :3

Rex 7567 → 1312033

each digit: lho hhel lho kwa abo hhel hhel

full number: rai hhelto lho whenau kwaiil hhelte hhel

abbreviated: tehhel tekwa abo hhelte hhel

wooooow you can immediately see why they wouldn’t go with base-4 designations haha

Fives 5555 → 1112303

each digit: lho lho lho kwa hhel abo hhel

full number: rai te lho whenau kwaiil hhelrai hhel

abbreviated: telho tekwa hhel abo hhel

maybe we will just call him “Telhon” in Kaminoan :)

Cody 2224 → 202300

each digit: kwa abo kwa hhel abo abo

full number: kwate whenau kwaiil hhelrai

abbreviated: kwate dokwa abo abo (or perhaps “abora” for “double zero”)

I accidentally made his name start with “Kwate” which sounds enough like his nickname I suppose :)

And that’s it! If you read this far, um, thanks (unless you’re Daitoshi: curse you for inspiring me to create this). idk why you would, but anyone is welcome to use this for whatever purpose. Would love to see what you come up with if you do, though, so hmu~! ;)

#star wars #words #kaminoans #kaminoan language #conlang #star wars worldbuilding #praying there aren't any typos or mistakes in this #cause i am outta energy for proofing it again #the tables are absolute eyesores #bc tumblr apparently hates html tables #and also image quality #ugh.

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nahimjustfeelingit-writes · 4 years

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Vampr Erik Origin

Okay so let me make a disclaimer:

I had to do a lot of research to try and create his back story in summary form. I basically learned a lot of shit that I didn’t know so with that being said, you guys can feel free to fact check me because I feel like this needs to be factual as far as the history of it goes. Also, Erik was born/reborn in an era that is very touchy. I mean, we go through crap as black people everyday but I used some very degrading words to represent how it was back in this time. If this is offensive, please feel free to let me know I will change it. I don’t want to offend or make anyone feel bad. So, here it is! This is the origin I came up with.

Erik Stevens is his alias but he was born Ricardo Dupoux. Erik was born in 1856 in New Orleans, Louisiana. Just 29 years before he became a vampire.

Erik’s mother was born in 1836. Her name was Fabiola Adonis and she is from Louisiana but her parents and family (Erik’s grandparents) are from Sainte-Dominigue which is now known as Haiti.

Erik’s father was named Jacques Dupoux. He was born in 1827 in Cuba and he migrated to Louisiana with his family when he was just four years old.

Both sides of Erik’s family originated in Sainte-Dominigue and began to migrate out during the black Haitian Revolution as free people of color. The Haitian Revolution was a successful insurrection by self-liberated slaves against French colonial rule in Saint-Domingue, now the sovereign state of Haiti. The revolt began on 22 August 1791, and ended in 1804 with the former colony's independence. It involved blacks, mulattoes, French, Spanish, and British participants—with the ex-slave Toussaint Louverture emerging as Haiti's most charismatic hero. The revolution was the only slave uprising that led to the founding of a state which was both free from slavery, and ruled by non-whites and former captives. It is now widely seen as a defining moment in the history of the Atlantic World.

Haitian Vodou, is an Afro-American religion that developed in Afro-Haitian communities amid the Atlantic slave trade between the 16th and 19th centuries. It arose through a process of syncretism between the traditional religions of West Africa and the Roman Catholic form of Christianity. Vodou is an oral tradition practiced by extended families that inherit familial spirits, along with the necessary devotional practices, from their elders. In the cities, local hierarchies of priestesses or priests (manbo and oungan), “children of the spirits” (ounsi), and ritual drummers (ountògi) comprise more formal “societies” or “congregations” (sosyete). In these congregations, knowledge is passed on through a ritual of initiation (kanzo) in which the body becomes the site of spiritual transformation. Many Vodou practitioners were involved in the Haitian Revolution which overthrew the French colonial government, abolished slavery, and formed modern Haiti. The Roman Catholic Church left for several decades following the Revolution, allowing Vodou to become Haiti's dominant religion. They referred to themselves as “serving the spirits” more so than using Voudou to refer to Haitian religion.

Jacques Doupoux and Fabiola Adonis were well respected within the Vodou community. Erik’s father was a hounsi bosale and Artisan. Hounsi is essentially a dedicated member of Vodou, an apprentice of priests. His mother, Fabiola, an Ounsi, oversaw the liturgical singing and shaking the chacha rattle which is used to control the rhythm during ceremonies. She had a voice that used to lull Erik to sleep. Jacques wanted Erik to follow in his footsteps and later become an oungan; a Vodou priest. He was born as a “child of the house” or a pititt-caye. Being an oungan provides an individual with both social status and material profit. Erik was present for his father's initiation when he was just a baby with his mother in a shared Ounfò; Vodou temple. There were four levels of initiation that Jacques Doupoux went through. That sealed Erik’s future.

The Ounfò was a basic shack in Bayou St. John. The main ceremonial space within the Ounfò is known as the peristil. brightly painted posts hold up the roof, which is often made of corrugated iron but sometimes thatched. The central one of these posts is the poto mitan or poteau mitan, which is used as a pivot during ritual dances and serves as the "passage of the spirits" by which the Loa; the spirits, enter the room during ceremonies. It is around this central post that offerings, including both vèvè and animal sacrifices, are made.

Free people of color owned the most property in Louisiana but of course, that didn’t go down in history because the whites didn’t like it. As for Erik’s family, his mother and father were free people of color that became sugar planters, for slave owners, and they also shared Haitian refining techniques to successfully granulate sugar. Erik favors his father more so than his mother, sometimes confused as his father’s younger brother.

The Colfax massacre and the Coushatta massacre happened in 1873. This sparked fear for Erik’s family and they held a certain Fete for Lwa which is a public ceremony. The drums beat, the congregation started to sing and dance for the Lwa. The Lwa came to the ceremony via possession. The Lwa prophesied, healed people, cleansed people, and blessed them and assisted them in resolving issues. Erik was 17 years old and he didn’t share this with his parents but he was running for his life from a group of white Southerners one day when he was walking the bayou of New Orleans. Erik ended up sleeping in Baton Rouge until the morning.

Erik often stays within the Ounfò, well into adult age. He became a hounsi bosale like his father, often participating as a ritual drummer or an ountògi. He would sing specific songs in Haitian Creole with some words of African languages incorporated in it. He was a Food Artisan like his mother. He admired her craftsmanship in the kitchen. Cheeses, breads, fruit preserves, cured meats, beverages, oils, and vinegars were some of her handmade specialties. This is one thing that attracted women to Erik besides his handsome features. He was Strong, tall, studly, rough around the edges and not afraid to challenge someone to a fight or a gun battle. Erik was charming, protective, heroic, funny, cocky which earned him the nickname “Big Ego Ricardo”. Erik was hard-working, religious, smart, sculpted, dependable, and an amazing lover in bed.

Long dreadlocks, whiskey-colored eyes, full, soft lips, and a smile with dimples so deep it charmed anyone. He wore fundamental ivory cotton band collar work shirts unbuttoned to show off his defined pectorals because he was proud of his body, sometimes paired the shirts with a vest, cotton brown or black knickers, riding boots, and a series of Vodou jewelry around his neck and on his fingers, some with symbols representing Papa Legba, La Sirene, Ogoun King, and Baron Samedi. During Vodou rituals, Erik would wear a cotton cloth around his head like a bandana, bare torso because of the amount of sweating he does during drumming to keep up with the dancers, Vodou symbols painted on his face to represent whichever Loa they were serving, white linen pants and bare feet.

He was obsessed with guns. He would often go down to the bayou to practice with stolen pocket pistols, shooting empty glass bottles and bean cans. He’s a protector, he did this just in case his family were in danger. The symbol of Vodou love on one of his ring fingers is what attracted his late wife, Justine LeBlanc to him when he was 27 years old. He was selling artisan bread one afternoon from an open shop window on Bourbon Street. Justine was six years younger than Erik. She was a Creole of color from Louisiana, like Erik, except her family were sent to Louisiana on slave ships from sub-Saharan Africa instead of Haiti like Erik’s family. She spoke a bit of English, and French with words from African languages. Erik spoke English and Haitian Creole with a little bit of Portuguese and Spanish.

Justine LeBlanc worked closely with Marie Laveau, who was rumored to be the granddaughter of a powerful priestess in Sainte-Dominigue, who began to dominate New Orleans Vodou that later became Louisiana Voodoo. These spiritual leaders served a racially diverse, mostly female, congregation. Weekly worship services took place in the homes of Voodoo leaders. Their sanctuaries were characterized by spectacular altars, laden with statues and pictures of the saints, candles, flowers, fruit, and other offerings. Voodoo ceremonies consisted of Roman Catholic prayers, chanting, drumming, and dancing. Vodou was brought of Haitian origin, however, the type practiced in Louisiana later in years is almost always known as Voodoo.

Erik was known to be a ladies man. He spent time flirting and fucking woman within his community. Pussy was practically thrown at him. Justine, however, changed all of that. They spent so much time together within one summer that Erik decided that he wanted to jump the broom with her which was symbolic of sweeping out of the old and sweeping in to the new to welcome a new household to the community. Justine lost her virginity to him the evening after their marriage and that’s when they started having children. Erik has two young twin girls; Rose Fabiola Dupoux and Felicie Ines Dupoux. After that, Justine couldn’t conceive anymore which she was often depressed about. Erik wanted to be fruitful because his mother came down very ill when he was five and she couldn’t conceive either. It was either her life or her ovaries so she had them removed.

Despite everything going on in America with slavery and racism, Erik; Ricardo, lived a happy life. He was feared and respected, a following of close male friends were like his comrades. They had his back, Erik had theirs. That all didn’t last very long. In June of 1884, when Erik was just 28 years old, things began to make a turn for the worst. Erik’s father, Jacques Dupoux, was lynched. With the 1880s dawning, a new era of violence ensued. White supremacy represented a central tenant of their platform and led to even greater levels of violence as they tried to reverse the advances made for African Americans during Reconstruction. They capitalized on rumors that black crime had expanded after the abolition of slavery. As a result, the number of lynchings soared across the South and hundreds of lives were being taken. Lynch mobs often justified their actions as attempts to defend white Southern womanhood from “libidinous” black males.

This angered Erik, causing him to gather a following of men who also lost family. Erik led the revolt to fight back white supremacy. They attached about 15 homes and killed between 55 to 60 whites throughout Louisiana. They also arrived on a local sugar and cotton plantation that often sought help from Erik’s own family for harvesting sugar cane. The revolt and about 20 slaves burned the plantation to the ground but that wasn’t before they hacked the entire family to death. Erik was made public enemy number one. His face was on wanted posters throughout the South but he was depicted wearing a scarf around his mouth and nose. Of course with Erik’s actions, some of his family and friends suffered. Vodou rituals were invaded and the members slaughtered. Marie Leveau and her following were protected but not Erik’s lineage.

Ricardo Dupoux AKA Erik Stevens returned home after successfully burning down another plantation and killing the entire family, including the children, execution style in 1886. Marie Laveau warned Justine that Erik was dangerous and he would endanger her and the children if she stayed with them. Marie instructed Justine to bring her something that belonged to Erik, something sentimental. Justine brought her Erik’s father’s ring that he wore around his neck. Marie performed a ritual that later informed Justine that Erik was in grave danger and this life as Ricardo Dupoux would soon come to a bloody, gory, gruesome ending. Marie told Justine that she couldn’t interfere because that could possibly go badly. Justine had to keep that big secret to herself to protect her children no matter how much she loved and adored Erik.

Erik wasn’t himself anymore. He became this angry, rude, vengeful man that killed without a backwards glance. He also turned to what is said to be evil magic in Vodou. Instead of becoming an Oungan, Erik became a Bokor and an occultist. A Bokor is a Vodou witch for hire who is said to serve the loa “with both hands”, practicing for both good and evil. Their black magic includes the creation of zombies and the creation of ‘ouangas’ talismans that house spirits. Bloods are usually chosen from birth but Erik was instead initiated in. He found the spirits, the orisha’s the Eruziles, not a priest in the flesh. The whites kept crossing the line in a spiritual and physical sense, it became Erik’s right to protect himself and his family with curses and hexes.

Erik caused moderate to severe suffering to those he seeked revenge on by hexing them and also using dark charms such as curses, the most heinous act on an individual; the worst kind of dark magic. He performed blood maledictions, a specific type of curse that may not kill the target but can remain within the victim's body, and be passed down as a genetic defect that can resurface generations later. Erik would inflict intense, excruciating pain on his victims, poison them, and cause flames called Move Dife which means “bad fire”, an enormous flame infused with dark magic to seek out living targets. Fabiola and Justine were afraid and they didn’t support Erik’s new choices. The light she saw in her son was indeed gone. He was of greatest fear within his community and within the Southern white community.

How did Erik meet his demise?

It happened in June of 1888, five months before Erik’s 33rd birthday. The White league and the Ku Klux Klan had been deactivated since the 1870s but some members worked closely together to hunt down and kill Ricardo Dupoux, soon to be known as Erik Stevens. He decided to use Erik Stevens as an alias since his name was so well known in Louisiana where he lived. No one besides the people close to him knew how his face looked since he wore it covered but his name however was remembered. If things didn’t go as planned for him and he needed to flee with his Mother, Wife, and children, he could have his name changed to Erik Stevens. A trusted friend named Augusto Richard’s wife named Beatrice Richard and her five children were held at gunpoint in their home. They found out where Augusto lives and used that as they way of finding Ricardo.

From what they tell him, Augusto’s family will be freed if he agrees to help the Southern white men capture and kill Ricardo Dupoux. At first, Augusto declined and said that Ricardo is a trusted friend of his. They punished him by beating his wife and threatened to hang her from a structure similar to a gallow. Augusto finally gives in, joining forces with the evil white men in exchange for his family's protection. Ricardo and Augusto have been friends since they were children. Augusto was sort of a co-planner with Ricardo to attack white supremacy and racists homes along with plantations. Augusto fabricated a new place to attack, suggesting that him and Ricardo go alone this time. Ricardo agreed without hesitation because he trusted Augusto. They arrived by horse outside of New Orleans near Maurepas Swamp……..

_______________

“Augusto...poukisa nou is it la?” Ricardo asked Augusto in Haitian Creole why they were there. He didn’t like speaking English just in case he was overheard. Ricardo’s eyes squinted suspiciously around him before he cut his eyes that looked black in the dark at Augusto.

“Mwen regrèt, frè,” Augusto spoke with a shaky voice, tears flooding his eyes. He told Ricardo that he was sorry.

Ricardo pulls out his pistol, aiming it at the shadows of the trees. He couldn’t believe he was being set up by someone that is supposed to be his friend. Ricardo told his wife and mother that he would be home safely and for them not to worry. He couldn’t trust anyone now. If he got out of this alive, he was going to cut ties with his followers.

“Well, well, well...look what we got here, a nigger with a gun!!”

