#bear in mind that even i don’t have an exact fc for them in mind

[magicshopaholic]

Now that I’ve finished what I call Season 1 of the Idolverse (just roll with me here), I want to create a post on a guide to the OCs, which would be a brief of all the OCs and a bit of history (barring anything that would be a spoiler, ofc).

[ghostofviperwrites]

Training Day

Seiya Sanada/FC

Category: Smut

You pulled up short as you entered the arena, surprised to find the ring actually occupied. You had come very late at night in hopes of avoiding this exact circumstance. You were very new to Ring of Honor, very new to wrestling in general. You knew you had only been signed for your looks and the fact that you showed some athletic ability, but you were determined to get better. To prove you belonged. You just needed time in an actual ring to work on your timing and movements.

Shoulders slumping you were about to leave when you focused your attention on the ring. There were five men in there, all very attractive, but that wasn’t what caught your attention. You were almost awestruck as you watched them fly about the ring, performing amazing athletic maneuvers and working the ring with seamless grace. Even the bigger burly man in there seemed to fly with amazing athleticism. You sunk into the chair by the entrance, transfixed on the ring. You decided you would hang out until they were done, then you could have the ring. In the meantime, maybe you could pick a few things up as you watched.

You found yourself a bit jealous as you watched as it quickly became clear that these men didn’t just work together, that they were family. You wished you had friends like that in the industry. Being a newbie and knowing nothing about wrestling didn’t exactly endear you to the talent. They pretty much saw you as a nuisance, and everyone you asked for help turned you down. You were stubborn though, and you refused to let yourself be driven off just because people thought you fucked your way to a contract. You hadn’t, but that didn’t stop them from thinking it. Seeing them winding down you rose to your feet grabbing your bag as you waited for them to leave to trek to the ring.

Twenty minutes later your patience was coming to an end. You were tired and just wanted to get some work in, but they didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. Four of them taking a seat on ring posts while the fifth lay in the center of the ring on his back as they laughed with each other. To be fair they didn’t know you were waiting, it wasn’t like you announced your presence. Swallowing your nerves you decided you needed to let them know you were waiting on the ring. You didn’t know who they were, not recognizing them as Ring of Honor talent. You knew Ring of Honor had a partnership with New Japan Pro Wrestling so you figured this group was a part of that talent share.

Coming to stand by the ring apron you cleared your throat, shying back as you suddenly became the center of attention.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” You said quietly “But I was hoping to get in the ring.”

“We’re using it,” The burly one said brusquely.

“I see that. But you guys have been in here for over an hour now and you seem to be done. So I was hoping I could get my work out in.” You replied.

“We were here first.” The man with longish black hair with red tips said petulantly, looking you over with hooded eyes.

“Again. I know that.” You said through gritted teeth starting to get irritated. “But you’re clearly done. I just want to get some extra work in and go home.”

“Say pretty please and we’ll think about it.” The man with the orangish hair laying in the center of the ring spoke up.

“I’m not going to say pretty please. Just get the fuck out of the ring.” You snapped only getting angrier as they laughed at you.  You could feel the heat flushing your face, fire dancing in your eyes as you glared at the obnoxious men.  

“Fine, fine.” He said pushing himself to his feet. “We’ll get out of your precious ring. We were just having a little fun.” You huffed as he waved to the men and they all climbed out of the ring. It was then you noticed they were all wearing gear bearing the stable name Los Ingobernables de Japon and your heart dropped into your stomach. The whole company had been called into a meeting to ensure the talent and staff treated the LIJ stable from Japan with respect and didn’t give them any issues. It was a big deal for New Japan to send the entirety of their top stable to the United States and ROH didn’t want to have a single issue with the men. Now here you were arguing with them like a brat.

“Thank you.” You said softening your tone. As soon as they were clear you hopped into the ring, stripping off your jacket and track pants not noticing that one of the men had stayed behind, taking a seat in the folding chairs as he meticulously organized his gear, folding everything properly and making sure it was in its place.

Sanada finished his task, satisfied his stuff was appropriately put away and was ready to leave when he looked into the ring at the annoying blonde. A sneer marred his handsome face as he watched your splotchy work. You were a mess and he wondered how you got a contract with Ring of Honor in the first place. Taking a long look at your tight little body answered that question. He was sure you weren’t hired for your ring prowess. He wondered who's dick you had sucked to get hired. 

