#I know very little about religion so I meant no harm or offense by naming the one I did.

[frizz22]

Converts

Moonshine Madam prompt: it's not actually such a well-kept secret that the Spellman’s are Satanists, perhaps a confrontation with some Church members in Greendale? Nothing to serious, just something lighthearted?

Thanks for the prompt! Read on ao3

They were relaxing in the parlor; it was the first Sunday all month they didn’t have a funeral service and Zelda had just flipped a record over before settling down to continue working on a puzzle with Hilda. Of course, their quiet afternoon was interrupted moments later, Ambrose barreling in.

“They’re back!” He grinned, eyes alight with mischief.

Hilda looked up at him, brow furrowed. “Who, love?”

Barely able to contain himself, Ambrose clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “The oh so righteous parishioners of Greendale’s Evangelical Church. Come to help us sinners see the error in our ways.” 

Zelda sat up, excited. “Really?”

“Just set off the perimeter wards. We have ten minutes at best.” He looked between them hopefully.

A wide smile spread across Zelda’s face. “Marvelous, it’s been ages since they’ve come around.” She was already standing up, waving a hand to put the puzzle away. “Places everyone.” Zelda instructed with malicious glee as she turned to transform the parlor from its everyday appearance.

Whooping in delight, Ambrose hurried off to the basement.

Hilda giggled and went to the chest pushed against the wall next to the fireplace and began pulling out various items. “They must have new blood, someone who thinks they can ‘get through to us poor lost souls’ at last.” She bit her lip to try and contain her excitement as she set a deck of tarot cards and a set of small animal bones with runes carved into them on the coffee table.

Humming in agreement, Zelda focused on her spell which was redecorating the room. Several upside down crosses adorned the walls, a pentagram appeared on the floor in uneven, red paint, Hilda’s spiders crawled along the ceiling weaving intricate webs, a Satanic bible popped up on one of the side tables and the final touch… an elaborate painting of Lucifer Morningstar with fresh wounds on his back materialized over the fireplace.

Giving her work an appraising look, Zelda faced her sister. “Yes, ‘us poor lost souls’. So prone to lust and greed and dark things.” She intoned dramatically. “And yet, I bet you I can make at least three of them think about having their way with me before they leave.” Cocking a brow, she snipped her fingers to change out of her regular clothes and into one of her racier nightgowns and robe; relishing in how horrified the parishioners would be at their spike of unclean lust for a Satanist.

An indelicate snort escaped her sister as she set out some tea and cookies. “Oh, that’s too easy. All of them will think that, if even for a moment. Mortals, despite all their supposed superiority, are no better than us; they just restrain and repress themselves.” Shaking her head at the notion, Hilda picked up her deck of cards and started to shuffle them. “Now, what I intend to do is more difficult, requires a bit more magic. I’m going to scare the Beelzebub out of them,” she grinned, flicking her wrist to turn her clothes into something more mystical.

Eyebrows raised in appreciation, Zelda turned to the mirror hanging on the wall to touch up her appearance. “The seer bit? You haven’t done that in some time. It will certainly have them sweating through those awful polyester Sunday suits.” She remarked, darkening her lipstick, mussing her hair and creating a prominent love-bite on her neck for good measure.

Her sister had an uncanny ability to read people; their motives, how their pasts played into their current and future actions. Hilda didn’t use it often, claimed the sensation could be overwhelming if not carefully controlled. But in times like this, well, what was the point of the ability if not to have some fun with it? And Hilda truly did make the most of it, coming off as intimidating and creepy with a sickly sweet sugarcoating.

“You’ll help sell it, right?” Hilda asked, tucking her hair into a scarf and putting her glasses on.

Happy with her debauched appearance, Zelda moved away from the mirror and towards the front door—their guests would be arriving any moment. “Of course, sister. It’s always amusing to watch them squirm under your scrutiny.” She winked and conjured a cigarette before gripping the front door handle and waiting, just a beat before pulling it open just as one of the parishioners raised their hand to knock. “Just leave out the back, Ellen,” Zelda called out to imaginary figure behind her. “And feel free to tell your husband about that little tongue trick. He’ll enjoy the result as much as I did.” Turning her head to the little group in front of her, Zelda eyed each buttoned up little false god peddler with a raised brow. “Ah, yes, right on time.” Taking a long draw of nicotine and blowing it at them, Zelda stepped aside. “Do come in.”

As expected, most of the group struggled to tear their eyes away from her, gazes lingering on her neck and chest—though Hilda was right in that it was almost too easy, Zelda still enjoyed the effect she had over the mortals, how she made them question themselves; even for a moment.