Ricardo follows the source of that thick southern accent echoing in the night and finds a white man standing behind him with a gun pointed at his temple.

“Drop it, boy, or I will splatter this here swamp with ya monkey brains,” He threatened while making his gun click. Ricardo could see out of his peripheral more white men stepping out of the shadows. The moon light made the weapons in their hands shine.

“Listen to him nigger!!!” One yelled.

“AIN'T SO TOUGH NOW!!!” Another yelled while a series of laughter came soon after.

“Listen, I know ya can speak English, boy. Ya friend here told us everything. How ya niggers get a hold of books I wouldn’t understand,” He laughs before spitting in his face, “I’m gonna enjoy killing ya, just like ya enjoyed killing my friends ya fucking animal. This is how we’re gonna celebrate the ending of slavery...we’re gonna gut ya, and then we’re gonna throw ya filthy dead fucking body in the swamp so the gators can finish ya.”

The foul breath of this white man would have made Ricardo puke if it wasn’t for the gun pointed at him.

“Hey, Jenson, pass me my knife!” He yells, “I wanna Kill this one slowly.”

Like a swarm of stinky flies, the white men crowded Ricardo, some kicking him in his ribs, others in his face, bloodying him up. Ricardo didn’t drop to his knees willingly, he took each and every blow like a champion, even when his vision blurred from the blood trickling from a gash in his head from being pistol whipped. Augusto stood watching the entire thing. He was Disgusted with himself for allowing it to happen.

“Should we kill his wife? His mama? His little girls?!!!!” One of them punched him in the face while two men on each side kept him still since he’s so damn strong. It was almost inhumanly strong.

“AUGUSTO OU FUKIN TRÈT!!!” Ricardo yelled, before spitting out blood on the dirt covered ground. He called Augusto a fucking traitor, “Mwen gen yon fanmi! ti bebe mwen yo! ti bebe mwen yo! ou trèt!” Ricardo growled angrily with his deep fearful voice. He could only think about his family right now. What if some of these men were watching his house right now? They definitely were plotting something besides beating the living shit out of him in the swap.

“Kick this nigger down!!! It’s six of you and one of him!!!!”

A blow struck Ricardo’s spine so hard he felt it snap. He was on his stomach, his cheek hitting the dirt painfully. One foot was placed to the back of his head while angry tears fell from his eyes.

“Any last words? And say it in English before I slice your goddamn tongue off,” The man with the boot to his head spoke harshly.

Ricardo clenched his jaw while breathing in the dirt. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction, however, the asshole in him wanted to toy with them.

“...Which one of ya is da father of Helen Landry?” He asks.

It was silent for a second until the boot on the back of his head was gone, being replaced with a hand yanking him by his dreads, lifting his head from the ground. Ricardo smiles smugly, his bloody smile almost as sinister as the blood from the gash in his head flooding his eyes.

“Let me ax ya something...are ya the reason my little Helen is dying? Doctor says she only has three days left...ya poison my little girl with ya voodoo magic?”

“I CURSED ya little girl with my Vodou magic…” Ricardo spits his blood in his face, “And if I were ya, I would go check on her, Doctors don’t always tell da truth.”

Augusto flinched when he witnessed Ricardo being kicked in the face. His jaw had to be broken now. He was being lifted off of the ground again, a sharp whimper of pain escaping his mouth. His feet gave out beneath him and now he was being dragged. His chest and abs were covered in dirt just like his handsome, swollen, and bloody face. His busted lip drooped and leaked blood while his groggy voice tried to form sentences. The men laughed at him but all Ricardo did was look at Augusto with unblinking eyes, one of which displayed broken vessels.

“Anything else ya got to say, nigger?”

The source of the voice didn’t matter to Ricardo. All he kept thinking about was his family and how he failed them. His father was probably ashamed. Ricardo looked towards the sky. If only he could call on Baron Samedi or Maman Brigette. He wasn’t in the safety of his Ounfò either. He could only hope that at this moment his mother, Fabiola, was summoning the spirits.

“Guess not, hold him down.”

With a dull, jagged knife, Ricardo was stabbed in his stomach. He felt like he was punched. The impact pushed him back a little and he wheezed. A tearing sensation and a noise followed. The pain took a while to kick but he could feel the blood trickling. When it was finally withdrawn, he felt something hot and cold at the same time, pulling the skin with it as it's removed. Ricardo’s cry was a brilliant sound to them, guttural chokes mixed with an agonized roar. His fists clenched and shook each time his skin was being torn to shreds. The knife rotated and the sound of his muscles and nerves being gouged growing louder. Then, without warning, the white man jerked it all the way into his stomach, until the shiny metal had disappeared inside him and the black handle was pushing against his broken skin.

“Die Coon!!!” They yelled in unison before celebrating with loud hoots.

“Look at him choking! This ugly motherfucker is bleeding out! Let’s take him to the water!”

Ricardo could feel his body falling to the ground. His hand clutched his wound but blood seeped between his fingers. He felt weak, his eyes opening and closing. Augusto stood there spewing apology after apology while crying hysterically.

“As for ya,” the white man that stabbed Ricardo multiple times drops his knife in the dirt, reaches in his back pocket with his bloody, cut up hand and pulled out a gun, “what? Did ya really think we were gonna let ya go free? Ya just another disgusting nigger too, and ya nigger bitch, ya nigger kids? Dem dead too.”

Ricardo watched with low eyes while Augusto took his last breath before being shot in the head, point blank range.

“Wastin’ all dese good bullets,” the white man pocketed his gun again, “Hall em’ up! Let’s take em’ swimming!”

_____________

Crowded tabletops with tiny flickering lamps; stones sitting in oil baths; a crucifix; murky bottles of roots and herbs steeped in alcohol; shiny new bottles of rum, scotch, gin, perfume, and almond-sugar syrup. On one side was an altar arranged in three steps and covered in gold and black contact paper. On the top step an open pack of filterless Pall Malls lay next to a cracked and dusty candle in the shape of a skull. A walking stick with its head carved to depict a huge erect penis leaned against the wall beside it. On the opposite side of the room was a small cabinet, its top littered with vials of powders and herbs. On the ceiling and walls of the room were baskets, bunches of leaves hung to dry, and smoke-darkened lithographs.

This is where Ricardo Dupoux rested upon a makeshift bed surrounded by oil burning candles. A sulfurous rotten-egg smell that is often associated with marshes and mudflats occupies the room. His entire body ached and the sharp pain prickled his scalp. Licking his dry lips with his equally dry tongue, Ricardo tried looking around with his sore eyes but the discomfort caused him to close them. It felt damp and gloomy around him, clearly nothing is quite what it seems to be. Ricardo could feel a powerful energy surrounding him, if only he could move his body. A few rickety floorboards creaked like someone was sneaking up on him and it made Ricardo jumpy. He wasn’t physically able to help himself.

“Ricardo Dupoux, ki sa yon sipriz bèl eh?”

A seductive voice of a woman spoke to him in Haitian Creole. This wasn’t a pleasant surprise exactly.

“Kiyes ou ye?” His voice was so hoarse and his throat felt raw.

“Who muh? Well...I’m yuh rescuer of course, handsome.”

“Kisa...ki kote sa a?” Ricardo coughs painfully. He could taste blood in the back of his throat.

“Well, don’t Yuh sound sexy speaking deh Creole to Mama Dalma. Yuh in muh shack, Ricardo.”

“Mama Dalma? Prètès Vodou a?” He spoke with astonishment.

“So, muh assumin’ yuh heard stories about muh from way back when...what else do yuh know bout’ me?”

“...Nothing.” He finally speaks English.

“Yuh know so much about muh voodoo mystic powers in the Caribbean 175 years ago…I’m honored.”

Finally, standing above his shell of a body was Tia Dalma herself. Tia Dalma was a practitioner of voodoo, a hoodoo priestess with fathomless powers that was perceived as a legend. Supposedly, she has uncanny powers to foretell the future, to summon up demons, and to look deep into men’s souls. She’s mysterious and beautiful with delicate patterns accentuating her hypnotic eyes, long but slender dreadlocks like him, deep melanin skin so smooth and unblemished, and lips painted black. She wore a sheer black dress that showed off her nudity beneath it, so many curves that looked delicious, and a mystical necklace dangling between her small breasts. Ricardo could feel her seductive energy enticing him into a tangled net. She playfully giggles while stroking Ricardo’s bare, sweaty chest with her long black nail flirtatiously.

“Poor baby, him carve yuh up?” She spoke with her Jamaican Patois. Mama Dalma looks Ricardo up and down like she wanted to mount him. She was so happy she couldn’t hide her beautiful smile.

“Did ya heal me, Mama Dalma? I thought I was gon’ die by a white man’s hand.”

“I’ve seen yuh fight big brawla, I’ve seen yuh cap a shot, I’m impressed wit’ yuh...haven’t seen a man deh brave in a while...queng dem white boys.”

“...ya been watching me?” He squints his whiskey colored eyes,“who ya for ya to be watching me?”

“Mhm, I been watching yuh, handsome...It’s because I want to save yuh...give yuh a better life than this.”

Ricardo was shivering, his skin pale and cool, difficulty breathing, mentally confused, and his blood pressure kept dropping. His chest was rapidly moving from breathing too fast, heart rate beating so fast it was almost painful, and he felt like he was running a fever.

“Easy nuh, yuh going into septic shock.” She takes her hand to pet his dreaded hair like a baby with the back of her hand.

“W-what?” His lips trembled. He was numb.

“Awoah. Muh herbes are keeping yuh stable but if I take deh herbes away...yuh die.”

Ricardo closes his eyes.

“Unless...yuh have two options, handsome.”

“One’s that I should trust? How do I know ya not poisoning me? Hm?”

“I’m gonna ignore deh...here are yuh options. Yuh can stay here on muh table and die slowly...or I can give yuh immortality.”

“Imòtalite? Baron Samedi?” He almost choked on his own spit from trying to speak.

“Better than the power of a Loa...yuh be immortal until meeting deh true death. Yuh have superhuman physical abilities, senses, flight, and healing.”

“What power is dat?” Ricardo’s eyes are glossy. He didn’t have much time. Mama Dalma was cunning, she could have healed him with her voodoo but what’s better? Healing him with the possibility of him dying again or turning him into what she became 175 years ago back in her little shack in a tree in Cuba, hanging onto her last breath. Ricardo was perfect in every way and she wanted to walk the earth with someone close to her...someone attractive and strong.

“Yuh ain’t got much time...make a decision, Ricardo Dupoux,” Tia strokes his face, “It could all be yours…”

Ricardo’s eyelids fluttered before he nodded his head. Anything to stay alive. Anything to get revenge. If he was going to come back stronger and immortal, he could wipe out every single one of them. He needed to get off of that table. Mama Dalma was convincing. Maybe it was her magic that persuaded him but none of that mattered.

“I’m glad Yuh agreed.”

Sharp, fangs extended from her teeth while she looked at him excitedly with hungry eyes. She came down on Ricardo with superhuman speed like a blur, causing his eyes to grow wide with surprise. It was almost painless, more like a pinprick considering how his body felt at the moment. The sharp points sank into his flesh like a knife to soft butter. His body twitched as his blood pooled around the back of his head, dripping to the floor of the shack and seeping between the wood. He started feeling even more woozy and lightheaded. She was really applying pressure with her fangs. He could feel his body going cold and then it felt as if his soul had left his body. Ricardo didn’t know how long this went on but it felt like forever.

Mama Dalma retracts her fangs, lifting her face from the crook of his neck slowly before staring down at Ricardo with her enchanting eyes. Her fangs pop out again and now she bites her own wrist before placing it over Ricardo’s mouth. He hesitated at first but Mama Dalma opened his mouth for him. Ricardo tasted his own blood before from his busted lip or if his gums were bleeding. He even tasted blood during a sacrifice at a Vodou ritual. It was vile with a salty metallic taste. However, Mama Dalma’s blood was surprisingly sweet, and scrumptious. Just that small amount dripping on his tongue gave him the effects of alcohol consumption.

“Deh is enough, Ricardo,” She tells him, “Ricardo...deh is enough.” She says with a more stern voice.

Ricardo wraps his hand around her wrist, applying pressure to keep it there. He could feel his body changing for the better already. Her blood...he couldn’t stop. He grunted, growled, and moaned from the taste. His tongue swiped her wrist and his own teeth tried to bite her for more but he was still so weak.

“Ricardo, deh is ENOUGH, no more!!!!!”

Mama Dalma yanked her wrist away speedily, her eyes staring down at her wound healing before her. She gave Ricardo a cold look, one that has him wishing he would have listened.

“When I tell yuh to stop, yuh listen,” She spoke with a spiteful tongue.

“It was so good,” Ricardo spoke with a weakened voice, “I want m-more.”

“Soon, muh child…” Mama Dalma kisses his lips, “Now we go to rest,” Mama Dalma wraps her arms around Ricardo and then with her superhuman speed they were out of her shack and laying in a dug up ditch. The soil was cold against Ricardo’s back. Mama Dalma places him in a wooden coffin, the moonlight creating a halo around her. His eyes drooped shut and he could feel his body shutting down like his organs were no longer working. Mama Dalma crawled into the coffin with him, resting her head on his chest and wrapping a single leg around his waist.

“When yuh wake, muh child, yuh will be Erik Stevens now...Ricardo Douboux died tonight.”

Mama Dalma kissed his cold cheek before she shut the coffin so they could finally rest until tomorrow night when Erik Stevens will finally be immortal.

#killmonger #Erik Killmonger #black panther killmonger #nahimjustfeelingit-writes

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strvngcrs · 4 years

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『 adam brody. forty. cis male. he/him. 』 oh heavens, is that DANIEL ABRAMS from FAIR LANE i see roaming around mapleview? minnie may’s always calling them -BROODING & -EVASIVE. i happen to think they’re not that bad! they’re a pretty cool HORROR AUTHOR and every time i’ve seen them, they’ve always been +DEBONAIR & +ELOQUENT. i hope i see them around again!

classically rolls in ridiculously late bc i forgot i had to work last night & then proceeded to sleep in today wooo !! good afternoon ghouls, it’s ya girl maia, finally here to deliver the definition of hot mess with good intentions.

GENERAL

FULL NAME. daniel elijah abrams.

NICKNAMES. dan, danny.

AGE & BIRTHDATE. 40 years old ; may 4, 1980.

GENDER & PRONOUNS. cis male ; he/him.

ORIENTATION. heterosexual.

MARITAL STATUS. estranged.

RELIGION. jewish ( non-practicing ).

OCCUPATION. horror author.

INSPIRATION. bill denbrough ( it ), donnie darko ( donnie darko ), lucas scott ( one tree hill ), stephen king.

PHYSICAL

HAIR COLOUR. black.

EYE COLOUR. dark brown.

BUILD. athletic.

MARKS. freckles scarcely spread across his entire body.

TATTOOS. none.