“You’re terrible,” He found himself saying, outright laughing when his voice startled you and you tripped over your own feet, crashing into the ropes.

“Excuse me,” You asked indignantly. “I’m doing the best I can. I have no one willing to work with me so I’m learning as I go. How about instead of jackass remarks you offer some constructive criticism? Especially when you haven’t even introduced yourself.”

Sanada rose to his feet, moving to stand at the apron below her.

 “I'm Sanada and all the ‘constructive criticism’ in the world isn’t going to help you without someone in there working with you.”

Your face fell as he voiced what you knew in your heart. You couldn’t get used to working with other bodies if no one would work with you. Swallowing the bullet you hesitantly asked

“Would you work with me?”

 You looked everywhere but at him, not holding out much hope he would help you given the prickle attitude you had encountered so far.

“I don’t do anything that doesn’t benefit me in some way princess,” Sanada smirked.

“Please? I really need help. I’m going to lose my job if I can’t make improvements.” You practically begged. “I watched you, you’re really good and I know you don’t work for Ring of Honor, but you could help me while you’re here.”

You stepped back from the ropes when he effortlessly hopped up onto the apron.

 “I’ll teach you if you accept my conditions.” Sanada told you.

“What conditions?” You asked warily retreating further as he stepped through the ropes, utterly confident you had no choice but to accept his terms.

“For every hour I give you in the ring, you give me an hour out of it.” He proposed. “Anything I want, whenever I want it.” He stalked towards you until your back hit the ropes on the other end of the ring his hands moving to clasp the top rope on either side of your shoulders. “If I want you to fuck me, you fuck me. If I want you to suck me, you suck me. If I want you to fetch me water, you fetch me water. Anything I want.” Your mind whirled through your options trying to find another solution and coming up empty, realizing you were at this man’s mercy.

“Okay,” You said exhaling a shaky breath.

“Good. Get down on your knees.” Sanada commanded.

“Wait, wait, wait,” You protested. “I’m not doing that yet. You haven’t helped me at all.”

Sanada rolled his eyes impatiently. “If I work with you then you could just walk away without giving me what you owe me. Consider it a deposit.”

“I could say the same. I suck you off and you walk way, not helping me at all.” You huffed.

“Then I suggest you do a good job, make me want to stick around for more.” Sanada said pushing down his sweat pants and freeing his hardening cock. “Now let’s see you earn my time.”

Defeated you dropped to your knees, reaching your hand out to circle him as he stepped closer allowing you to bring his dick to your mouth. Hollowing your cheeks you sucked him deeply moving your tongue around him as he slid in. Bobbing up and down you slid Sanada in and out of your mouth, making sure to change your sucking pattern and circling your hand around the base of his cock to stroke what you couldn’t fit. Sanada watched you letting you work your own pace. He was being honest, he expected you to make him want to stick around. He had no problem walking out on their little deal if you couldn’t make it worth his while. You were doing a pretty good job so far he mused as you slid him deep into your throat, swallowing around him, throat gripping his length as you did so. When he could feel himself getting to the point of coming he lost the relaxed attitude, hands moving to the back of your head and taking control of the pace, thrusting his hips as if he was fucking your pussy until he spurted onto your tongue, holding himself deep inside your mouth until he felt you swallow.

“Clean it off,” He said as he pulled out watching as you licked all the remnants of cum off of him and sat back on your knees watching as if you expected him to walk out.

“You did alright.” Sanada said with a nod. “Let’s get to work.”

[sea-and-storm]

LFRP (CRYSTAL)  ||  KJRN FYTHE*

* Exact name & other details may change pending release of naming conventions.

[ BASIC INFORMATION ]

[FULL NAME]   Kjrn Fythe.

[PRONOUNCED]   Kee-ehrn Faiythe (rhymes with lithe).

[ALIASES]   None at present. At least, none to which she’ll answer. 

[GENDER]   Female.

[AGE]  Somewhere in her 80s-90s, but appears approx. early to mid-thirties.

[NAMEDAY]   21st Sun of the Fourth Umbral Moon (8/21).

[RACE]   Rava Viera

[RELIGION]   Questioning, non-practicing.

[LANGUAGES]   Common, Dalmascan.

[ACCENT]   Icelandic, by real world standards.

[HANDEDNESS]   Ambidextrous.