One woman among them was made of sturdier stuff, though, and pushed past her ogling entourage and walked inside. Her movement broke the trance the others were in and they shuffled behind her awkwardly, not making eye contact out of shame. When they all passed the threshold, the lights flickered, courtesy of Ambrose, and Zelda smothered a smile at how several of them jumped.

Clearing her throat, one woman spoke up, look at Zelda uncertainly. “Right on time, you said…” She murmured, warily taking in her surroundings.

A wide smile spread across Zelda’s lips and she ushered them deeper into the house. “Oh, my sister foresaw your arrival. She made tea and cookies for you,” she noted, taking her time leading the way to the parlor; wanting to play with them a little more before turning it over to Hilda. Zelda paused next to the parlor door, “could Father Michaels not make it?” She asked innocently, finger tracing the plunging neckline of her nightgown.

The priest at the church had come at least once a month for some time when he first assumed his position. Convinced he was doing the false god’s work and not only bringing the Spellman’s over to the light side, but also ridding Greendale of Satanists at the same time.

It’d been fun, at first, coming up with new and creative ways to torment the man. But the novelty soon wore off and they had things to do, a business to run without a bothersome mortal priest popping in at random times.  

So, to discourage him from returning, Zelda sent him several dreams in which he was engaged in a series of passionate activities with not only her, but Hilda and Ambrose as well. Ever since then, the man avoided them like the plague and grew incredibly flustered at the mere mention of the Spellman family—or so Zelda was told.

The act bought them almost half a year of peace before a group of brave parishioners, minus Father Michaels, appeared on their doorstep. Having taken it upon themselves to purge the devil and his worshippers from their midst. From then on, the visits of the good parishioners of Greendale’s Evangelical Church were sporadic, unpredictable. But it quickly became part of the game, seeing what they could come up with on the fly.

One of the men coughed and nervously tugged at the knot of his tie. “He, uh,” the man faltered, his eyes drifting down to Zelda’s chest before he wrenched them away with some difficulty. “He couldn’t make it today. Other matters to attend to.” He informed her gruffly, the tips of his ears burning red. And Zelda could tell the man was realizing one of the reasons why the priest avoided the Spellman house.

Humming in feigned displeasure, Zelda pushed the parlor door open and walked inside. “Have a seat,” she purred, eyeing each of the false god’s puppets salaciously as they filtered past her and into the next trap.

Undeterred, though mildly ruffled, their leader marched past her and into the parlor only to waver when she took in her surroundings. The rest of the group was quick to wilt as well as they uncomfortably took their seats on the couch across from Hilda; who was shuffling her tarot cards and smiling warmly at them… as if a ram’s skull was leering at them from the wall behind her.

“So kind of you to join us on this unholy day,” Hilda greeted a little breathily.

The comment had the leader looking scandalized. “Join you?” She demanded, “we’re here to—”

Holding up a hand, Hilda silenced her. “Mary Beth, I know why you’re here. You wish to try and save us. But we don’t need saving.” She smiled blithely at the woman.

Before Mary Beth could respond, a loud animalistic screech sounded from the basement, causing their guests to jump. Zelda hid a laugh; Ambrose was really playing it up this time.

Clearly shaken, Mary Beth collected herself. “How, how do you know my name?” She asked, face pale and eyes flicking to the ground where the sound originated and where muffled growls were still emanating.

Perching herself in the chair next to Hilda, Zelda crossed her legs regally and settled in for the show. Hilda would start by naming them all before introductions were made, sometimes listing little details about the guests or their pasts to unnerve them further. While she watched this all unfold, Zelda traced the fake bite mark on her neck, her gaze lingering on each parishioner in turn. Between her sister’s hauntingly accurate readings and Zelda’s own unabashed display of sexuality and sexual interest, they soon had the entire group visibly squirming.

There was one woman, though, Evelyn, who kept peeking at Zelda and blushing every time they made eye contact. Gifting the woman with a sinful smile, Zelda couldn’t help but think she might be able to play with this one later. When Evelyn smiled in return, Zelda’s hopes and eyebrows rose.  

It wasn’t until Mary Beth noticed their prolonged eye contact that she pinched Evelyn and the woman dropped her eyes…. Moments later, though, Zelda found the woman’s eyes back on her. Oh, she almost regretted what they were about to do next, for it would surely scare Evelyn away and ruin Zelda’s chances at bedding her; and she would have loved to corrupt the mortal—especially one with the name like Eve.

Before she could think of how to signal Ambrose to wait, her nephew came bursting into the parlor, the basement door still hanging open behind him and unsettling sounds echoing up the stairs. Compared to Ambrose, though, the noises were the least of their guests’ concern. Arms covered in blood up to the elbow and holding up fake intestines, Ambrose came to a stop in front of them; seemingly oblivious to the parishioner.