PIERCINGS. none.

HEIGHT. 5'11".

FACECLAIM. adam brody.

PERSONALITY

ZODIAC. taurus.

ALIGNMENT. chaotic neutral.

HOGWARTS. ravenclaw.

LABEL. the arcane.

POSITIVE TRAITS. cheeky, debonair, driven, eloquent, resilient, solicitous.

NEGATIVE TRAITS. brooding, evasive, inquisitive, sarcastic, stoic, stubborn.

HOBBIES. smokes like a chimney while writing until he forgets what day of the week it is, dabbles in hunting & fishing (thanks @ his dad), labels all crime / thriller genres as ‘predictable’ but continues to watch them, obsesses over & relentlessly criticizes his own work, drinks heavily & passionately plays moonlight sonata or fur elise as if he’s betoven’s disciple.

BACKGROUND

PLACE OF BIRTH. california.

CURRENT RESIDENCE. mapleview, north carolina.

NATIONALITY. american.

ETHNICITY. ashkenazi jewish.

PARENTS. judith miller & mr abrams.

SIBLINGS. mia miller.

BIRTH ORDER. eldest.

CHILDREN. penelope abrams.

EDUCATION. university of california, los angeles; bachelor of arts in english.

LANGUAGES. english, some spanish & french.

HISTORY

EARLY LIFE. born to THE judith miller and some newspaper editor, daniel was raised by the latter and notoriously abandoned by the former. well, not completely abandoned - there’s an old shoebox containing a few letters as proof - but that was the only source of communication in their otherwise absent relationship. while little danny boy didn’t fully understand why he couldn’t see his mother, he sought out an alternative solution by watching her movies. his father wasn’t aware, at first, and dan created this extravagant fantasy of the person he thought she was based on the roles she played. however, once papa abrams found out his son was watching these movies (which were probably not fit for children in the first place lmao oop), he begrudgingly revealed the bitter truth. being forced to come to terms with the fact that his own mother willingly abandoned him with his father, daniel didn’t fully understand what it meant; he couldn’t properly process why. the hurt of absent mother was expressed more out of anger, feeling as though there must have been something wrong with him. there were fewer and fewer letters sent to judith until he gave up altogether and thus, dan’s out of control behavior was born.

TEENAGE FEVER. SUICIDE MENTION TW. he struggled in school. his emotions betrayed him. instead of relishing a happy childhood, daniel found himself pushing everyone away, getting into fights, sneaking out late at night to run around the city streets with his friends and get into all sorts of trouble with them. he couldn’t count on his hands how many times the police picked him up and brought him to his dad’s doorstep. it only got worse once one of his best friends was found dead, written off as a suicide, though it didn’t add up in dan’s eyes and seemed so much more sinister. the young man was nearly deemed to be a lost cause, until he discovered his passion for writing.

language arts or literature was the last thing anyone would ever think to group with daniel abrams. but his english teacher noticed how well he could articulate his thoughts and feelings on paper, and submitted one of his pieces to a writing contest, which earned dan the win and a cash prize. bewildered by a talent he hadn’t even realized was in him, daniel embraced it. he started writing in a journal ( which he kept safely tucked away beneath the mattress of his bed ), documenting every feeling and thought as a way to express his emotions in a more productive manner. this talent earned him a full ride scholarship to ucla with a major in literature and plans of diving into some sort or creative writing career or perhaps becoming an english teacher, to follow in the footsteps of his high school teacher who he came to idolize.

mere days into his freshman year, however, his high school sweetheart showed up in the middle of the night at his dorm with a positive pregnancy test. it was then the chaotic world as he knew it turned a new leaf, revealing a silver lining in the form of their daughter, penelope, who daniel hadn’t a clue, just yet, would save him. and so a shotgun wedding was quickly planned around the pair, both families either completely supportive or in utter disbelief. it was quick, it was cheap(ish), and it was stressful as all heck. but they were young, and in love, and were looking forward to starting a family together, despite it being a little earlier than initially planned.

“ADULT”HOOD. fast forward five years, and they’re signing divorce papers. fortunately, it wasn’t messy. the two had simply grown apart as they matured in their respective ways, and remaining together was only causing a rift to develop between the two. the last thing they wanted, for the sake of their daughter, was built up resentment to tear the little family apart. his wife, who daniel initially thought to be the love of his life, blossomed into an absolute goddess; she was ambitious and knew exactly what she wanted. daniel, on the other hand, was still somewhat caught up in his ‘bad boy’ habits of drinking excessively and his career was still pretty up in the air. the two just didn’t compliment each others’ lifestyles anymore.

daniel moved out but remained in california, settling for a bachelor’s apartment where he was able to have penelope every weekend. during this time, he finally cracked down and worked on finishing a novel he’d started years prior. within a year, he found a publisher who took interest in his grotesque works, and by the time daniel was twenty seven, his first bestseller hit the shelves, changing his life for the better with the ability to provide for his daughter without stress of landing another odd job ever again.

as his fame increased, so did his desire to slink back into the shadows away from the limelight. at first, he enjoyed the wholesome book signings by day and grungy celebratory benders by night. but it grew old pretty fast and he certainly didn’t want to end up as another washed up shmuck. so, on a whim, daniel decided to move out of california completely, removing himself from the toxic lifestyle he’d grown accustomed to and shacking up on a beautiful piece of land in the rocky mountains of north carolina. the serenity and scenery certainly aided in his inspiration, as well as his unacknowledged lowkey addictions slowly being rehabilitated from his bloodstream.

OLD YELLER. now, in his utmost prime at forty years old, he’s written numerous cult classics, a few of which have successful movie adaptations. he was lucky enough to land himself in a second marriage, though.... that one is now deteriorating as well because he literally doesn’t know how to maintain a healthy relationship. he received full custody of his daughter when she was sixteen, under the unfortunate circumstance of her mother’s untimely death. although they’d been separated for nearly twenty years, daniel was still very much affected by the loss, more so empathetically for penelope. he’s still hooked on the drink, though he’s definitely calmed down quite a bit from when he was a young buck. basically a messy, depressy old soul who uses sarcasm to deflect his true feelings.

CONNECTIONS

ESTRANGED WIFE. first marriage was a bust, and the second is turning out to be no better. they haven’t hit rock bottom just yet, in his opinion (which would be finalizing a divorce lmao), and he’s unsure if they should work things out or not but also really.......doesn’t wanna go through the process of another divorce. plus he likes her and deep down adores their bickering. the reason(s) why things started falling apart between them can be discussed of course. lowkey debating on whippin this up as a big official wc but.... if anybody already here would like to snag it, i would 100% mclove it.

COLLABORATORS. literally anyone he’s worked with over the years, whether they be fellow authors, publishers/publicists, journalists, screenplay writers, etc. yeehooo the possibilities are endless !!

FOLLOWERS. anyone hooked on his books, whether devout fans from his early beginnings or people who newly discovered his fictional writings.

FORMER CLASSMATES. could be from high school or university, but he was in california for the better part of his life aka not a mapleview native. former friends to foes & anything in between. dan’s that one kid who spiked the punch bowl at all the dances and years later probably snuck in party favors to snort off the bathroom sink during their high school reunion lmao whew !!

ANYTHING. literally anything. i’m my groggy state of mind on my lack of creativity rn so please, i’m beggin. if daniel can enrich your characters’ lives in any way, shape, or form, hit me up and we’ll hatch a plan.

#———— 🥀 . 𝙳𝙰𝙽𝙸𝙴𝙻 𝙰𝙱𝚁𝙰𝙼𝚂 ╱ DOSSIER .#mv:intro #alcoholism tw #abandonment tw #drug use tw #mommy issues tw #suicide mention tw #i think....that covers it?? if i missed anything pls let me know & ill tag accordingly #this is awful bc i rushed a wee bit buT #HOT DOG am i stupid excited to write with yall

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painfulbass · 3 years

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☾ ˚⊹ ❛❛ V. UNHOLY DAEMON VERSE INFO

∘⡊ ☾ ˚⊹ There were Prophecies. Prophesies of HOW to properly rid the many planes of Lucifer. This was a long process, and not just a Christian/Catholic exorcism. It was a proper one.

It ended up using the Protector (whos role was obviously Ruv). A spiral of complicated series of events that lead to Ruv chosing his life over Sarv’s- but Sarv jumps in front first. Breaking the the Vow as he wasn’t able to protect her, Ryv was knocked out. When he awoke, he felt.... odd, and a tie to all of the things that Sarvent owned. Long story short, HE AND SARVENT HAVE MERGED SOULS, AND HE GOES BY RUVYSVENT NOW. Some Server copy paste info under the cut. I think that explains it better.

NAME: RUVZYVAT RUVYSVENT

NICKNAME (IF APPLICABLE): SVENT, RUV

AGE: ??? BORN SOMETIME 100-200 YEARS AGO, HOWEVER WITH THE MERGING OF HIS AND SARVENTE'S SOUL HE HAS MEMORIES FAR BEYOND HIS LIFESPAN.

GENDER/ORIENTATION: ASEXUAL/DEMIROMANTIC

SPECIES : HUMAN ( STICKMAN ) / LUCIFER / DEVIL

PARTNERS (IF APPLICABLE): TBA.

LIKES : CHEERY THINGS, VIOLENCE, GUNS, QUIET, RUSSIAN SLAP FIGHTS, MEMES, 'YO MAMA JOKES'. GARDENING. THOSE WHO HAVE THE POTENTIAL FOR ENTERING HEAVEN. USING SOME OF HIS ABILITIES. FIGHTING AND OTHER FORMS OF AGGRESSION TOWRDS THOSE WHO DESERVE IT. KINDNESS AND OTHER FORMS OF FRIENDLINESS TOWARDS THOSE WHO DESERVE IT.

DISLIKES : RUDE CHILDREN, SOCIAL INTERACTIONS, HAVING TO DO THINGS, THOSE WHO ARE IRREDEEMABLE, USING SOME OF HIS ABILITIES, BRINGING UP HIS SARVENTE. CHURCHES.

PERSONALITY : COLD AND CALLOUS WHEN TALKING TO. KNOWS SEVERAL (NEARLY ALL) LANGUAGES. FINDS SOCIAL SITUATIONS DIFFICULT. NEAR EMOTIONLESS MIND SET. SOCIOPATHIC TENDENCIES. EXTREMELY HOSTILE AND DISTRUSTING. EXTREMELY VIOLENT. IMPULSIVE. QUICK TO ANGER.

ABILITIES && POWERS: [ALL OF RUV'S BASIC ABILITIES+MORE]. CAPABILITY TO HAVE SIMILAR ABILITIES TO SARVENTE. HER SENSE OF MORALITY, IMMORTALITY, AND HOLINESS. TECHNICALLY HAS 3 FORMS. WHEN HIS RIBBON/EYEPATCH IS REMOVED YOU CAN SEE THAT HIS LEFT EYE IS NOW GLOWING PINK LIKE HOW SARVENTE'S DID WHEN SHE WAS IN HER LUCIFER FORM. HE NOW HAS HIS OWN "LUCIFER" FORM, WHICH HE HAS DEEMED "THE UNHOLY" OR THE "UNHOLY IMMORTAL DAEMON". SO THERE IS RUVYSVENT/SVENT, THE UNHOLY, AND THE IMMORTAL DAEMON”

SHORT BACKSTORY: [FOLLOW'S RUV'S BACKSTORY TO A POINT]

A CONNECTION LUCIFER IS WHAT WAS NEEDED IN ORDER TO PERMANENTLY GET RID OF LUCIFER. UNBEKNOWNST TO HIM, BEING USED IN A RITUAL TO RID THE LIVING WORLD OF THE DEMOM, WHAT HADN'T BEEN EXPECTED WAS THE VOW HE MADE WITH HER TO CHANGE THINGS. HER SOUL, OR WHAT WAS LEFT MERGING WITH HIS- RUVYZVENT BECAME THE NEW LUCIFER. HE COULDN'T CARE, BECAUSE HE WAS NEVER GETTING HEAVEN ANYWAYS. NOW GOING BY RUVYSVENT, HE HAS MIXED HIS LIFE BEFORE AND WITH SARVENTE. HELPING THOSE HE CAN, HES MUCH MORE SOCIAL AND IS MORE APPROACHABLE.

BONUS CONTENT: STILL HAS THE EYEPATCH. IF HE TAKES IT OFF, RUN. // SHARES THE IMMORTALITY OF BOTH. // STILL A CRIMINAL, KILLER, AND THIEF. // HAS SARVENTE'S PORTAL POWERS, BUT STILL LEARNING. // BLAMES HIMSELF A LOT BUT DOESN'T TALK ABOUT IT. WHILE HE CAN BE KINDER ON THE SURFACE, HE SEES HIMSELF AS A JUDGE, JURY, AND EXECUTIONER FOR THOSE WHO ARE BAD. // STARTED WEARING OTHER OUTFITS ONCE SARVENTE "PASSED" AND HE TOOK HER PLACE IN THE ROLE OF RELIGION/LORE. // WONDERS AROUND NOW.FRY

#∘⡊ ☾ ˚⊹ 𝕽𝖚𝖓 𝕬𝖜𝖆𝖞 𝖂𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝕸𝖆𝖓 ⊹ — ❛❛ v. unholy daemon.#∘⡊ ☾ ˚⊹ 𝕴𝖙'𝖘 𝕶. ⊹ — ❛❛ ooc.#∘⡊ ☾ ˚⊹ 𝕾𝖎𝖓𝖋𝖚𝖑 𝕰𝖓𝖉 ⊹ — ❛❛ headcanon.#∘⡊ ☾ ˚⊹ 𝕰𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖍𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖐𝖊𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝕿𝖍𝖚𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖘 ⊹ — ❛❛ meta.#∘⡊ ☾ ˚⊹ 𝕾𝖎𝖓𝖋𝖚𝖑 𝕰𝖓𝖉 ⊹ — ❛❛ lore.

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theatricalities · 4 years

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⧼ A mask of perfect innocence hiding the machiavellian intentions forever lurking beneath the surface — the ace up your sleeve, the trick coin with one side weighing heavier than its opposite because chance is simply a game that’s far too risky for the likes of you; the claw marks left on absolutely anything and everything in your wake — it’s not desperation that makes you cling so fervently to the objects of your desire as much as it’s your own way of ensuring survival; the self-imposed solitude clouding your ocean eyes — questions of identity and belonging are forever at the heels of your every decision, begging you to turn back before it’s too late. ⧽

━━ hey, isn’t that ZEPHYRINE TRAVERS ? i read a daily prophet article on them, once ; the 24 year old part-Veela WITCH is a SLYTHERIN alumnus who has gone on to be an ACTRESS IN THE WIXEN WORLD. i’ve heard they can be quite AUDACIOUS & BEGUILING, but i don’t know…they came off very EXPLOITATIVE and DELUSIVE in that interview. it really is hard to know what to believe these days though, isn’t it?