[ APPEARANCE ]

[HAIR]   A long and wildly voluminous mess of deep, rich burgundy, usually swept up into a long ponytail or left to trail down her back. Very soft, very shiny, and clearly tended to with much care and love. Touch at your own risk.

[EYES]   Pale gold.

[COMPLEXION]   Medium tan with coppery undertones.

[HEIGHT]   6′2″ (before ears)  -  7′0″ (with ears)

[BUILD]   A sturdy fighter's build. Whilst not wholly bereft of curvature, she's far from soft or delicate. Instead she bears the distinct musculature and build of someone who has poured many hours over many years into training their body for the rigors of battle.

[POSTURE]   In the public’s eye, upright and confident. Behind closed doors or in the company of those she trusts, her posture is more often than not that of someone tired and with much phantom weight bearing down upon them.

[SCARS]   She bears a number of general scars, mostly bestial in nature, across her body from the nature of the work she does delving into ruins and lairs. However, the most notable are the multitude of burn scars that cover a good portion of her body. They start at her right temple, mercifully skirting around the outer corner of her eye and proceeding downward over her cheek, jaw, neck, shoulder, the entire length of her arm, both hands up to the wrist, and down her side and back until coming to a rough stop around her hip. Save for her face, she usually tries to keep the rest of the scars covered from prying eyes.

[MANNER OF DRESS]   Nothing overly ostentatious, nor overly drab. You’re just as likely to find her in her working gear as opposed to street clothes, though. She seems just as, if not more comfortable in them. 

[JEWELRY]   Her ears are pierced thrice each, with three golden studs in each ear. Under her gloves on her left hand, she wears a simple golden band on her ring finger. There seems to be something inscribed on it, but the lettering is worn from age and she doesn’t often let anyone close enough to read it.

[ COMBAT SKILL ]

[COMBAT CLASS]   Gunblader & Markswoman.

[MELEE PROFICIENCY]   None  |  Low  |  Intermediate  |  High  |  Masterful

[RANGED PROFICIENCY]   None  |  Low  |  Intermediate  |  High  |  Masterful

[MAGICAL PROFICIENCY]   None  |  Low  |  Intermediate  |  High  |  Masterful

[HEALING PROFICIENCY]   None  |  Low  |  Intermediate  |  High  |  Masterful

[ATTRIBUTES] - - -  STRENGTH:   16 (+3) - - -  DEXTERITY:    15 (+2) - - -  CONSTITUTION:   16 (+3) - - -  INTELLIGENCE:   10 (+0) - - -  WISDOM:   9 (-1) - - -  CHARISMA:   10 (+0)

[WEAPONRY]  Salvaged and refitted Garlean-make gunblade & six-shot revolver.

[ARMOR]  Changes depending upon the circumstances. Varies from light leathers to heavier plate and chain, depending on the job.

[COMBAT STRENGTHS]   Fights well against beasts & Garleans, within open spaces. Excellent teamwork, fights well in a group setting. Highly protective of teammates.

[COMBAT WEAKNESSES]  Struggles against spoken races (except Imperials) and within tight spaces. Certain scenarios may trigger PTSD flashbacks mid-combat. Particularly sensitive to magical effects cast upon her;  too much aetheric exposure, even of the positive variety, may trigger a brief berserk state until the excess aether is expended and exhaustion takes over.

[ EARLY YEARS ]

[HOMELAND]   A forest village near the outskirts of Dalmasca.

[PARENTS]   Mjra Fythe (mother)  -  Father Unknown.

[SIBLINGS]   Aela Fythe (older sister)  -  Arla Fythe (younger sister)

[CLAN ROLE]   Huntress, tracker.

[CLAN STATUS]   Self-ostracized.

[REASON(S) FOR LEAVING]   Kjrn decided that she couldn’t see herself living her whole life in the Wood. Joined by her close friend and fellow huntress, Pria Atoel, she left for the city of Dalmasca to start a new life in the larger world.

[ LATER YEARS ]

[PAST RESIDENCE]   Dalmasca.

[PAST OCCUPATION]   Resistance fighter, magitek salvager.

[PAST AFFILIATION]   Dalmascan Resistance.

[PAST FINANCIAL STATUS]   Moderate, comfortable.

[PAST SOCIAL STATUS]   Respected.

[PAST RELATIONSHIPS]   Pria Atoel, wife - deceased.

[PAST FRIENDSHIPS]  A number of friends and allies from the Resistance, as well as other Dalmascan citizens. (Open to background connections!)