“Aunties, the signs don’t look—, oh! I didn’t realize we had company.” He smiled graciously at the group, and up close Zelda could make out flecks of blood along his chest and face as well. “I’m sorry, I’ll just double check the results using a rabbit. You know how unreliable weasels can be,” he grinned and shook his head in amusement. “But, I will leave these—” Ambrose laid the intestines on the coffee table next to the tray of tea and cookies with exaggerated care, “here for your consultation.”   Nodding politely at everyone, Ambrose took his leave and made for the basement once more, snapping the door shut behind him.

Understandably, the color drained from each of the parishioners’ faces and they made their hasty departures soon after, not even cracking out the false god’s bible before they turned tail. As they retreated across the lawn, Hilda and Zelda bade them goodbye from the porch, waving and loudly thanking Satan for the visit. Evelyn was the only one to turn back, a small, if somewhat perplexed, smile on her face as her eyes flicked up and down Zelda once more before shifting to follow the others.

Once the group all but ran around the curve in the road, Hilda couldn’t contain her mirth any longer and snorted; and though she fought it, Zelda guffawed as well, clutching her side as they made their way back into the house where Ambrose was eagerly waiting for them.

They lounged in the parlor, consuming the tea and cookies their would-be saviors hadn’t touched and gleefully reliving the events of the past thirty minutes. It was here that Sabrina found them, having just gotten home from a study session with Roz and Susie.

“So, I just passed a group of horrified looking people on my way home….” She began, blinking when they all broke into fresh bouts of laughter. Warily, Sabrina set her bag down and took note in her surroundings. “What, what is all of this? What happened?” She demanded, gesturing to the decorations, the fake intestines still on the table and their attire.

Wiping the corner of her eyes, Hilda managed to catch her breath first to answer. “Oh, lamb, you missed it. And it would have been the first one you could participate in…” She frowned a little in disappointment, but her eyes were still twinkling with amusement.

Zelda lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and released the smoke with a content sigh. “We just had a lovely visit from the parishioners of Greendale’s Evangelical Church.” They all chuckled again, unable to help themselves, as they settled more comfortably in their seats.

Casting them a dubious look, Sabrina took a seat on the edge of one of the chairs. “I don’t think they felt the same.” She informed them, admonishment coloring her tone.

“Oh coz, don’t go getting all righteous on us. They’re the ones who felt compelled to interrupt our Sunday with their false god drivel.” Ambrose remarked, sprawled sideways in his chair, legs hanging over the armrest.

When Sabrina looked ready to argue, Zelda knocked some of the ash of her cigarette and talked before her niece could. “Besides, we can’t have them dropping by any time they please. They might actually witness something of substance. This is just our way of… discouraging their visits.” She justified with a slight shrug.

“And it’s fun.” Hilda giggled, taking another cookie.

Arching a brow, Zelda smirked. “And that.”

“Especially for you, Aunt Zee. Evelyn couldn’t keep her eyes off you.” Ambrose grinned wickedly, “going to seduce another mortal away from the false god?”

She brushed her hair back and took another drag of nicotine. “One can only hope,” she murmured, a mischievous glint in her eye. “The most devout ones are often the most fun in bed; they’ve been suppressing their desires for so long it all just comes bursting out.”

Scandalized, Sabrina’s mouth dropped open. “Auntie! You can’t mess with someone’s feelings—”

Rolling her eyes, Zelda stubbed her cigarette out. “Sex doesn’t always involve ‘feelings’, Sabrina. It’s usually about carnal pleasure, and if Evelyn wants me to provide that… who I am to object?” She inclined her head at her niece and continued. “In any case, if they are intent on ‘saving us’, it’s only fair I try and do the same for them. Though, I must say my way is much more gratifying.” Zelda leaned forward and selected a cookie from the tray.

Ever the peace-maker, Hilda patted Sabrina’s knee. “They did bring this upon themselves by trying to come and convert us, love. And don’t be upset with your auntie,” she flashed a look Zelda’s way which she dutifully ignored. “She only… woos the ones who are willing.”

Ambrose snorted, “woos, yeah that’s what she does. That’s what her nightgown, makeup and bite mark scream… wooing.” He wiggled his eyebrows and Zelda swatted at him good-naturedly.

Of course, Sabrina couldn’t see the innocence and fun in their actions that afternoon. “It’s really not nice to mess with them. They’re just—” She began, shaking her head and tone disapproving.

Groaning loudly, Ambrose went limp in his seat, practically sliding out of it in his dramatics. “Get off your high horse, coz.” Zelda snickered and the corner of her mouth curled up into a smile at her nephew’s antics. Sabrina was less than amused.