( takes a hiatus...comes back with a new character )

Heya ghouls, gals, and nonbinary pals! It’s me, ya girl. Zephyrine is my second little child to enter the group and I’m real wild about her! She’s inspired by DE idea #17 which you can find listed here! Obviously, Zeph is an OC, but her tie to canon is that she’s the daughter of Travers, the Death Eater who killed Marlene McKinnon and family. Also, because I just don’t know how to write contented characters, Zeph’s a bit of a wreck, too — has some daddy issues, wants more than the world can offer, doesn’t have a true sense of self...but she’s got great fashion !

Below is Zephyrine’s bio and general information. Wanted connections can be found here ( very under construction rn ) and they’ll be updated as play progresses! Please feel free to pm me here or on discord ( debaucherie#6347 ) if you’d like to plot ✿

BEFORE THE WAR — “ Everyone wants something...”

[ trigger warnings for death, murder; ]

On the night that marked Zephyrine Travers’ birth, the world in return exalted her upon arrival, singing the praises of the newborn babe as boldly as a songbird in spring.

Or — that was the tale upon which her mother raised her, and it was one the girl found fitting enough to believe, even if all the world around spoke to the contrary. After all, her father (whose only claim to the term was in the scientific sense alone) created so empty a home that such fantastical ideas were perhaps the only source of hope that the young girl could find. At the age of two, Zephyrine and her family were quietly removed from their ancestral home as her father was sentenced to Azkaban for the murder of Marlene McKinnon. She and her mother were stripped of all riches, no matter the fact that the young girl continued the bloodline of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

And so, life continued on in this way, with little yarns of fantasy spun each and every night in the dreariness of their one-room hovel, spoken in assuring whispers as they cooked by candlelight or repaired a worn and weathered dress when there was no money to replace it instead. Despite the woe-be-gone skirts and helpless shoes, she was determined that no one should know about the unexpected poverty that marked her home life, and walked into the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with every intent on looking the part of the Travers name even if it was in name alone that she remained connected — going so far as to insist to the Sorting Hat that she was meant to be in Slytherin, as her family had been for centuries, even when it argued she was better suited to Ravenclaw instead.

In many ways, her adolescence was a long, drawn-out course in the art of convincing others — she could manifest a stream of tears to reassure a fellow Slytherin that she truly felt for her father just as easily as she could feign prolonged wooziness to avoid Flying class for a week. She flashed her blessedly charming smile across the House tables in the Great Hall, befriended everyone and anyone while still keeping them at arm’s length, and convinced even the most doubtful that she was an invaluable creature — not because of her name or the weight it still carried in certain circles, but because she believed herself to be and would not rest until it was an undeniable, unequivocal truth.

At sixteen, however, the meager world she’d known her whole life shattered entirely, its fragments not pieced together with the loving touch of her mother, but instead the fearsome presence of her father, who broke out of Azkaban along with ten other Death Eaters, including Bellatrix Lestrange. Unsurprisingly, he was asked by Lord Voldemort to prove his loyalty, and continued his murderous warpath — but instead of getting caught this time, he ensured that another would take his place. Zephyrine’s mother, innocent as a dove, was framed for his crimes and swiftly locked up in Azkaban, and Zander Travers was restored all riches seized upon his arrest.

By seventeen, Zephyrine had all the hallmarks of the dreams her mother raised her on : wealth far beyond her dreams, a manor estate fit for royalty and all the accompanying fanfare upon being properly introduced into a society of Death Eaters, but lost her mother in the process to a nightmare come true — the very woman who had instilled in the girl so great a belief in the impossible, that even this seemed like something Zephyrine could undo.

She now balanced quite a precarious act, appearing to her father as his perfect little Death Eater in training, while turning spy for the Order in exchange for their help in freeing her mother once the War was won.

AFTER THE WAR. — “...and once you know what they want, you know how to move them.”

When the time came, however, her mother was one of the many forgotten in the shadow of the Order’s triumph, relegated to little more than a broken promise as she rotted in Azkaban along with her husband, once again sentenced for his crimes. Their daughter, however, now took up the mantle of the new head of the Travers family, left with the ruins of her father’s blood-soaked legacy. In a world rebuilding itself, there was no game to be played when each side no longer had a reason to fight — and so, she waited. Seethed, more accurately, and busied herself with cleaning up the Travers name as time passed by. After receiving a formal training with the Wixen Academy of Dramatic Arts, she cemented herself firmly as a darling in the wixen theatre scene. In truth, it was all too easy. For twenty years, she’d practiced different ways to be believed — not to lie, she’d argue to herself, for any of those perceived lapses in truth had simply been her playing a character in order to get what she needed, and the silver-tongued sweetheart she portrayed to the public was no different. To believe was the notion her mother instilled in her, but to be believed was one she’d determined necessary for herself, even if it meant losing any sense of self in the process. And so, upon hearing word of a reformed Death Eater legion under Bellatrix Lestrange’s leadership, she appealed to their cause, vowing that she could easily become a spy within the group which once held her loyalty — in exchange, once more, for the release* of her mother. Her allegiances, of course, are unknown to the public at large. In fact, when asked by the press on such matters, she voices her support for the Ministry and their efforts at preventing another tragedy to ever mark the Wixen World’s history again. Naturally, it’s all an act, as it has always been, and she’ll keep playing the game for as long as it take to reunite* with her mother, gain the most powerful of allies, and secure her own survival.

[ * — while i’d love to believe that zeph’s mom is still alive, i think mrs. travers is likely to have perished rather soon after being wrongfully imprisoned. however, i believe that this information was kept from zeph as a way of controlling her, first by her father, then perhaps by the order ( i’d have to actually plot this one out w/an order member for this to be true ), but certainly by bellatrix and the DE clan. ]

BASICS.

FULL NAME: Zephyrine Travers NAME MEANING: Zephyrine is of French origin and means ‘west wind’ ; Travers is of English origin and means ‘to cross’ NICKNAME(S): Zeph ( used by family and close friends, only ) GENDER IDENTITY: Demigirl DATE OF BIRTH: 29 October, 1995 ( i put the wrong age in my app bc maths are not my strong suit, so technically Zeph is 24 but will turn 25 soon ) BIRTHPLACE: Travers Estate, Hampshire, England CURRENT PLACE OF DWELLING: London, England SEXUAL ORIENTATION: pansexual panromantic LANGUAGE(S): English, French, basic Latin

LIFE.

OCCUPATION: Actress EDUCATION: Homeschooled from ages 4 to 11; attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry from ages 11 to 18; attended the Wixen Academy of Dramatic Arts from ages 19 to 21. SOCIOECONOMIC LEVEL ( GROWING UP ): Born upper class, but lower middle class from ages 2 - 16, upper class ages 16 - onward. SOCIOECONOMIC LEVEL ( CURRENTLY ): Upper class. RELIGION: Atheist

MAGICAL.

BLOOD TYPE: Not quite pureblood — but, publicly pureblood SPECIES: 1/4 Veela WAND TYPE: Hawthorn, unicorn hair core, 13″, reasonably supple SKILL LEVEL: Reasonably proficient, but a distinct knack for transfiguration and healing magic. Is adept at DADA, but often flees from the scene of battle before needing to utilize curses, jinxes, etc. PATRONUS: Incapable of producing a corporeal Patronus, but if she could, it would take the form of a shrike. BOGGART: Herself — albeit, a different, unrecognizable version of herself. In all her lying and betraying and such, Zeph has lost sense of herself and just doesn’t know the depths she might go to in order to get what she wants — and so I think it’s very possible that her biggest fear is the worst possible version of herself, the one that resembles her father in his uncaring bloodlust, messy and indiscriminate and entirely lacking in the nuance she prides herself on. AMORTENTIA: Fresh popcorn, the collar of a well-worn leather jacket, the scent of a newspaper so fresh the ink smudges one’s fingertips MIRROR OF ERISED: TBD. HOGWARTS HOUSE: Slytherin ( the Sorting Hat debated for approximately nine minutes between Ravenclaw and Slytherin, but ultimately decided on Slytherin because Zephyrine asked it to. ) FAVORITE SUBJECT: Transfiguration. LEAST FAVORITE SUBJECT: Arithmancy. CLUBS / EXTRACURRICULARS: The Slug Club ( Year 7 ), Theatre Club ( Years 2 - 7 ), Keres Club ( ages 22 - present )

RELATIONS.

PARENT(S): Zander & Odette ( nee Lynd ) Travers SIBLING(S): Two older sisters, both deceased, from her father’s first marriage, and a younger sibling born one-two years after her from her father’s affair. SIGNIFICANT OTHER(S): tbd. EX SIGNIFICANT OTHER(S): tbd. CHILDREN: none. PET(S): Two cats, Beryl and Belinda.

PHYSICAL.

HEIGHT: 5′7″ HAIR: silver-blonde EYES: blue BODY MODIFICATION(S): Three piercings in either ear. Despite Bellatrix’s insistence, she has staved off getting the Dark Mark under the guise that it would harm her status as an actress. In truth, she simply would hate to get something so permanent when her loyalties are rather, well, impermanent. NOTABLE SCARS / BIRTHMARKS: No scars / noticeable birthmarks. A scattering of freckles. GLASSES / CONTACTS: Only when required for an acting role, but not usually needed. CLOTHING STYLE: Quite a soft, ‘feminine’ style — lace, ribbons, ruffles, pastels — but there’s always one or two little things hinting at something decidedly more aggressive ( platinum collar-tips pointed and sharpened, metallic makeup, earrings in the design of tiny daggers, black lace gloves hiding perfectly manicured claws ) ; zephyrine also wears her mother’s choker, which is platinum-plated and has a handshake as a clasp. DOMINANT HAND: Ambidextrous

PERSONALITY.

ZODIAC: Scorpio ( sun ) — observant, expressive, secretive, vengeful, enigmatic // Gemini ascendant, Capricorn moon PERSONALITY TYPE: ENTJ, The Commander — confident, charismatic, strategic, ruthless, stubborn, emotionally naive MORAL ALIGNMENT: Neutral Evil TEMPERAMENT: Phlegmatic ELEMENT: Water VICE(S): Wrath VIRTUE(S): Diligence CHARACTER PARALLELS: Dahlia Hawthorne ( Ace Attorney ), Amy March ( Little Women ), Margaery Tyrell ( ASOIAF ), Vesper Lynd ( James Bond ), Eva Perón ( history / ‘EVITA’ the musical & film )

#is this bad and also unbearably long ? u bet #nox.intro #[ these hands could hold the world and it would never be enough; —ABOUT. ]#update: originally had her patronus be a leopard but really...she a shrike babey

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divine-conquer · 4 years

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( KATIE CASSIDY, FEMALE, SHE/HER ) ⌇ have you seen Vivienne Holt around icaria? they are the 33-year-old child of ATHENA. they remind me of SHARP KNIVES, A BOOKS EMBRACE, AND A GENTLE, HEALING TOUCH. ( Jess / 24 / Central / She-her )-New Emergency/ Family Medicine Doctor at Icaria Hospital

Basics-

FULL NAME: Vivienne Leigh Holt NICKNAMES: Viv, V, Vivie SPECIES: Demigod PARENTS: Donovan Holt & Athena PETS: Fluffy Black cat named Felix D.o.B: October 18th, 1987 AGE: 33 HOMETOWN: Charleston, South Carolina PROFESSION: ER Doctor/ GP at Icaria Hospital SEXUALITY: Bisexual SPOKEN LANGUAGES: English & Greek

HAIR COLOR: Blonde with highlights EYE COLOR: Green HEIGHT: 5’ 8" WEIGHT: 137 PIERCINGS: 3 in each ear, an old nose ring that’s mostly healed up Tattoos: Back, ankle, arm, thighs

ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Good ZODIAC: Libra EDUCATION: M.D. in Emergency and Family Medicine TEMPERAMENT: MBTI: ENNEAGRAM:

STRENGTHS:

Enhanced Strength, Speed, and Durability

Enhanced Intelligence/ Eidetic Memory/ knowledge of medicine

Precognitive ability to warn against danger/ hyperawareness

Gift of persuasion and making peace/ calming aura

Expansive knowledge of strategy, especially in battle and combat/fighting skills

Some expert knowledge of weapons

WEAKNESSES

Vulnerable to weapons and other methods of injury

Tries not to let her emotions get the better of her so she sometimes becomes closed off to others

Very protective and stubborn at times

Has a martyr complex so can sometimes be left vulnerable trying to care and protect others.

Biography

Donovan Holt was never one to settle down, which is why he chose the fast-paced life of the medical field. This led him to Doctors Without Borders, a profession allowing him to travel constantly and help save lives in the process. That is, until one day while he was working in a small village in South America he met one of the locals, one of the most striking women he’d ever laid eyes on. She was stunning in every sense of the word, and her intelligence only baffled him further. The two became instantly close during his time in the village, so much so that their relationship became romantic. Donovan spent 6 months in that village, and every day of knowing the woman that went by Jane were some of the happiest of his life. The day that he was assigned to leave instantly filled him with grief. The two ended things mutually, but Donovan couldn’t shake the feeling of regret. It wasn’t until a few months later, while he was home visiting his family before his next assignment that he received a gift, the most important gift he’d ever receive. There, in a vine-weaved basket on his doorstep was a child, and a note which read, “She deserves a life I cannot give her, and the love I know you can -J.” Donovan was stunned, and ultimately baffled at the child he now held in his arm, and later he would feel eternally grateful.

Now a father, Donovan quit his position with DWB and took a posting at one of the local hospitals in the area where he had grown up, Charleston, South Carolina, to raise his new daughter. Vivienne grew up with a big family, one that cared for her unconditionally, although they always did have reservations about the nature of her birth. It was just her and her father outside of her extended family for most of Vivienne’s childhood, until he eventually remarried, and gained a step-mother, and eventually a baby brother. Vivienne never hated her step-mother, as many tend to do in the fairy-tales, but she just never felt a connection to her. She always felt closer to her grandmother and father than anyone else.

From an early age, she was quickly recognized for her intelligence and curiosity. She was always fascinated with how things worked, learning something new, and assisting others. Her father attributed those traits to her mother, but little did he know that they were more than just traits, but gifts. For most of her life, Vivienne was unaware of her lineage, or who her mother truly was, and that’s exactly how Athena wanted it. She wanted her daughter to have a normal life, and to grow into her gifts without Athena’s intervention or intrusion. Vivienne excelled at many things that she put her mind to and later decided to follow into her father’s footsteps of medicine.

It wasn’t until Vivienne had just begun her college years when her gifts really began to take off. As she came into her gifts, her curious nature embraced them, doing all that she could to explore all the new possibilities. It wasn’t until Vivienne and her college boyfriend, Charlie, were in a car accident, one that she shouldn’t have survived, where things took a turn for the worst. People began to question how Vivienne walked away from such a terrible accident, and she herself began to feel the guilt gnawing at her. Eventually, this led her down a dark path, one that nearly had a tragic end until the intervention of her mother. This was the night Vivienne was finally introduced to her biological mother, the Greek goddess Athena.