[REASON(S) FOR LEAVING]   Left Dalmasca and set herself to wandering aimlessly after a fire that stole both home and family from her.

[ PRESENT DAY ]

[RESIDENCE]   Wherever her weary feet wander. These days, it’s mostly Eorzea or an occasional jaunt to the Far East.

[OCCUPATION]   Treasure Hunter & Merchant of Myriad Miscellanea.

[AFFILIATIONS]   None actively, but still sympathetic to the Dalmascan Resistance and occasionally will send a bit of extra coin their way through some old contacts.

[FINANCIAL STATUS]   Varies. Sometimes well-off, sometimes dirt poor. Depends largely on how successful her treasure-hunting jaunts go.

[SOCIAL STATUS]   Hasn’t really stuck around in one place long enough in recent history to establish any roots nor reputation. Just another adventurer to most.

[RELATIONSHIP STATUS]   Widowed, shows little interest in courting anyone.

[PRESENT FRIENDSHIPS]   Keeps in touch with a few people from her Resistance days, but not many that she could call a close friend. (Open to connections!)

[VICES]   Occasionally numbs her pains with drink, smoke, and sex. She’s tried certain drugs before and while not entirely opposed to them, her sometimes light coinpurse usually keeps her from forming any sort of lasting habit.

[ ROMANCE & SEX ]

[GENDER IDENTITY]   Cisgender Female.

[ROMANTIC ORIENTATION]  Demi-homoromantic.

[EMOTIONAL ROLE]   Submissive  |  Dominant  |  Switch  |  Unsure

[RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES]   Her biggest tendency is to just not get herself into a relationship. But if she were to do so, it would be a difficult thing to uphold given her tendency to doubt herself and her anxiety over the thought of loss.

[LOVE LANGUAGE]  Kjrn isn’t much of a verbal lover. She’ll drop an ‘I love you’ every now and then, but her love shines through more in her actions. Her love language speaks in things like gentle, careful caresses and thoughtful gifts.

[SEXUAL ORIENTATION]   Homosexual.

[SEXUAL ROLE]   Submissive  |  Dominant  |  Switch  |  Unsure

[LIBIDO]   Surprisingly average, given how often she finds herself in the company of ladies of the evening. Truthfully, she just prefers not to sleep in a cold and lonely bed, and sex without emotional attachments is safer and less painful than otherwise.

[ATTRACTED TO]   Confidence. Kindness. Thoughtfulness. Gentleness. 

[TURN OFFS]   Arrogance. Selfishness. Cruelty. Indecisiveness. Shyness. 

[ PERSONALITY TRAITS ]

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized

Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded

Calm / In Between / Anxious

Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between / Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader / In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between / Modern

Hard-working / In Between / Lazy

Cultured / In Between / Uncultured

Loyal / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

[ HOOKS ] 

TREASURE HUNTER Kjrn presently makes her living by delving into ruins, tombs, and other such places most folk have no business wandering into in search of anything she might turn a profit on. But such expeditions are dangerous, and usually she’ll either put together a small team herself or seek out a job that’s hiring apt hands. Got a job in need of a sturdy fighter with a big ol’ sword? She’s your viera! (As a note, I would also potentially be interested in finding an RP FC with this sort of theme! If you’re part of one of these FCs or even just know of one that might tick said box, let me know and I’ll gladly check it out!)

MERCHANT OF MYRIAD MISCELLANEA Naturally, after a victorious venture in dungeoneering, Kjrn will usually come out of it with a number of items in need of off-loading. She has a particular eye for anything shiny and beautiful like gems and jewelry, but she’s also been known to come back with anything from weapons to magical items to sell to whomsoever is inclined to pay good coin.

DALMASCAN RESISTANCE AFFILIATE Kjrn and her wife, Pria, were once fairly respected members of the Resistance, fighting the Imperials and salvaging magitek to refit and use against them when all was said and done. However, after the former’s passing, Kjrn stepped down from her active position in the Resistance to take on a more auxiliary role by helping support it financially. She still maintains connections to the Resistance to this day, and some still haven’t given up the hope that she might eventually return to the fight.