Smiling gently, Hilda handed their niece some tea. “It’s all in good fun, darling. No one gets hurt and we keep our reputation in town.”

Suspiciously taking the cup, Sabrina eyed them. “What reputation?”

Chuckling, Zelda leaned back in her seat and clasped her hands in front of her. “That Spellmans aren’t to be trifled with, of course.” She quirked a brow as Hilda and Ambrose hummed their agreement before going back to recounting their afternoon.

[aces-to-apples]

Your Reputation Precedes You

A response to “On Fandom Racism (and That Conlang People Are Talking About)” because lmao that cowardly bitch just hates getting feedback from people that she can’t then harass into oblivion

i.e. God I Wish I Could Use The Tag Fandom Wank Without The Titty Police Nerfing My Post

-

To be frank, I'm not here because I think you or any of your little cronies are going to change your minds. If the 'name' wasn't a giveaway, your group of ~likeminded individuals~ have quite the reputation for espousing ableist, antisemitic, and, yes, racist views under wafer-thin the veneer of "calling out racism." I think we both know that what you're actually doing is using the relative anonymity of the internet and progressive language to abuse, harass, and bully fans that you personally disagree with. You and your group are toxic, hateful, and utterly pathetic, using many peoples' genuine desire to avoid accidentally causing harm and twisting it into this horrid parade of submissiveness to You, The One And Only Arbiter Of Truth And Justice In Fandom. Never mind that you have derided autistic people as lacking compassion and empathy, that you've used racist colonizer dogwhistles to describe a fictional culture based heavily on real live Maori culture, that you've mocked the idea of characters having PTSD, or that vital mental health services are anything more than "talking about your feelings with friends uwu." Let's just ignore that you have ridiculed the idea of adults in positions of power exerting that power over children in harmful and abusive ways, that creating transformative fan-content that doesn't adhere to the spirit of canon or wishes of the original author garners derision and hatefulness from you, and that you've used classic abuser tactics in order to gaslight people in your orbit into behaving more submissively towards you in order to avoid more verbal abuse.

Let's toss all of that crucial context aside in favor of only what you've written here.

What you've written here is nearly 3,000 entire words based on, at best—though, admittedly, based on your previous behavior, I am actually not willing to extend to you an iota of good faith—fallacious reasoning. You posit that a constructed language, to be used by a fictional religious group located in an entirely different galaxy than our own, is othering, racist in general, and anti-Asian specifically. This appears based in several suppositions, the first being that a language unknown by the reader will, by nature, cause the reader to feel alienated from the characters and therefore less sympathetic, empathetic, and caring towards the characters. That idea is patently ridiculous and, I believe, says far more about your ability to connect to a character speaking an unfamiliar language than any kind of overarching truth about media and the human condition. New things are interesting; new things are fun; the human brain is wired from birth to be fascinated with new things, to want to take them apart, find out how they work, and enjoy both the process and the results.

The second supposition this fallacy is based upon appears to be that to move away from the blatant Orientalism of Star Wars is inherently anti-Asian. While I find it... frankly, a little bit sad that you cling so viciously to the Orientalist, appropriative roots of Star Wars as some form of genuine representation, that's really none of my business. If you feel that a Muslim-coded character bombing a temple and becoming a terrorist and a Sith, a white woman wearing Mongolian wedding garb, a species of decadent slug-like gangsters smoking out of hookahs and keeping attractive young women chained at their feet (as it were), a species of greedy money-grubbers with exaggerated features and offensively stereotypical "Asian" accents, and an indigenous people wearing modesty garb based on the Bedu people and treated by most characters as well as the narrative as mindless animals deserving of murder and genocide are appropriate representation of the many, varied, and beautiful cultures around the world upon which they were "based," then that is very much your business. Until you pull shit like this. Until you accuse other fans, who wish to move away from such offensive coding and stereotypes, of erasing Asian culture from Star Wars. Then it becomes everyone's business, especially when you are targeting a loving and enthusiastic group of fans who are pouring their hearts and souls into creating an inventive and non-appropriative alternative to canon.

Which leads into the third supposition, that a patently racist, misogynistic white man in the 1970s, and then again in the 1990s, intended his universe to be an accurate and respectful portrayal of the various cultures he stole from. I understand that for your group of toxic bullies, the term "Death of the Author" holds no real meaning, but the simple fact of the matter is that George Lucas based his white-centered space adventure on Samurai movies while removing the cultural context that gave them any meaning, because he liked the idea of swords and noble warriors in space. He based the Force and the Jedi Order on belief systems such as Taoism and Buddhism, but only on the surface, without putting any real effort into into portraying them earnestly or accurately. He consistently disrespected both characters of color and characters coded to be a certain race, ethnicity, culture, or religion, and likewise disrespected and stole from the cultures upon which he based them. He was, and continues to be, a racist white man who wrote a racist story. His universe has Orientalism baked into its every facet, and the idea that fans who wish to move away from this and interrogate and transform the text into something better than what it is are racist is not only laughable, but incredibly disingenuous and insidious.