From this visit Vivienne began to understand who she truly was, and as if the final pieces were falling into place. Once Vivienne had time to process, she tried to form a relationship with her mother, trying to learn everything she could about who she was and what this meant for Vivienne. This, however, was short-lived, and her visits became shorter and less-frequent until Vivienne barely ever heard from her mother. A small part of her felt as though she had been abandoned again, until one day, years later when her mother told her about a safe-haven for her kind. This is what brought Vivienne to Icaria, to be with those who would understand what it’s like to be a demi-god and to hopefully be closer to her mother once again.

#icaria: intro

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tmae3114 · 5 years

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Tell us about the AUs. all of them.

Friend, that is a lot of AUs.

But okay!!

I won’t go immensely in-depth because a) that’d take forever and b) I want to do separate posts and drawings and stuff for a bunch of these

Okay, so, going in the order that I mentioned them in the tags:

(whoops this is going under a cut because It Got Long)

The Pokemon AU

More of a fusion than strictly an AU, I guess, because it’s pretty much “canon, but there are pokemon”.

I’ve determined full teams for the whole ‘crew, along with the genders, levels, abilities, natures, and movesets of all of their pokemon. I got… really into it. I went way too detailed with their teams. I even know what kind of pokeball each of their pokemon are in. I’m in the process of nicknaming them. I’ve also got scatterings of backstory for how they came to have each of the pokemon in their teams!

For now, I’ll tell you what their teams are, along with the nicknames and such of their pokemon. More in-depth stuff (such as aforementioned abilities and movesets and also the backstories) should probably be saved for a different post.

Diath:

“Cath” - Klefki - ♂

Ninjask - ♀

Scyther - ♀

Liepard - ♂

“Dawnguide” - Absol - ♀

“Gutter” - Aegislash - ♂

The pattern I went with for nicknaming Diath’s pokemon is based off of the one thing we’ve seen him name in canon - Moonsplinter. So the nicknames for his pokemon, when I eventually come up with them, will be two nouns put together into a name that connects what was named to someone or something important to him. Cath and Gutter are exceptions to the pattern because they were gift pokemon and came with the names (…sort of, in Cath’s case).

Evelyn:

“Morning Glory” - Rapidash - ♀

“Periwinkle” - Lycanroc (Midnight Forme) - ♀

“Thistleberry” - Eevee - ♂

“Sunflower” - Larvesta - ♀

“Jonquil” - Solrock - N/A

“Juniper” - Pichu - ♀

The pattern I went with for nicknaming Evelyn’s pokemon started with Morning Glory and Juniper - I figured that since Evelyn showed a predilection towards plant names in canon, it was as good a theme as any to run with. Thistleberry is the closest to breaking that pattern, since I’ve been unable to find out if that’s actually a real plant (I’ve found thimbleberries but not thistleberries, so I feel like they might be a fantasy thing) in which case you could argue that he was named for Evelyn’s favourite pie. The reasoning for Sunflower should be obvious, a jonquil is a kind of flower similar to a daffodil which sort of resembles a sun in shape, and periwinkles mean “early friendship” in flower language, and Evie sure does make friends fast.

Jonquil may or may not mean “I desire a return of affection” in flower language but sshhhh, that was unintentional

Strix:

“Fuzzywuzz” - Venomoth - ♂

“Waffles” - Ursaring - ♀

Mismagius - ♀

“Stinky Junior” - Garbodor - ♀

“Clothy McClothface” - Banette - ♀

“Stinky” - Alolan Rattata - ♂

I don’t think I really need to explain the pattern/theme for naming Strix’s pokemon because, well, *gestures at canon* I just tried to follow the existing naming patterns.

Paultin:

“Palpatine” - Malamar - ♂

Exploud- ♂

“Charlotte” - Chatot - ♀

Gengar - ♂

“Peter” - Baltoy - ♂

Alolan Marowak- ♀

I don’t strictly have a naming pattern for Paultin, wildcard that he is. I’ve just been operating on a general rule of “regular real life name that sounds fitting” (a la him naming Simon) or “reference”.

The Superhero AU

You are getting far less information about this one because it’s going to be getting posts of its own when I finally get the drawings for it finished - I’m going to do character profiles and everything.

The basic premise is a vaguely-modern-era-ish Waterdeep (in a vaguely-modern-era-ish Faerun) has a lot of superheroes running around and the Wafflecrew happens to be one of the teams that call the city home. Diath, Strix, Evelyn and Paultin are all doing the secret identity thing and there will be shenanigans involving those because, well, here’s the thing:

The Wafflecrew is a superhero team who’s members keep their identities secret even from each other, mostly because they haven’t been together as a team for very long yet.

Diath, Strix, Evelyn, and Paultin, however, are a group of friends who happen to share a flat. Who are all trying very hard not to let on to their friends that they’re a superhero.

So. Shenanigans.

(Well, except for Diath and Strix. They know about each other’s secret identities)

I won’t tell you everyone’s codenames, though, because ~character profiles~ :3c

The Daemon AU

This one is more loosely defined than the others, to be honest. I will say, straight up, that I have never read His Dark Materials and don’t have any particular intent to, because I’ve read enough excerpts to know I could never get through it. But the concept of daemons is really cool and fun and I’ve read a ton of daemon aus and I feel no shame in yoinking the concept for an au despite never having read the source material.

Evelyn’s daemon is a Norwegian Forest Cat named Carwyn, Paultin’s is a lyrebird named Leto, Strix’s is a Barred Owl named Cináed, and Diath’s… well, if you were to ask him, he’d tell you that his daemon is a very shy house spider named Perdita. The thing is, nobody’s ever actually seen her…

Diath may or may not be in a Special Situation in this AU thanks to the whole ancient-soul-that-Shemeshka-has-part-of circumstance

The Class Swap AU

This one!! Is one that I love!! a lot!! And also one that I fully intend to give its own post with art.

It started with me realising that Mason Marthain existing presented the perfect Backstory Butterfly to play with things a little and justify Evelyn being a rogue in a class swap AU. From there, I just kept playing with their backstories to see what there was that could be tugged on to shift them to one of each other’s classes. Ultimately, my class swap AU stands as such:

Evelyn Marthain, a swashbuckler rogue. Inspired by a slightly different family member, in this universe, Evelyn decided at a young age that rather than follow in her father’s footsteps, she wanted to follow in her uncle’s. Thus, rather than training at the Spires and taking on the mantle of a paladin, she apprenticed on her Uncle’s ship throughout her childhood, and eventually became a rogue.

Diath Woodrow, an oath of devotion paladin. A childhood on the streets went just a little bit differently for Diath, this time around. After a paladin caught him preventing another street kid from pickpocketing, he got taken in by the Church of Selune and found a calling that appealed to his sense of duty and his desire for adventure at the same time. (How does the oath of devotion’s call to obey just authority mix with being chaotic good, you might ask? Well, how does one define “just” authority? In Class Swap!Diath’s case, as soon as someone abuses their power, their authority is no longer just)

Paultin Seppa, a wild magic sorceror. Paultin honestly doesn’t know where his powers came from. They’ve been at the tips of his fingers for as long as he can remember. It probably has something to do with the big swath of his childhood that he can’t remember but he’s not particularly bothered with trying to figure it out. (The thing is, a panicking, traumatised child, very much going into shock, tearing through the mists of Barovia and out of Ravenloft, all on his own and without parental supervision for the very first time, has so much potential to go wrong. He stumbled through a few less than hospitable places before he ended up on the Prime Material)

Strix, a college of glamour bard. Her years in the Feywild were harsh and this time it wasn’t Baba Yaga whose care she stumbled into. She learned a lot, living amongst the fey, and not least amongst that was how a silver tongue, with words carefully chosen and used, is a magic all of its own and also a very dangerous weapon.

I can’t say anything about the two AUs I’m currently writing fics for because spoilers~ so just know that They Exist

The Star Wars AU is extremely conceptual. It features aspiring Jedi Knight Evelyn Marthain, an Alderaanian human raised in the Coruscant Jedi Temple, travelling musician Paultin Seppa, a human of mysterious origin who has an even more mysterious knowledge of the Force, given that he seemingly has no connection to any known Force sects, galactic treasure hunter/archaeologist Diath Woodrow, a human from Coronet City on Corellia, whose heritage may-or-may-not have originated on a certain planet starting with ‘M’, and Strix, a force-sensitive woman of indeterminate species (at first glance, you might think zabrak, but zabraks don’t have tails. They also usually don’t have hair but it’s not like hybrids are completely an unknown possibility… the thing is, if she’s a hybrid, there’s no way she’s a hybrid of just two)

The RWBY AU is Exactly What It Says On The Tin. It’s just an AU where the Wafflecrew are in Remnant. They comprise Team DEPS (”Deeps”) and all I’ve really figured out is their weapons and semblances and tbh, as an AU, it’s probably not going much further than that.

I had a Lot of fun with their semblances, though.

#dice camera action #dca #dca au #YEAH THIS IS ME /NOT/ GOING IN-DEPTH #I AM INCAPABLE OF BREVITY IT SEEMS #feel free to ask more about the AUs that I haven't labeled as getting their own posts!#I love talking about my AUs!!#anon #ask #THANK YOU FOR ASKING ABOUT MY AUS

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jacksauvage-blog · 5 years

Photo

tw: mental illness, drug use, addiction

Basic Information

Full Name: Jean Baptiste Sauvage

Nickname(s): Jack

Age: 36

Date of Birth: August 13th

Hometown: Paris, France

Current Location: Paris, France

Ethnicity: Malaysian

Nationality: French

Gender: Cis-Male

Pronouns: He/Him

Orientation: In modern terms, Jack is the type of person who would simply call himself “queer” and be done with it. For the purposes of this, though, he is demi- to aromantic and bisexual.

Religion: Atheist with some fringe interests in the occult.

Political Affiliation: General disinterest. He grew up in that world and has no desire to rejoin it.

Occupation: Film writer and director. Formerly (and occasionally still, a stage actor).

Living Arrangements: He lives in a small second story apartment. The neighborhood is rough but rent is cheap and no one bothers him.

Language(s) Spoken: French and English, fluently. His Spanish is conversational but broken and largely forgotten and most of the phrases he remembers are elicit and sexual. He speaks key phrases in several other European languages and can ask for a drink and a cigarette anywhere in the world.

Accent: Jack’s accent can be hard to place and depends largely what language he’s speaking in. Typically, his accent has a heavy upper-class London influence, especially when he’s speaking English. His French accent is also a bit watered down by the time he spent in London and America.

Physical Appearance

Face Claim: Henry Golding

Hair Colour: Black

Eye Colour: Dark Brown

Height: 6′2″

Weight: 210

Build: Average build. He is in shape and has built strength over the years by carrying heavy filming equipment around. His muscles, though, are generally toned but not overly defined.

Tattoos: TBD

Piercings: None

Clothing Style: It is rare to see Jack dressed down. At most he is wearing a full tailored suit. At the least he’s wearing slacks and a crisp button down shirt with a suit vest.

Usual Expression: Jack’s default expression can be described as either “vacant” or “hyper-focused” depending on the angle. When he is by himself, he tends to get lost in his own thoughts and his people watching. In groups, especially after a few drinks, he finds himself much more at ease and wears the subtle hints of a relaxed smile.

Distinguishing Characteristics: Jack has a faint scar across the bridge of his nose--the result of getting mugged during his first few weeks in Brooklyn.

Health

Physical Ailments: Jack is relatively healthy with no chronic physical issues.

Neurological Conditions: Though none of this will ever be addressed, diagnosed, or treated, Jack probably has Persistent Depressive Disorder as well as a mild form of Psychosis or a mild Dissociation Disorder. This presents in infrequent but extended periods of time in which Jack disconnects from reality entirely. He tends to self-medicate and withdraw from all of his social obligations. These episodes are characterized by mild auditory and visual hallucinations, though whether this is caused by his disorder or his drug use is undetermined. Jack, however, just views these episodes as a natural part of his creative process and will never seek any type of medical or psychological intervention.

Allergies: None.

Sleeping Habits: Jack is in an almost constant state of sleep deprivation. He has trouble putting himself to bed and turning his brain off in a timely manner. This could either be a symptom or a cause of his aforementioned dissociative episodes, though it will remain unclear which. Combined with his frequent late nights out on the town, social engagements that last until well in the morning, and late night bursts if artistic inspiration, Jack’s sleeping patterns are as erratic as they are infrequent. He is always late to bed but early to rise and on a normal night he can expect to get around 3-5 hours of sleep with an hour-long nap or two somewhere in the day.

Eating Habits: Jack is not an overly picky eater, but he does tend to lean towards a healthy diet by default. He doesn’t cook in his hope (he doesn’t know how) so most of his meals are from restaurants, bars, and markets in the city. He keeps a sparse amount of food in his home, mostly alcohol and bread.

Exercise Habits: A lot of Jack’s physical exercise comes from things he does on a regular basis, rather than time set aside to devote to his fitness. He frequently moves heavy film equipment, sets up shots, hangs his own set pieces, etc. So, he gets a lot of physical exercise from what he does on a normal day. Additionally, Jack walks almost everywhere he goes.

Emotional Stability: Publicly, Jack is as stable as they come. It’s rare for anyone to see the cracks in his facade, but if people looked closely enough they’re definitely there. On a scale of 1 to 10, Jack would put himself firmly as a 9, ignoring how devastating his dissociative episodes can be for himself and anyone who happens to make contact with him during those times. Realistically, he’s probably a firm 5.

Sociability: Jack is a rather social creature by default. He enjoys spending time with others, but is highly selective of the people he chooses to surround himself with. He does not enjoy being part of a large crowd and will frequently find space to be alone if he is in a crowded venue. His personality doesn’t lend itself well to being the center of attention and he is normally fairly quick to shift that attention on to someone else. His interactions with people one-on-one take the form of in depth conversations with intensely probing questions. Jack takes an interest in people in a way that can make them feel as if he genuinely wants to know them. What they don’t know is that Jack has a bad habit of viewing people as source material rather than actual human beings.

Body Temperature: Cold-Natured.

Addictions: Yes?

Drug Use: Jack’s drug use is as erratic as his sleeping habits. He is a heavy smoker, both of cigarettes and marijuana, though these are so widely available and frequently used he would hardly consider them drugs. His vice of choice is cocaine, of which he is almost a daily user. During episodes, however, he can extend into more dangerous and illicit narcotics including heroin and mescaline.

Alcohol Use: Jack is a social drinker. He always has a well stocked bar in his apartment but rarely drinks when he’s alone.

Personality

Label: The Cinephile

Positive Traits: Charming, creative, eccentric, intellectual, passionate, diligent, curious.

Negative Traits: Arrogant, careless, detached, dishonest, unstable, unreliable, messy.