HATRED OF EMPTY BEDS Since the loss of her wife, Kjrn has come to absolutely abhor sleeping alone. Yet those wounds are still fresh in her mind despite the decades that have passed, and relationships are always fraught with the peril of loss. And so, Kjrn has become something of a frequent flyer when it comes to the services of ladies of the evening as a coping measure against the loneliness she feels. (That said, I am NOT looking for ERP-heavy / ERP-only connections. In fact, I usually prefer for ERP to come up as little as possible unless it serves a purpose in a narrative or if I just plain feel like stretching those rarely-used literary muscles now and again. So connections of this sort would mostly be of the before and/or after the act variety, and could even possibly be entirely bereft of any actual sexual RP.)

[ OOC ]

[CALL ME]   Jali, Ghoa, Kjrn.. Just don’t call me weird pet names, basically!

[I AM..]   A 27-year-old woman who works a full time job and plays multiple tabletop games as well as playing FFXIV, so my schedule can be kinda all over the place. I also love cats and really bad puns and writing drabbles that make people’s hearts hurt.

[AVAILABILITY]  Most weekday evenings from 5PM - 10PM Central. Weekends, pretty much whenever. Not available most Wednesdays, and some Thursdays/Saturdays due to various D&D games! Also please note that Kjrn is an alt character. Meaning I won’t be available for RP on her 24/7! Please be sure you’re okay with this before reaching out!

[IN-GAME NAME]  TBD. My cheap ass is waiting on naming conventions!

[SERVER]  Balmung (Crystal), but willing to world-visit for RP!

[PREFERRED RP METHODS]   Discord has quickly become my #1 RP platform because I can post even when I’m busy with something else or when I’m having a slow day at work. I can also do in-game RP, usually so long as we work out a day/time in advance! Sometimes I can do impromptu RP requests, but not often!

[HARD NO’S]  

RP of any sort with real-life minors. Sorry, I just don’t feel comfortable writing with anyone under eighteen! 

Characters that are minors ICly are tentatively fine, but I will absolutely not RP any romantic, sexual, mature, dark, or otherwise questionable themes with such a character;  and likewise, I will not RP with anyone whose minor character engages in this sort of RP with others, either.

Fetishistic characters, i.e. “f*ta”, “tr*p”, etc. Actual transgender, agender, genderfluid, etc. characters are 100% fine, but if your character is written not as a fleshed out person but as thinly veiled ERP-bait, I’m not interested.

OOC Romance or possessiveness or clinginess. Just... don’t. I don’t want to date you. I don’t want to sext with you. I don’t want to be up your butt 24/7, and I sure as hell don’t want you up mine. RP partners with reasonable personal space boundaries only need apply, please!

[scarletgardensrpg]

UNDEAD ♦ TWENTY-SEVEN ♦ THE ASCENDANCY

BLUE NAPIER is an Undead hitwoman for the Ascendancy. Raised by Cecile in Switzerland, Blue remains one of her most favored creations, and as a result enjoys a great deal of power and privilege within the Ascendancy. Although she works alongside Dimitri and Jacques on hit missions and assignments, her intellect remains her strongest asset to the syndicate—on many occasions, Nikolaas has called upon her for counsel and strategy. Unlike most Ascendancy members, she is not a heavy PM-GRNT 200 user—preferring to avoid the substance entirely.

BIOGRAPHY

tw: implied attempted suicide

The rotbeest asked: What’s your name? And the girl—who was not really a girl, but a woman who simply felt like one—could not have answered even if she wanted to. It was dark, the middle of the night, and beneath both their feet stretched the narrow deck of Panoramabrücke Sigriswil, three hundred meters long and lined on either side with metal guardrails. Under the bridge, the night mists would eventually give way to an endless gray gorge, where certain death awaited her. Only, now, it seemed that death had preemptively risen up from the spruces and firs to seek her out first instead: the creature, which may have once been a woman, but was now certainly something else, tilted her pale, sharp face to the moonlight, and the girl saw that her cheeks were streaked with dried blood. It doesn’t matter, the girl said, and looked to the gorge once more. Something unreadable flickered in the creature’s gaze, then vanished—and she came forward to lay a hand to the girl’s throat, gentle as a mother, cold as a corpse. Come down from the rail. I’ll sing you a song my brothers taught me.