As I said, I am not writing this to change your mind, because I truly believe that you already know that "cOnLaNgS aRe RaCiSt" is a ridiculous statement. The way you've comported yourself in fandom spaces thus far has shown to me that you are nothing more than a bully who knows that the anti-racist movement in fandom can be co-opted for your benefit. If you tout your Asian heritage and use the right language, make the "right" accusations and take advantage of white guilt and white ignorance, you can have dozens of people falling at your feet, begging for forgiveness, for absolution. And I think that gives you a thrill. So, no, none of this will change your mind because none of this is genuinely about racism—it's about power, it's about control, it's about fandom being the only space where you have some.

So I'm writing this for the creators of this wonderful conlang, which has been crafted by multiple people including people of color, who don't deserve this nonsensical vitriol, and for the fans reading this manipulative hate-fest, wondering if they really are Evil Racists because they don't participate in fandom the way you think they should.

Here it is: fandom has a lot of racism, antisemitism, misogyny, queerphobia, ableism, etc. baked into it. Unfortunately, such is the nature of living and growing up in societies and cultures that have the same. The important thing is to independently educate yourself on those issues and think critically about them—not "think critically" as in "to criticize" them, but to analyze, evaluate, pick apart, examine, and reconstruct them again in order to come to a well thought-out conclusion. Read this well-articulated attack on a group of fans who have always welcomed feedback and participation, are open about their backgrounds, their strengths and weaknesses, and wonder who is actually being genuine.

Is it the open and enthusiastic group who ask for the participation of others in this labor of love? Or is it the ringleader of a group of well-known bullies who have manipulated, gaslit, and then subsequently love-bomb people who did not simply roll over at the slightest hint of dominance? The ones who spent hours upon hours tearing apart, mocking, deriding, and falsely accusing authors of fanworks and metatextual works of various bigotries and -isms, knowing that those evaluations were spurious and meant only to cause harm, not genuine examinations of the works themselves or even presumed authorial intent. The ones who made their own, quote-unquote, community so negative and toxic that even after the departure of a large portion of them, including this author in particular, that community still has a reputation for being hateful, toxic, and full of mean-spirited harassers who will never look critically about their own behavior but only ever point fingers at others. The ones who are so very determined to cause misery wherever they go that as soon as their usual victims are no longer immediately available, they will turn on each other at the slightest hint of weakness.

This entire piece of (fan)work is misinformed at the most generous, disingenuous at the most objective, and downright spiteful when we get right into it. The creators of Dai Bendu, along with various other works, series, and fan events that these people personally dislike, have been targeted because it is so much easier to harass, bully, and use progressive language as a weapon against them, than it is to put any effort into making fandom spaces more informed, more positive, more respectful.

As someone rather eloquently put it, community is not a fucking spectator sport. You want a better community, you gotta work at it. And conversely, what you put into your community is what you'll get out of it. This author and their friends have put a lot of hate into their communities, and now they're toxic cesspools that people stay well away from, for fear of contracting some terrible form of harassment poisoning.

Congrats, Ri, you've gotten just what you wanted: adoring crowds listening to you spout your absolutely heinous personal views purely to live out some kind of power fantasy, and the rest of us staying well away, because fuck knows nothing kind, helpful, or in good faith has ever come from Virdant or her echo-chamber of petty, spiteful assholes.

No love, bad night.

P.S. Everyone actually in the Dai Bendu server knows your ass got kicked because you didn’t say shit for a full thirty days and ignored the announcement that inactive members would be culled. You ain’t cute pretending like it’s because you were ~*~Silenced~*~ after ~*~Valiantly~*~ attempting to call out racism. We see you.

[benvoliosantodomingo]

BELLAMY SANTO DOMINGO | THE KEEPER

“what is your religion? [...] - to love what is good and beautiful when i see it.” - george eliot 

basic information 

full name : bellamy santo domingo meaning : bellamy ( french ) - “fine friend” santo ( latin ) - “holy or devout” domingo ( spanish ) “of the lord” 