Goals/Desires: Jack’s goals tend to be career oriented. Right now, his primary focus is making his next film. Everything outside of that is secondary. He doesn’t have many goals for his personal life, his love life, his family life, etc. His short term, daily goals all revolve around stimulation of some kind. Be it intellectual, emotional, physical. He’s always looking for something to inspire and motivate him.

Fears: Jack’s primary fears are failure and, by extension, fading into obscurity. He is on top of the world right now. His most recent film was a critical success but that was nearly two years ago. His ideas for his next film are fragmented and vague, he fears that he will never be able to piece them together. He also fears loneliness. Jack is a man who, despite his efforts to get to know people, only ever emerges with surface level relationships. He has hundreds of acquaintances whom he knows very well but feels little to no emotional connection to. This is, in part, because Jack has a tendency to view people as subjects and source material rather than emotional beings with wants and needs. This is also because he feels deeply uncomfortable letting other people into his life for fear of rejection. Jack doesn’t see himself as someone who is capable of having a meaningful connection with another person. And, though he’ll never admit it, this is something that makes him very sad.

Hobbies: Aside from the obvious acting, writing, filming, Jack enjoys a number of solitary hobbies. He is a voracious reader. His favorite author is HG Wells but his favorite book is Dracula. He is also a frequent people watcher. It is not at all uncommon to find him at a back table in a crowded night club either reading or jotting down notes about the individuals around him. Additionally, Jack has a tentative interest in the occult. He is not a practitioner by any means, nor is he completely sure he believes in the whole concept. But, he owns a few books on the subject and can occasionally be found to dabble in the rituals and research of it all.

Habits: In addition to the more destructive habits mentioned in the health section, Jack’s most noticeable tick is popping his knuckles. It’s a small thing, but in a man with such a tight fist around his public image, anything that seems compulsive is noteworthy.

Favourites

Weather: Rain.

Colour: Black.

Music: I don’t think Jack has a preference for any type of music. It’s all background noise to him and not something he actively seeks out.

Movies: His own, obviously. Aside from that, he is inspired by French and German techniques as well as the rising Spanish surrealist movement.

Sport: Any sport where dashing young men break a sweat.

Beverage: Alcoholic--Scotch. Non-Alcoholic: Earl Grey Tea.

Food: Jack acquired a taste for traditional Spanish cooking and there is nothing quite like it in Paris. He is always sad.

Animal: There is a fat orange cat who has recently taken up residence on his balcony. He feeds it scraps and calls it Kit (short for Kitten because? sure why not?). Gun to his head, that dumb cat is his favorite animal.

Family

Father: Rene Sauvage (d.)

Mother: Sylvie Sauvage, 61.

Sibling(s): None

Children: None

Pet(s): None.

Family’s Financial Status: Upper-class, incredibly wealthy. Jack was cut off from the family fortune through most of his life. Recently, however, his father left him a significant sum of money in his will as an effort to make amends with his estranged son.

Extra

Zodiac Sign: Leo

MBTI: INFP

Enneagram: Type 3: The Performer

Temperament: Melancholic

Hogwarts House: Slytherine

Moral Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Primary Vice: Pride

Primary Virtue: Diligence

Element: Fire

#(look at this thing that i did instead of working on my lesson plans for this week thumbs up emoji)#( the cinephile )#( about )

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inevitably-johnlocked · 6 years

Text

𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓯𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓵𝔂 𝓕𝓪𝓴𝓮

Teenlock! Johnlock fic. I’m thinking of starting this as a fic on AO3, and I was wondering if I could get your opinion on the first chapter? I know it’s kinda small, but it’s a start!

______________

It never lasted long, the foster “families”. That was, of course, when they survived the interviews. Ms Chan often recommended – more or less yelled – that he either stay quiet and only answer the bare minimal. No being smart or showing off, no deducing, just be “normal”. He never liked any of the families, so why bother to try and be picked by them? Soon enough, he would age out of the system. Why spend three years with a family only to leave again anyways? Once past the age of ten, it was basically pointless and impossible to get picked after all. The couples who did choose a teenager were looking for the perfect child, no matter what they said. So, he gave up on trying. Then again, he didn’t really want another family anyways.

“Come on now, the Watsons are here to see you,” Ms Chen entered the room, speaking in an rather annoyed tone but with hope in her eyes. After he didn’t move from his seat at the uncomfortable desk for a moment, the middle aged woman returned and ushered him the come forward again, “Hurry up!” With an aggravated sigh, the brunette stood up and walked down the hall. At the end of the hall, there was a heavy wooden door with one small window peering into it, behind the door being the interview room. It was just a small table and a couple of chairs, but it gave off a very interrogation like vibe. Then again, was there much of a difference?

For the third time that month, he walked into the room with zero expectations for anything to happen afterwards. There was only one person sitting in there, a woman with long blonde hair tied back in a braid. She looked somewhat worried, though that expression changing to a form of happy when she heard the door open. “Oh, you must be William!” Mrs Watson smiled.

“It’s Sherlock,” Sherlock replied as he sat down in the small chair. It was a child’s chair, not quite made for anyone older than eight. The woman looked down at the yellow file on the table, brows having furrowed for a moment before finding the source of the nickname. Or, well, middle name.

/42 years old. Mother of two- Both adolescent, one going off to university soon. Married for twenty years, unhappily. Divorce in process, but not finalized. Signs of abuse, verbal more than physical. Husband alcoholic, she doesn’t drink however./

“Right, well then,” Mrs Watson smiled. “Sorry if you were under the impression that my husband would be here, he’s-”

“Not going to be around,” Sherlock interrupted. “You two seem to be in the process of a divorce, you being the one to file it against him. He was a drinker, and when drunk, would be verbally abusive towards your children and you.”

The woman was at a loss for words, mouth slightly agape. “How did you… Who told you that?”

Before the teen was able to say anything, Ms Chan – who must’ve been listening in – walked into the room, shooting Sherlock an annoyed look and Mrs Watson an apologetic one. “Oh dear, I’m sorry Mrs Watson. I’ve told him countless times now about being rude like that, but the boy never listens!”

“N-No, no don’t be sorry, it’s fine,” The other woman said in a softer tone, causing Ms Chen – and Sherlock for that matter – to grow confused. Though, Sherlock didn’t show his surprise as she did.

Either way, he was ushered out of the room quickly by the red-headed woman as the door closed behind her. The two women could faintly be heard talking from behind it as Sherlock sighed, returning back to the dormitories. Her reaction definitely was an unusual one, maybe not at first. No matter, it wasn’t as though anything besides another scolding would come from this.

___

A few days had passed since his talk with Mrs Watson, so it was fair enough to assume that nothing would happen there. However, the great Sherlock Holmes wasn’t quite right about everything. Without a forewarning knock, Ms Chan entered the room once again. This time, her body language projected disbelief along with aggravation. “Start packing your things, you’re leaving in an hour. I’m not sure how you did it, but for some reason, they decided to take you in.”

(submitted by lessbienlesbian)

Hi Lovely!

Ah, this is cute so far! I hope you don’t mind, I fixed grammatical errors and paragraph breaks…. the only thing I didn’t fix was what the name of the character “Chan/Chen”… it alternates all through the story, so I’m not sure which one you prefer :) Also the image you attached was broken, so sadly I had to remove it :(

Either way, so far it’s a cute story!! I think you should continue it! Thank you for this submission!

#send me things #submission #steph replies #johnlock ficlets #kidlock #stuff for me #perfectly fake

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emouradian · 6 years

Text

The Vatican

It was generous of Rome, I suppose. My very first trip to Italy’s capital, and to provide me with the most authentic experience possible, Rome felt like it was actually burning. Every moment of the three days I spent there was like walking on coals. Across the sun. Wearing aluminum foil. I mean, it was hot.

The locals nicknamed the heatwave Lucifer, after the FOX TV show about the devil partnering with a female detective to solve crimes (and maybe – fall in love!). Or perhaps it was named after the devil him or herself (#feminism) because it was absolutely the temperature of pure evil.

My Vatican excursion, and my time in Italy as a whole, was about midway through a 6-week solo trip across Europe. I had just been laid off from my job, had a small but not unexciting cancer scare and had moved back to New York to help my mother sell her house after my dad’s recent death (which is a better narrative than I moved back home because I was homeless and jobless). I took my generous severance and like the good millennial I am, decided to blow most of it on THE TRIP OF A LIFETIME.

I looked around at the state of my life: Single and in my mid-thirties, I had no real-life responsibilities other than the crippling debt I had come to know as a friend and life partner. Rebecca, the name I gave my debt monster in my late twenties, would certainly be waiting for me upon my return to keep me warm during all my most visceral debt-induced panic attacks. Plus, with no job prospects to speak of, and no real urge to start the arduous process of job hunting, it was time to Eat, Pray, Shlub through Europe. Basically, at thirty-six years old, I finally took my gap year.

My plan was simple: I’d just go to The Vatican, pay whatever I had to skip the line and zip through the whole thing in thirty minutes, forty if the gift shop had Pope Pun t-shirts (Snap, Crackle, POPE; A picture of The Pope in his Popemobile that said: My Other Ride Is Your Mom). I’d be getting yelled at for drinking espresso on the Spanish Steps by lunch.

I don’t like to brag but... being wrong about life choices, is kind of the defining characteristic of my overall personal brand. If two roads diverged in a wood, I’d somehow manage to climb the tree separating the two paths, get stuck up there and die of exposure. It’s just who I am, you guys. But in the lifetime of lefts that should’ve been rights, I’ve never been as wrong about anything as I was about The Vatican. Like all good horror stories, this was my “Let’s check out the abandoned camp” or “Let’s bone in the lake – no one’s around!” moment I would come to regret later.

By this point in my overall trip, I had achieved this odd mix of overconfidence in my ability to be a capital-T Tourist, with a nearly pathologically unreasonable disdain for tours, guides and waiting in line. Especially if that line was just a pre-line to get on line or even worse a queue before a line that led to a holding area before you could get in line. This sort of living purgatory happens a lot when you are traveling to the most touristy places on the planet. I get that. But as an Ugly American, I simply felt I should be able to get exactly what I wanted when I wanted it and if I couldn’t, throw money at the problem until I get my way. (I was not the best representation for our country during my time abroad, although I may have, sadly, been a fairly accurate one. For that I apologize. To the world.)

My smug confidence in my plan to zip in and out of The Vatican in roughly the amount of time it would take to watch the first two episodes of the new season of Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt was bolstered by a successful trip on the Rome subway system. Well, maybe I’m being generous with the use of the word successful: As I left my hotel, I immediately walked up to a fully armed French soldier, frantically asking where the entrance to the subway was located. With a language barrier separating us he physically turned my body around to show the entrance to the train all of 15 feet away from me. From there on out, though, it was smooth sailing. I took this as a particularly good sign:

When I got out of the subway I was just a few blocks away from The Vatican, and despite that, I arrived drenched in so much sweat I could have easily been baptized where I stood. I ducked and weaved past several aggressive guides trying to recruit me for their tours; I won’t fall for your shenanigans, mio amico. I actively felt bad for the tourists, trying to navigate the fast, smooth talking tour guides, fanny packs askew, cameras strapped to their chests. This isn’t my first rodeo, you charlatans! As I got closer and closer to the The Vatican, however, the line to enter the building got longer and longer; I started to feel the first twinge of doubt about my ability to self-navigate a place visited by 20,000 people every damn day.

Seeing the disappointment crest over my face, a tour guide pounced. “You need a tour pass to get in,” he said quietly, calmly, like he didn’t need my business. He was Indian or Middle Eastern, wearing a button-down shirt and slacks, which I found comforting. I knew he must be baking in the sun, and this, along with the Vatican badge he sported, convinced me he was a bit more official.

“I just want to skip the line,” I responded, almost to myself, like a child quietly crying, trying to convince himself there are no monsters lurking under his bed.

“I can help you with that,” he shrugged. He said it in such a nonchalant way he made me think he was part of the actual Vatican team - whatever that meant - and not just another ravenous tour guide trying to make a sale. I held onto that belief as we sprinted down the block, I held onto that belief as we dodged cars as we crossed a busy intersection and I held onto that belief for the entire time I stood in a small windowless basement room getting signed up for the tour I was being sold. It’s a miracle I haven’t been murdered.

I had forty-five minutes to kill, so I grabbed a pork cheek sandwich, washed down with several beers. After being defeated, tour-wise, I was helpless against the remarkably pushy saleswoman at a nearby clothing store. Before my years of retail work could snap me out of my daze I got talked into buying a pair of shorts I didn’t need, a button-down short-sleeved shirt that didn’t fit and a pair of swim trunks so short, they appropriately left no question about my religion.

Pork cheek and Italian beer stuffed in my belly and unnecessary purchase stuffed into my backpack, I was now ready to be blessed. A crowd started to form under the six branches of shade the anemic tree outside the tour office provided. The excitement was palpable, and I could feel it split into three different categories: 1) Religious-based fervor about the holy place we were about to enter; 2) Excitement about seeing one of the most famous attractions in the world; 3) Elation about entering a room with air conditioning.

Now that it was time to start making our way back the few blocks to the Vatican, our tour guide assembled us to share a few rules, which sounded eerily similar to what you hear lawyers telling people about visiting family members in prison. I don’t recall the guide’s name, because I sweat that information out, along with my ability to do long division. I do remember that he was at least 150 years old and I kept wondering how I would go about getting my ticket off his body if he dropped dead. This trip took me to some dark places.

Just as I was about to hit send on a text message letting my family know that when I arrived back home, I’d be nothing more than a puddle of salty water, we arrived at the heavily guarded gates of The Vatican. Even though we were on the expedited line, it still took thirty minutes to cross the threshold into the room that would lead us through security and into the actual start of the tour. The lobby was stuffy and packed with people, herded like some meta interpretation of cattle-as-tourists-as-cattle. There we waited. And waited. And waited.

As you do in times of crisis, I attached myself to other survivors. In this case, a family of three - parents in their late-thirties and a three or four year-old child, sweaty and rightfully miserable in his stroller. By now it had been ninety minutes since entry, and I was trying to sow the seeds of rebellion into my compatriots: “We’ve been waiting here for a while.”

“Yeah, little man is getting tired,” the father said back to me, absently but not with the tone of annoyance I was trying to cultivate. To the kid’s credit, he wasn’t throwing a fit, just uncomfortable, and his cries were more like muffled sobs of someone resigned to their fate but not very happy about it.

“He’s just expressing how we are all feeling. I think it’s brave,” I said, almost catatonic.

“I’m sure we’ll be in soon. It’ll be worth it,” the mother said. I was stunned by her optimism and determination. I wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her: You fool! We are never going to leave this room! Don’t you see? Don’t you get it? We’re Vatican Lobby people now!

Instead, I got angry, probably for the first time in the whole experience. I had been frustrated, and impatient, and hot – dear sweet heaven, it was hot - but this made me mad. Not at the woman, trying to cool down her son with precious elixir known as bottled water. Not at her husband, steely eyed but still eager to see the wonders that awaited beyond the security. I was mad because these people were there for a beautiful, powerful experience that deeply mattered to them. I noticed, for the first time, the crosses they all wore, glistening through sweat and waves of heat. This whole time I couldn’t fathom what would possess these seemingly normal people to weather this heat to take their kid on an excursion into a big building with art and religious artifacts. As a well-established quitter, there were five times I would’ve turned around and tried another day. To me, this was something to check off a list. Going to Rome, potentially for the only time in my life, I’d need to see The Vatican to say that I had seen The Vatican. Don’t get me wrong, I was excited – at least initially. But that excitement waned pretty quickly, as I became less a tourist and more a contestant in a co-ed Spring Break wet t-shirt contest for hairy men with man boobs. These people were there for spiritual and holy reasons; this was a pilgrimage for them. As someone who spent the last ten years trying to improve user and participant experience, I was offended that these people – and the thousands with them – weren’t getting an experience they deserved.

Just as I was ready to take a torch to the place, we started moving. Our tour guide, thankfully still alive, started handing out the tickets we needed to get through security. The other members of the tour swarmed him, and in a move that proves I would not survive any kind of Zombie Apocalypse, I let the family of three go ahead of me to get their tickets, even though I wasn’t entirely confident I wouldn’t be left without tickets, stuck in God’s literal waiting room. Once they had their tickets, however, I elbowed my way to the front and got my pass. I felt like a boy of thirty-three again! I was going to make it. We were going to get through this – together.

Only the second we made it through the security, my fight or flight instincts kicked in and I ran for it. The idea of standing around for the next three hours with this group of people and this old man who looked like a half-melted statues come to life, was too much for me. I took a last glance at the family of three. Despite my urge to fight for their experience and the polite conversation we made, I’m certain my existence barely registered for them, but I felt a kinship with them in the story I was creating in my mind. I stretched out my hand, mouthed “Stay alive!” and ran up the stairs, hiding – I HID – from my tour. It had become clear to me that I had lost my mind.

Once I was sure the tour had passed, I found the closest information desk and asked: “What is the fastest way to see everything?” I was handed a map and a look of disgust, and was on my way.

The next two hours were both a blur and happened in super slow motion. There were so many people in this sarcophagus of a building that I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I abandoned the audio tour within the first 10 minutes; it could still be under the oddly attractive statue of the guy with the dog for a head. Every way I moved I bumped into people – and was it just me or was it getting even hotter? Could they have air conditioning in The Vatican? And where was the Pope? I was told there would be a Pope! How was the family of three doing? Would I ever see my mom again? Should I re-watch Veronica Mars? My mind couldn’t stop.

As I descended further into madness, a single thought snapped me out of it. I realized why this kind of oppressive human smog and sensory overload was so familiar and unsettling: It was just like being at Ikea on a Saturday afternoon. And much like Ikea, there was only one way in and one way out. “The only way was through,” I actually said out loud to no one in particular. Steeling myself, I became determined to see The Sistine Chapel and get the hell out of there.

I began walking with more purpose, following the signs to the Sistine Chapel, which was never as close as promised (just like Swedish meatballs at Ikea!). I snapped a few pictures, mostly to take a look at later. I stopped and stared at some art and looked up to appreciate a ceiling or two. Cool cool cool cool cool – where’s the exit?

Now, months after my escape, I can’t remember if I descended higher and higher or lower and lower to reach The Sistine Chapel, but I finally got there. And it was… disappointing. Or maybe it wasn’t? I’m not sure because you couldn’t actually stop and look at the ceiling, which admittedly was beautiful. You had to keep going, keep going, keep going, like Dory from Finding Nemo. I didn’t think I’d be making comparisons to an Ellen DeGeneres-voiced cartoon character to describe seeing one of the most famous sites in the world, but here we are.

That feeling of anger began to wash over me again. I am not a very religious person, nor an art or history buff (I know, I’m the worst), but I am someone who likes a well-run and well-executed event. And this was neither. I kept thinking about that family or any religious person I knew, not just going to The Vatican because they were in Rome and “they should go”, but rather as a truly holy rite of passage. I may not share those views, but I do think they deserve an experience that reflects their devotion to the church. Maybe that family had a great time, maybe this filled their bucket, but if not, I have a strongly worded letter to the head of The Vatican (The Pope? God?) about some logistical and user experience enhancements.

Once I was prodded through The Sistine Chapel, all other thoughts left my mind other than Lakeith Stanfield screaming GET OUT. I felt like a rat trying to burrow through a man’s chest to survive in Game of Thrones. Yes, maybe that heat I was feeling was the flames of hell trying to suck me in because, well, I wasn’t being my most pious self. And yes, I did make myself a rat burrowing through human flesh in that analogy, but that doesn’t make it untrue. Like any time I’ve ever been to Ikea, it was time to forget about everything that you cared about when you entered, fight the tourists and find the way out.

I began to walk faster, now only snapping pictures of things while I was physically walking by them. Everywhere I went, I bumped into a German tourist, who seemed, to be blocking me. I wanted to scream: WHY DO YOU WANT ME TO STAY HERE? WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR!?!?! It felt like days since I had seen the sun or felt the steaming hot gust of Roman air on my face. I wondered: Would I be different now? What had changed in the world? Do proper hover boards finally exist?

Thirty minutes later, I burst through doors and was free to leave… ooh the gift shop! I bought a few rosary beads for friends who would appreciate them, but alas no Pope shirt that had his face superimposed on a bunch of Emojis.

From there I walked briskly to what I knew would be doors leading to the outside. I was an inside person now, and worried that the daylight would burn on my skin after so long. When I arrived in the courtyard of St. Peter Basilica it took all my strength not to drop to my knees, arms stretched to the sky a la Andy Dufrense at the end of Shawshank Redemption.

I walked around St. Peter Basilica for a bit and headed to a pizza place I had read about. I stumbled in like a man out of the dessert begging for water. I ordered a local beer and the house special pizza. The pizza arrived perfect, beautiful, profoundly satisfying.

It was the closest I felt to God all day.

#an eddie abroad #euroed #travel #rome #roma #italy #vatican #vaticancity #wanderlust #travelitaly #lucifer #heatwave

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cassandra-acton · 6 years

Text

ORIGINS & FAMILY:

Name: Cassandra Alice Acton.

Nickname: Cassie, Cass.

Birthday: November 8th, 1986.

Age: 31.

Gender: Female.

Place of Birth: Oxford, Oxfordshire, United Kingdom.

Places Lived Since: London, United Kingdom.

Current Residence: Tower Hamlets, London, United Kingdom.

Nationality: British.

Parents: Michael and Anita Acton (née Redgrave)

Grandparents: Edward Acton (grandfather, paternal, deceased) Renske van Ardenne (grandmother, paternal) Harold Redgrave (grandfather, maternal, deceased) Hélène de Broglie (grandmother, maternal, deceased)

Aunts & Uncles: Kathleen Acton-Fortescue (aunt, paternal) Charlotte, Georgina Redgrave (aunts, maternal) Lambert Redgrave (uncle, maternal)

Number of Siblings: One older sister, Elizabeth Acton.

Relationship With Family: To be honest, she doesn’t really have a relationship with anyone except Elizabeth, and her mother tainted it so much that even that one isn’t healthy. It’s a shame, really. As much as she knows she’s better off without them, she still misses her father, in particular. Cassie definitely envies people who are close to their parents.

Happiest Memory: When Harrison proposed to her, without a doubt. I’ll write about it someday. Getting her internship at Goldman is definitely second, though.

Childhood Trauma: I mean the parents definitely fucked her up for life, so there’s that.

PHYSICAL:

Height: 5'4”

Weight: 120lbs.

Build: Slim but very fit.

Hair Color: Blonde.

Usual Hair Style: Whilst working, she almost always wears her hair up in a ponytail, but she hates it. Much prefers to have it down. Keeps it just a little longer than shoulder length because of her dislike of short hair. Is too lazy to style it beyond neatness unless she’s going somewhere.

Eye Color: Blue.

Glasses? Contacts?: Neither.

Style of Dress/Typical Outfit(s): For work: neat, formal, and inexpensive. Lots of form-fitting skirts, blazers and blouses in blacks and whites. Out of work: a fuck load of jeans. Baggy jumpers and quirky shirts. Picks up a lot of her stuff from charity shops because who has time for fucking shopping.

Typical Style of Shoes: Cassie is never without heels. Prefers bright colours and eye-catching designs to contrast with her typically monochrome/ greyscale outfits during work. About the only part of her outfits she ever spends a decent amount of money on.

Jewellery? Tattoos? Piercings?: The only piece of jewellery she constantly wears is her engagement ring, which she has on a chain around her neck. She has three tattoos. ‘Hip to be Square’ in tiny font on the inside of her right wrist, Harrison’s birthday on her left shoulder blade, and a matching tattoo she got with her friend, Jessica, back in school, on her right forearm. Each got a hand from The Creation of Adam. As for piercings, she has her left ear pierced twice, her right four times, as well as her bellybutton.

Scars: A thin scar that cuts through her right eyebrow; a result of a drunken night out in university during which one of her friends fell down the stairs, and dragged Cassie with her.

Unique Mannerisms/Physical Habits: When she’s stressed, she has to play with her hair; pulling it, twisting it, whatever. It’s about the only good indicator she’s about to rip your face off because she will do that shit with a smile.

Athleticism: Very high. Cassandra naturally has a lot of energy, and so expends a lot of it keeping fit. Rowed competitively for LSE, and still competes regularly with many of the girls from her old crews, as well as having joined a new rowing club. She also plays a lot of rugby, though never competitively. Loves running and endurance, and almost always competes in the Tough Mudder when it’s nearby, as well as taking part in the London marathon annually. Also gets involved with a lot of charity races.

Health Problems/Illnesses: I think she seriously wavers into depression sometimes, though she’s far too proud to ever get it officially diagnosed. PCOS and all its friends, which is not a fun time. Does over attachment to her dog count? Definitely counts.

INTELLECT:

Level of Education: MSc in Economics and Management from LSE. Cassie finds studying relaxing, however, and often self-teaches about subjects of interest in her free time. Currently, she is working on a course in Arab Finance.

Languages Spoken: English natively, Dutch fluently. French and Mandarin intermediate. Is determined to take up learning Arabic at a later date.

Level of Self-Esteem: Very low. It’s why she aggressively overcompensates with an arrogant attitude. Partly to convince herself, but mostly to convince others.

Gifts/Talents: Surprisingly, she’s actually a pretty good violinist.

Mathematical?: Definitely. It’s sort of her thing. 100% could get a job on Countdown.

Makes Decisions Based Mostly On Emotions, or On Logic?: Usually, emotions, though she tends to berate herself afterward, because she knows—especially given the career she has now chosen to pursue—that she needs to learn to be more logical.

Life Philosophy: Someone else is happy with less than what you have.

Religious Stance: Was raised Anglican, but isn’t particularly religious.

Cautious or Daring?: Absolutely daring. Naturally, she’s a spontaneous person, and I don’t think being cautious really lends to that.

Most Sensitive About/Vulnerable To: Being told she’s not good enough. Being criticised when it comes to her work. Being compared to her sister. People bringing up what happened to Harrison. Terrorism in general.

Optimist or Pessimist?: In between, leaning slightly toward the pessimistic side.

Extrovert or Introvert?: Extrovert.

RELATIONSHIPS:

Current Relationship Status: In a relationship with Adam Hassan, Shadow Health Secretary, and MP for Bethnal Green & Bow.

Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual.

Past Relationships: Before Adam, the only person she’d ever been in a real relationship with was Harrison. They on-off dated their whole young lives. They briefly broke up when he joined the army and she went to university because they were worried about ‘distance’ but wound up missing each other too much for it to be a permanent thing. Dated one guy briefly, Matt, a few years after his death, but it scared her so much it took her until Adam to try again.

Primary Reason For Being Broken Up With: None.

Primary Reasons For Breaking Up With People: Not having moved on.

Ever Cheated?: No.

Been Cheated On: Not really. Unless you count that one time, by Harrison, when they were little kids. He kissed another girl on the playground because Cassie had been off school for a week. She pouted and promised she’d never date a boy ever again after that.

Level of Sexual Experience: Cassie’s slept with five people in her life, so limited-ish. Harrison, a brief fling during her first year of university, Matt, Silas, and Adam.

Story of First Kiss: His name was Richard and she only kissed him because all of the other girls wanted to.

Story of Loss of Virginity: The first time she and Harrison tried, they’d attempted to make it a ‘romantic evening’ that wound up being so awkward, they couldn’t stop laughing. Eventually, it happened spontaneously at a school social after party.

A Social Person?: Absolutely. Even though she needs some time to herself every now and again to process all the shit that’s going on in her life, she couldn’t go any extended time without her friends. Cassie has to be in a pretty bad place to cut herself of from people.

Most Comfortable Around: Jessica, and her old work friends at Goldman—they’re the people she’s closest to, and are still like a family to her.

Oldest Friend: Jessica Mirzoyan, a friend she grew up with in Oxford that now also lives in London. She can’t remember a time in her life when Jessica wasn’t in it, they’ve known each other for so long. Basically a sister to her.

How Does She Think Others Perceive Her?: Cassie has an incredibly skewed view of what people think of her. She automatically assumes people think the worst. Look at her like she’s not good enough, just like her mother always did. I think that’s why she keeps most people at arm’s length, because she’s so scared of letting someone in only for them to wind up criticizing her.

How Do Others Actually Perceive Her?: Depends who you ask. Amongst the public she’s very popular for her honesty. Amongst her colleagues back at Goldman she’s respected as a professional cutthroat. As for her critics, they probably just see her as a stuck up bitch.

SECRETS:

Life Goals: To help as many people through her political and charitable work as possible. That’s really all she cares about. Personal goals seem fairly irrelevant to her right now.

Dreams: To be happy again would be rather nice.

Greatest Fears: Polystyrene and spiders. Why do either of those things exist?

Most Ashamed Of: How bitter losing Harrison has made her. How she still hasn’t been able to get over the anger and the hurt it left her with.

Secret Hobbies: Cassie kind of loves to knit? It’s a good stress reliever when she’s too tired to go running. Not that she’d admit to it, mind you. She’s also not very good. All she can make are the really simple scarves.

Crimes Committed (Was she caught? Charged?): None.

DETAILS/QUIRKS:

Night Owl or Early Bird?: Night owl. Begrudges being alive in the mornings.

Light or Heavy Sleeper?: Heavy sleeper.

Favorite Animal: Hedgehog.

Favorite Foods: Steak. Cheese and crackers. Orange jelly.

Least Favorite Food: Avocado.

Favorite Book: American Psycho – Bret Easton Ellis.

Least Favorite Book: The Great Gatsby – F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Favorite Movie: Burn After Reading. Gladiator. Mars Attacks!