nicknames(s) : bell, bells  preferred names(s) : bellamy, bell, bells  birthdate : may 21st, 1995 age : 24 zodiac : taurus gender : male pronouns : he / his romantic : panromantic sexual orientation : bisexual nationality : Italian ethnicity : italian / brazilian current location : verona, italy living conditions : bellamy lives in an apartment by himself, away from the villa santo domingo. it has large windows that let in a lot of light, two guest rooms for his various friends to move in and out of, a large kitchen even though he can’t really cook worth anything, and he keeps it filled with the things that are important to him. one wall is two large bookshelves, relics from his travels are scattered around the place, and a wall in his bedroom is dedicated to pictures of the people that he loves, and pictures and postcards from his years traveling. its the only place that's ever truly been his, so he’s tried to leave his mark on it as much as possible.  title(s) : benvolio, ufficiale santo domingo, the keeper 

background

birthplace / hometown : bellamy was born and raised in verona. social class : bellamy comes from a wealthy upper-class family, but he never really agreed with everything that came with that distinction--and in comparison to families like the rossos and the montagues he always felt like his own family saw themselves as distinctly lesser. now that he’s an adult and living on his own, he would say that he’s firmly middle class and happy to be so. education level : bellamy has a high school education, and received police training upon returning to verona. father : luca santo domingo mother : ana santo domingo ( née moreno ) sibling(s) : bellamy is the oldest of five, and has only brothers. they aren’t particularly close due to bellamy’s proclivity for gentleness and peace, and the ones that are old enough are particularly devoted to the montague cause, like their parents. he makes an effort to see them occasionally--but it usually doesn't end well.  dante santo domingo ( 22 )  leonardo ( leo ) santo domingo ( 20 ) milo santo domingo ( 17 ) raphael santo domingo ( 13 )  children : none, but he is very much the mom friend.  pet(s) : none, but he’s not opposed to the idea of having one.  other important relatives : part of his travels involved staying with some of his mother’s relatives in brazil, and he has various aunts and uncles that are involved with the montagues in various capacities.  previous relationships : juliana capulet his secret high school girlfriend--two gentle souls who found solace in each other, in abandoning the pretenses they had both been affecting for their families. their relationship ended when bellamy decided to go traveling, but they left on good terms.  carlos de leon a formula one driver that bellamy met while he was staying in spain. he made bellamy momentarily forget everything that he had left behind, and they burned brightly for a few months. he begged bellamy to stay, to leave everything behind and start new, but ultimately bellamy decided to move on.  jack hawthorne a poet and an an american student at oxford that bellamy met while he was in england. they dated intensely for six months, and that was the closest that bellamy ever got to really considering staying somewhere--but ultimately there was more of the world that he wanted to see, and he wasn’t willing to give up on the people he had back in verona. they’re still close, and text from time to time.  arrests? : none, he’s the one with the strict charge of bailing others out of jail.  prison time? : none. 

occupation + home

primary source of income : the salary he earns from being a police officer.  secondary source of income : his salary as a soldato, and a trust fund account from his parents which he uses as sparingly as possible. he wants to create a life for himself based on his own merits.  content with their job (or lack thereof?) : bellamy is only on the force because the montagues placed him there upon his return--if he had a choice he would do pretty much anything else. there are aspects of the job that he likes, but he detests having to stand by and watch violence occur just because its in the montague name, or arriving moments too late to stop the cruelty from occurring. once upon a time, he’d imagined that he might study to be a poet, or a writer of some kind, but he’s since pretty much given up on that.  past job(s) : he picked up odd jobs on his travels whenever his funds started to get a little bit light--waiting tables, local bookshops, things he could pick up and leave pretty easily.  spending habits : bellamy’s parents presented him with a trust fund account as their way of taking care of him once he was out of their sight--but he doesn’t like to use it that often. it’s money they gained at the expense of others, and its their excuse for not having to think about him. he doesn't believe in spending money just for the hell of it, to show off what you have--he gets only what he needs to make himself comfortable, to make himself happy, with the salary that he earns from his job. his parents money gets donated to charities most of the time--shelters, food banks, organizations that stand against mob violence, no matter how small they may be.  most valuable possession(s) : an old t-shirt he stole from marcelo on a particularly bad night that still has their scent, and a daisy that roman had once tucked behind his ear that he keeps pressed in-between the pages of a book. 

skills + abilities 

physical strength : 7/10

bellamy keeps himself in good shape, and his job requires him to be able to lift heavy objects, or even people out of harm’s way if necessary. he’s not as strong as someone like marcelo, who works out regularly and with the specific purpose of being able to overpower other people, but he can hold his own. 

offense : 6/10

bellamy doesn’t believe in violence, and would much rather talk his way out of an altercation. however, he’s had effective tutors throughout his life who insisted that he be able to keep himself safe, and hold his own if the need ever arose, so he knows the basics. 

defense : 6/10

again, he is capable of holding his own should the need arise, but he doesn’t go out of his way to practice the skills, and he would prefer to do just about anything other than get into a physical altercation. 

speed : 8/10

bellamy’s preferred method of exercise is running, and his job requires him to be able to take off running at a moment’s notice, so his strength really is his speed. it also comes from childhood and teenage years running from whatever mess his friends got themselves into, so that he could bail them out later. 

intelligence : 8/10

bellamy is primarily intuitive, rather than classically educated and booksmart. he has a talent for reading people, and for reading emotion. he did grow up among the books of the verona library however, and has always been a voracious reader, and has taught himself a lot over the years. 

accuracy : 5/10

he hates shooting a gun, and his hands shake pretty much every time he has to draw it. he’s just good enough to pass the test to get on the police force, nothing more. 

agility : 8/10

he’s young, and a youth spent raising hell on the streets with his friends meant he developed a good deal of agility--he can hop a fence, a wall, or scale a fire escape with ease. 

stamina : 7/10

bellamy is physically fit, and trains pretty regularly, so his stamina is pretty above average. however, he has a low tolerance for pain and when he gets hurt it generally tends to really hurt. 

teamwork : 9/10

bellamy loves working with other people, and his skillset lies directly in his ability to communicate--he recognizes that no one ever really does anything alone, and that the future he envisions, in particular, will require as many people as he can convince of its plausibility. he can however, be blind and obstinate when his friends are brought into the equation--he will choose them above anyone else, every time. 

talents : bellamy has some talents as a writer, though he would never admit to it. he's skilled at communicating, at convincing other people to believe in his ideas, and he’s also very good at doing so in a way that never strays from genuine. he’s also pretty good at surfing, driving, and dancing.  shortcomings : bellamy is loyal to a fault--it would be easier to convince people of his crusade for peace if he could detach himself from the people in his life would oppose such an idea, but he never will. he also tends to be stubborn, and idealistic to a near fault. his life hinges on his ability to see peace brought to the streets of verona, and he refuses to consider that that might not be a real possibility.  languages spoken : italian, english, a little bit of portuguese, a little bit of french, and a little bit of spanish. drive? : yes, and at speeds that probably wouldn’t be considered “safe” or “legal”.  jump start a car? : yes!  change a flat tire? : yes!  ride a bicycle? : yes!  swim? : yes!  play an instrument? : no--his father played the guitar, and bellamy briefly considered learning, but got bored pretty quickly.  play chess? : no--there was always something more interesting for him to be doing, somewhere else.  braid hair? : yes, for the benefit of his friends exclusively.  tie a tie? : yes, and a bowtie.  pick a lock? : no, that’s what he had roman and marcelo for. 

physical appearance + characteristics 

face claim : marlon teixeira eye color : brown hair color : brown hair type / style : its always been curly, and he’s never really been particularly gifted at controlling it, so he generally doesn’t fuss with it.  glasses / contacts? : none dominant hand : right height : 6′2  weight : 175 build : bellamy is tall but solidly built--the muscle that he gains tends to fill him out.  exercise habits : running, boxing, lifting weights, yoga on occasion skin tone : he’s got his mother’s olive complexion.  tattoos : none yet, but he’s considered it a couple of times--he’d like for them to be meaningful, connecting him to the people he cares about.  piercings : none.  marks / scars : bellamy was an active child and carries the scars of that, and he has a very active job that has a tendency to leave him bruised and bleeding.  notable features : his curly hair, his nose, and a nice bone structure.  usual expression : bellamy makes an effort to smile as much as he can, as a kind of defiant act.  clothing style : bellamy has a weakness for nice clothes--he has a couple of designer suits that he’ll break out on occasion, and even his casual wear tends to be high end. he runs the full spectrum--he likes cozy sweaters some days, sportswear others, and some days he just wants to wear a crop top.  jewelry : a watch most days, rings he accumulated on his travels if he’s not on duty.  makeup : a little bit eyeliner, if he’s going out.  allergies : jerks!  diet : bellamy can cook well enough to stay alive, but he's not particularly gifted. he knows a few of his mom’s old recipes, and he can follow along with the food network, but he’s not really skilled enough to branch out and be adventurous by himself. he does like trying new things--he’s frequented a lot of out of the way restaurants in verona, and he’s totally that guy that will tell you that a particular dish is made better at a distant locale where you wouldn’t expect it to be made better. he notably is not phased at all by spice.  physical ailments : none. 