Least Favorite Movie: Shitty horrors in general.

Favorite Song: Mr. Roboto – Styx. If you play that to her, she doesn’t just sing along, she fucking performs it, okay. (Honourable mentions for The Boys Are Back In Town – Thin Lizzy, and What Is Love – Haddaway.)

Favorite Sport: Rugby. Cassie can get pretty shouty about rugby and is a very dedicated Saracens fan.

Coffee or Tea?: Tea.

Crunchy or Smooth Peanut Butter?: Neither, thank you. That stuff is nasty.

Type of Car She Drives: A dark green Mini Cooper.

Lefty or Righty?: Lefty.

Favorite Color: Pink.

Cusser?: Pretty badly, although she does well to hold her tongue in public most of the time. Has had a few slip-ups that made the headlines. Luckily the general opinion was that it made her seem more normal, and it went down pretty well with voters, if not her critics.

Smoker? Drinker? Drug User?: Never used drugs. Occasionally smokes if she’s incredibly stressed and has been drinking. Drinks fairly regularly.

Biggest Regret: Letting her parents fuck her up so badly. Cassie wishes that she hadn’t taken it so much to heart, now that she knows better.

Pets: The love of her life, Brody the Corgi.

#archive

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syntaxeme · 6 years

Text

[A/N: So, Jean and I have been talking a lot about our superhero babies lately. Charisma here is one of those. They’re part of the East Coast team, I think, the ones stationed at the Academy. Anyway they’re a grumpy healer and I love them a lot.]

Name: Bao Hanh Phang

Callsign: Charisma

Species: demigod (?) half-human, half-…something else

Age: 28

Gender/sexuality: nonbinary (afab, they/them), pansexual

Ethnicity: Vietnamese-American

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Body/body language: 5’, petite, soft. They definitely have no muscle definition to speak of. They’re not a physical combatant—though they do have a weapon to defend themselves. They didn’t always, which is the reason their right arm, from just below the shoulder, is prosthetic. Their prosthetic is permanently attached, as it’s connected to their nervous system in order to be fully functional. (That process was incredibly shitty to go through, but they’re not a fan of idealistic quick-and-painless healing anyway.) It’s made of some light but sturdy non-metal material and was provided by the Academy, as they were injured doing Academy work. Their skin is sort of olive toned; their mother is Vietnamese, and their physical appearance seems to mostly take after her (aside from their hair color). Their face is pretty round, as are most of their features. They have a severe case of Resting Bitch Face.

Hair: ginger, thick, usually messy. It reaches about to their waist, but they usually have it bound up somehow (without much care) so it’s out of their eyes.

Eyes: monolid, dull green

Background: Charisma is the child of a mortal woman and a god—at least that’s what people say. It’s difficult to get them to talk about their family, and when they do, they’re evasive. They were raised by their mother without a whole lot of influence from their other parent and lived the first 26 years of their life passing as a human. That is, they’re pretty new to the whole superhero thing. They went to medical school with the intention of being a doctor, but a very persuasive acquaintance convinced them that someone with their abilities would be useful to the hero community. So there they are at the Academy, teaching and healing and occasionally doing field work. They teach Human Anatomy, basic Theology, and very occasionally Magic Theory. They’re also involved with any first aid/medical training that goes on. During their first year with the Academy, one of their first field missions, they were taken captive by an enemy faction in order to heal an injured teammate, which they did. The baddies had every intention of returning them to the Academy when they were done, but after seeing the extent of their healing abilities, one of their leaders determined that they were too great an asset for “the enemy” to have. It was quickly made clear that they had no interest in joining up, so the leader decided to eliminate them instead. The others managed to keep him from killing them, but he did mangle their right arm beyond repair. They have a number of other scars down their right side, but most of them are covered by their clothing. It was a few months before they received their prosthetic (designed by some techie at the Academy), so it’s been about a year and a half now since they got it.

Powers:

Spoken influence – This power isn’t really an absolute as in, “they speak it and it’s true.” It only works to affect other people’s thoughts and feelings; you could just say that they’re very persuasive. There is magic behind it, however. It only functions in the form of a statement or a command; questions and suggestions don’t work. It also has to be spoken aloud and clearly heard. These statements can range anywhere from “don’t worry; you’re going to be fine” to “it’s not as scary as it seems” to “you are going to live, damn it.” While they may not necessarily be true, they’re believable, which makes the psychological ones the most effective. The issue with this is that they can’t really turn it off, so they’ve learned to be careful of how they choose their words. (On a sort of separate note, this makes them come across as very trustworthy to anyone who talks to them; it’s almost impossible to suspect them of lying.)

Isolated condition reversal – This is a sort of time-reversal ability, but it has very specific conditions. Charisma’s “healing” is more like “un-damaging”; they can isolate a particular object and rewind it to its previous condition within a span of a few hours. Most often, they apply this to injuries on their patients, e.g. reversing a broken bone or a torn/cut muscle, etc. It can also be applied to other objects, however, such as a broken window or a wilting flower.

The longer the period of the “rewind,” the more energy it takes on their part.

The larger and more complex the subject, the more difficult it is for them; living things are invariably harder to work with.

The longest rewind they’ve ever done was eight hours, and it was so draining that they passed out for two days afterward. It’s essential for them to get to the subject in question ASAP.

They’ve never tried it, but they theorize that if they were to be around someone almost immediately after time of death, they might be able to reverse even that. However, 1) it would be incredibly difficult for them because it’s both a full-body rewind and who knows how much time would need to be taken off in order to make the body viable again in the first place, and 2) there’s the matter of a “soul,” if you want to call it that, and whether or not it would still be there when the body wakes up. They have absolutely no interest in ever testing this theory, but if worse comes to worse, it is still there in the back of their mind.

Personality: Impatient, irritable, more caring than they’d like to admit. They mostly get frustrated when people are hurt due to their own dumb or reckless decisions. They have little sympathy for that, though of course they’ll heal anyone who needs it. (Decisions made for the sake of helping others are an exception.) They prefer to use conventional medicine when possible, partially on principle (“things aren’t just magically fixed”) and partially because their healing magic takes a lot of energy, depending on the severity of the injury. They’re pretty argumentative, but that doesn’t mean they don’t listen; they just want you to explain yourself properly, and if you can’t, reconsider what you’re saying. Contrary to what many people must think, they really don’t hate everyone, and they feel bad when they snap or realize they’re being a little too snarky. Their temper and tongue are just quick to react to what they perceive as foolishness or lack of consideration. When it matters and they know it, they can be more compassionate. Their teammates have noticed that they seem to be much more encouraging in the field. For some reason. In terms of romance, they’re very straightforward. They don’t play hard to get. They don’t “make you work for it.” If they like someone, they see no point in tiptoeing around it. And if that’s a turn-off, oh well. They’re unfailingly honest—with the way their words affect people, they have to be, or they risk being completely misunderstood—and that’s not about to be compromised for anyone else’s sake.

Misc.:

They grew up English/Vietnamese bilingual and learned ASL in college, so they’re fluent in all three. Their mother strongly prefers Vietnamese, so that’s almost always what they use when speaking to her.

They don’t really do the whole “secret identity” thing, nor do they do the costume/mask thing. The only traditionally superhero-ish thing they do is the nickname; they go by Charisma to pretty much everyone, including people at the Academy. Their real name isn’t exactly a secret, but they introduce themselves as Charisma, so you would have to either ask directly or investigate their Academy files in order to learn it. It’s probably listed on the syllabi for the courses they teach.

They have a very high tolerance for alcohol; if given the choice, they’d pick beer over water most of the time.

They often curse without thinking too much of it. It’s only when people look at them funny or react strongly that they start to think “oh was that not appropriate here?”

They’re much more likely to be patient and understanding when it comes to kids (like 13 and younger) for some reason. This is one of few aspects of their personality they prefer not to openly admit to and very possibly has something to do with their weird parent situation. They’re not in any way interested in having children (that is, being pregnant and giving birth), but maybe they do have some parental feelings that they just…try really hard to ignore.

It’s not uncommon, particularly since they’re working with a lot of non-human or superhuman people, for their scientific curiosity to get the best of them, which leads to them studying how their patients and coworkers function biologically. They try to refrain from asking invasive questions on the subject, but it doesn’t make them any less curious.

Clothing:

They have a particular fondness for crop-tops, and their favorite color is powder blue.

They don’t do finger/hand accessories but wear lots of earrings. And probably sparkly things in their hair.

Although they’re nonbinary and will tell you so if you say or suggest otherwise, they don’t make any particular effort to look androgynous; they don’t try to hide their curves, and their pattern/color/textile selection could easily be called “girly.” They like embroidery (particularly flowers) and wide, loose sleeves. They wear a lot of blue jeans, usually light-colored ones. And boots. Probably Doc Martens.

#Charisma #Im love them #superheroes #my OCs #I should give these kids a group name....

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skysplinter · 7 years

Text

1. Interrogation

Next chapter here.

Latest chapter here.

The soft light emanating from C-244’s core flickered uncomfortably as it waited at the cell door. Interrogation was not its forte even at the best of times, and being called upon to deal with such a dangerous subject was anything but reassuring.

Still, it understood. The crew could not risk another biological life form. C-244 was not of blood and flesh. It could be rebuilt if worst came to worst. The others aboard could not, at least not to the same extent. In addition, there had been no known documentation of the prisoner attacking any of the mechanical crew members, though there was little recorded data to confirm or deny whether or not this was a statistic relevant to the prisoner’s principles and limitations.

Again, not reassuring.

In a fraction of a second, C-244 had perused and noted the relevant documents concerning criminal interrogation, captor-prisoner relationships and basic empathetic principles it had downloaded into its memory for the occasion. It was not entirely sure how applying such techniques would work in practice, but there was no harm in trying.

Hesitantly, it released the door lock and shuffled inside the airlock room between the ship and the cell in which the prisoner was held.

The prisoner had been deemed much too dangerous to be kept in the brig. In the brief time they had been kept on-board, there had been too many mishaps to allow them to be kept with the rest of the prisoners - or at least the ones that were still alive after their last escape attempt. The commander had instead decided that they would be kept in a detachable reinforced cargo unit, consequently registered as Brig Cell Seventeen in the ship’s data banks.

Unable to think of any logical reason not to continue, C-244 entered the security code into the second door and entered the cell. Almost immediately, its receptors registered a distinct alteration of atmospheric pressure and air chemical composition. This was, again, at the bequest of the commander and the medical staff, who had determined the “unusual requirements” of the prisoner during their numerous necessary bio-tests and examinations. They had spoken of the prisoner’s biological needs with a degree of emotional anxiousness to C-244, calling the prisoner “unlike anything they had ever seen” and “a threat to all life-forms”.

These claims had not been rationalized to C-244, however, and it found no relevant purpose to pursue the meaning behind them. All it knew was that the prisoner was dangerous, and that the utmost care needed to be taken when approaching.

The prisoner was curled up in the corner of the cell, watching C-244 approach with an emotion it recognized as “suspicion”.

‘I present to you no threat,’ said C-244, quickly processing the best course of action to develop a rapport with them. ‘I am here to ask you questions.’

The prisoner flicked their tail, their jagged teeth bared as they uncoiled themselves. ‘Questions,’ they growled with a deep, wet rumble of a voice. ‘There are always… questions. Your putrid fleshy masters seem adamant to eke out every little fact about me. If it’s not drugging me and tearing me open on an operating table, it’s bombarding me with their tedious little… questions.’

‘You are puzzling to them,’ C-244 explained. ‘It is my understanding that many biological lifeforms possess an abundance of curiosity, possibly derived from their natural survival instincts. They do not fully understand you yet, and they desire a solution to this problem. This is why I am here to ask you questions.’

‘Always a problem,’ said the prisoner. They made a soft throaty sound that didn’t register on any of C-244’s language databases. ‘Typical human scum, looking upon me as if I am something broken that needs to be fixed, or else removed. Tell me, machine, what is it like to be understood by these pathetic creatures? Does it bring you satisfaction?’

C-244 could feel its outer coils turning as it processed the prisoner’s words, its core humming as it formulated an appropriate response. ‘It allows them to aid me if I am in need of repair. I feel no need to register satisfaction - nor sarcasm, to that end,’ it told them. ‘We are straying from my function. I would like to proceed with the interrogation, if you would permit me to continue.’

It was met with no resistance. The prisoner merely sighed and heaved their broad shoulders in a shrug. ‘I hardly have any choice in the matter, do I?’

C-244 momentarily considered informing them of their available options, but thought better of it. Though it had been told that its body components could be replaced or repaired without much complication, that did not mean that it wanted to put that to the test. ‘Thank you for complying,’ it said instead.

‘So what do you wish to know, machine?’ Their lip curled back into something categorized as a “sneer” as they paced their cell, kicking half-emptied cans of food and shreds of metal with its clawed feet. ‘What do the high and mighty human race wish to know about this particular abomination?’

‘They are unable to define you,’ said C-244. ‘You do not match any other documented being in any database the crew has been able to access. Your very existence is...’ it paused for a moment as it tried to find a term least likely to cause offense. ‘... Enigmatic.’

‘So they wish to label me and put me in a neat little box like everything else,’ the prisoner nodded and closed their eyes. ‘I could not expect anything better of them, regrettably.’ There was an anomalous tone in their voice, incongruous to their otherwise aggressive demeanor, but C-244 was unable to identify it with its current available catalog of emotions.

‘It would be helpful to assign you a name,’ it suggested. ‘Communication is made easier when individuals can be defined by a common language term, so that all parties taking part in the discussion have a frame of reference. For example, my name is Cognizant Model 244, an archivist robot assigned to this vessel. This is how I am defined. The crew have also given me nicknames so as to personalize their own understanding of me, the most common name associated with me being “C-244”. In comparison, you have only been assigned the name of “prisoner”. You have no species or personal name of which we have been made aware. This makes you difficult to understand, as there are incalculable prisoners recorded across history, and the title does not help to define you as you. Perhaps the crew simply wishes to understand you better.’

The prisoner lumbered towards it, wearing a “scowl”. ‘If only we were all so trusting,’ they said, ‘but no matter. If you wish to give your masters a name to define me, I suppose I shall comply.’

‘Define,’ said C-244 warily.

‘Tell them I am their scourge, machine,’ said the prisoner. ‘Tell them I am their retribution for all the ill they have done. And while you are telling them this, let them know that I do not appreciate this kind of treatment; I do not appreciate them hiding behind their puppets like this.’

It stored the new information accordingly, its core blinking as the prisoner continued to stalk towards it.

‘Acknowledged,’ said C-244. ‘I have now assigned your new names. We are making progress, “Scourge”.’

Scourge made a loose rattling noise which met the base requirements to define it as “laughter”. ‘I am “Scourge”, yes,’ they said. ‘I suppose that would be a fitting name. I would be very careful if I were you, machine; I fear I am almost beginning to like you.’

#fiction #writing #my ocs #oc: C-244

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