psychology 

jung type : ISFJ enneagram type : type 2, the helper. the caring interpersonal type: generous, demonstrative, people pleasing, possessive  moral alignment : neutral good  temperament : melancholic element : earth primary intelligence type : intra-personal Intelligence. mental conditions / disorders : bellamy struggles with anxiety.  sociability : bellamy is incredibly sociable--he draws his strength from other people, he has a deep and abiding love for humanity as a whole and believes wholeheartedly that they are capable of good. the only time he has a tendency to withdraw is when he’s well and truly upset--he’s used to being something solid for everyone else to lean against, and he doesn’t want them to worry about him.  emotional stability : bellamy tends to feel everything very deeply, and makes it a point to not hide that about himself. he grew up in a household where he was expected to keep his emotions in check, to channel them into violence and aggressive behavior, so as he’s been on his own he’s always been very outward about his expression. when he’s upset, he’s well and truly upset and its obvious. when he’s happy, he’s out and he likes to be among people.  obsession(s) : bringing peace to verona, and ending the mob war. when he was younger he fell deeply in love with the written word, and spent most of his teenage years drinking in every book he could get his hands on.  compulsion(s) : bellamy has a bit of a savior complex--if he sees someone in need, he feels compelled to try and do something, even when there might be nothing to be done.  phobia(s) : bellamy fears losing his loved ones, leaving him alone, deeply.  addiction(s) : none.  drug use : recreationally when he was younger, when he was in social situations. since he’s been back in verona and on the police force he’s tended to stay away from them.  alcohol use : mostly socially, but those tend to be heavy binges. he drinks when he’s truly upset, as a kind of last resort coping mechanism.  prone to violence? : absolutely not--he believes that most situations can be diffused without resorting to violence, and that violence is a plague that has swept through verona unchecked for hundreds of years. he prefers to resolve things with his words, with his voice, or to exit a situation entirely. if he feels its a last resort, he might turn to it, but it would have to be a desperate situation. 

mannerisms 

speech style : it depends on the situation--he generally speaks like a young person, with a lot of slang, and sometimes at more of a loud volume. if he really believes in what he’s talking about, he tends to speak very forcefully, with a lot of hand gestures and eye contact, with clear and concise language. he’s a gifted speaker who knows how to tailor his manner of speaking depending on audience.  accent : italian quirks : he’s always playing with his hair in one way or another, his manners tend to be less on the formal side because he grew up in a big family, he always gets up before the sun if he can help it.   hobbies : reading, writing, drawing, taking photographs, dancing, he’s trying to learn how to cook better, shopping nervous ticks : whenever bellamy’s nervous his hands start to get a tremor in them.  drives / motivations : what drives bellamy is the idea that a better future exists--a future where the people he loves will live and grow old, will do the things that bring them joy. he just has to figure out how to change things, to convince people to see that future in the same way that he does. he’s very motivated by his makeshift family, by making sure that they are safe and well taken care of. his primary motivation has always been kindness, everything he does comes from that place inside of him.  fears : he fears losing himself in this war, as well as losing the people that he loves about. he fears that violence will corrupt beyond what he can save, that he will have to bury the family that he’s made for himself.  positive traits : kind, selfless, optimistic negative traits : none he’s an angel he can be stubborn, he can be blindly optimistic, and he tends to be kind of a martyr at times.  sense of humor : more on the dark and dry side--its a side effect of being friends with marcelo rosso for so long.  do they curse often? : yes! he’s young and his family consists of his friends, he’s never felt the need to clean it up for them. 

favorites

activity : writing next to a sunlit window.  animal : all of them beverage : anything fruity book : the sword in the stone by t.h. white, maurice by e.m. forster, one hundred years of solitude by gabriel garcia marquez, the collected poems of john keats, the return of the king by j.r.r. tolkien  color : green  designer : thom browne, prada, louis vuitton  food : he has his issues with his mother--but she remains the best cook he’s ever known. he misses her brazilian food every day, as well as her high tolerance for spice.  flower : sunflower  gem : tourmaline  holiday : halloween  movie : the lord of the rings trilogy, an american in paris, eternal sunshine of the spotless mind  quote / saying : ”the future has several names. for the weak it is impossible; for the faint hearted it is unknown; for the valiant, it is ideal.” - victor Hugo scent : bright and floral  sport : football (soccer)  television show : parks and recreation, cooking shows, queer eye  weather: warm and with relentless sunshine  vacation destination : são paolo, brazil 

attitudes 

greatest dream : seeing his friends grow old and build happy lives for themselves.  most at ease when : he’s with the people that he cares about--they know him as well as anyone he shares blood with ever could.  least at ease when : he’s on the job, specifically when he has to draw his weapon. any kind of combat situation makes him uneasy.  worst possible thing that could happen : he resigns himself to life in the mob, realizes that peace is unattainable in verona, and becomes like his parents and everyone else in the montague ranks.  biggest achievement : leaving verona when he was 18 years old, and seeing what else the world had to offer.  biggest regret : allowing himself to be lured back, allowing the montagues to put him in the verona police force.  top priorities : keeping his loved ones safe and alive, building a better world for them to live in.