- ❀ -

A girl with her mind made up. A suspension bridge in Sigriswil. A woman-monster who plucked her from the ledge and named her like a newborn child. Each time she had tried to reach into the pitch black of her past and sift for some memory or another, these were the only ones Blue could come away with. These, and a fragmented echo of Cecile’s lullaby, the sound of it like folklore spoken into the deep night of that girl’s last living moments: Blue for the skies, blue for the seas / Blue for the color of my dead-again heart, after you marked me. Cecile had killed the girl, and from the carnage rose some other creature, not unlike her creator: wolfish, mercurial, a flame-eyed beauty of terror and wonder. She had looked upon Cecile’s turning back and opened her mouth to speak: Take me with you. And she did. Cecile would walk with her from one end of the Earth to its other—and allow Blue, so full of childlike awe and ferocious adoration, to bear witness to all the fearsome devastation she had heralded before. You’ve eaten the world, Blue marveled. What will you do next? Cecile had smiled: Spit the bones out and wait for something to grow.

They were in Rome, with blood in their mouths as they laid waste to the Palazzo Barberini; and they were in Virginia, setting the Buchanan Estate aflame with frenzy and fanfare. They were in Abidjan, watching one brother kill another, when Blue had first felt that stab of hurt—and, in being unable to put a name to the aching while Cecile merely watched impassively, stamped it out crudely. She asked for the brother without kindness: Dimitri, a street rat named for Russian princes—and when he finally returned to his senses, the three of them already halfway across the Mediterranean Sea, she’d bitten his cheek in loving possession. Hi, darling. They were in Kobe, Blue dragging De Dame out from the Yamaguchi House by her hair, Dimitri leveling the gun; and they were in Busan, Cecile’s hand wrapped around the throat of a rotbeest while he snarled and spat. Dimitri had watched it happen with bright, hungry eyes, enraptured like a young apostle to demise—and there it was again. That hurt. That sorrow. They would stay the longest in Nice by a seaside safehouse, and offer five years of protection to a pair of sun-haired twins who cowered at the sight of any of them—the girl quivering in burgeoning rage, the boy watching them in spite of himself with fearful, curious eyes. I don’t want them, Jacques had spat, while Dimitri merely sipped his coffee. That’s fine. Mother says we aren’t keeping them. Blue had grinned. Are we eating them, then? In that case, I want the crybaby princess.

It was five years of restless peace that itched at the worser natures of all three of them: no real blood, only the sky and the sea, and the half-dead heart inside Blue which galloped uncomfortably at every lingering touch to the shoulder Maurice offered his inconsolable sister. Softness. Sweetness. Love. What did she, a creature born of death, know of those things? They would leave the twins behind and follow Cecile to Amsterdam after the five years were up—upon which Nikolaas had presented his welcoming gift. A handful of scarlet pomegranate seeds, potent and rich. Don’t make monsters of my children with your pills, Doctor, Cecile had murmured. All three of them—cruel Dimitri, feral Jacques, heartless Blue—had swallowed them, if only to see what would happened. PM-GRNT 200 would go on to make slaves of both her boys: but not Blue, who found herself wrenched from the familiar lull of Undeath into something blinding, something excruciating, a living breathing aching bleeding grief that flooded her senses and sent pictures flashing past her mind in nonsensical fragments. She had clutched her chest, desperately, and waited for it to be over. A girl with her mind made up. A bridge. A mother. 

CONNECTIONS

DIMITRI & JACQUES – SUCCESSORS TO CHAOS. The worst of the lot. They hunt like panthers and spill blood like fiends: three killers roving the streets with red hands and black-blown pupils, forever chasing after some divine, terrible high. Dimitri finds it each time he squeezes a trigger from the roof of a building and watches something die down below—and Jacques finds it up close and personal, with his knives and poisons, his teeth and two hands. As for Blue? She feasts on their violences, with no real need to exact her own. The way she’ll put a bullet through the throat, clean and precise, is professionalism. The way her boys do it? That’s dinner and a fucking show. It should go without saying that Blue sees them as family: like three wolves to a pack, helmed by a madwoman they all call Mother. Just as Cecile had saved her, Blue had found Dimitri and saved him—and later, he had saved Jacques, too. They can snarl at each other and brawl without restraint; but it’s all blood they’re entitled to draw, anyway. I belong to you, and you to me. Somewhere in Hell, Blue thinks the Devil is laughing at them—out of mirth, and likely out of amusement, too. Imitation is the greatest flattery, right? 

IVONNE – EYES AND EARS. She knows her as only PYTHIA: a black-clad woman in leather gloves and an inscrutable mask, moving in and out of the shadows of Amsterdam with an unmappable agenda. Blue also recognizes her: she had brought the twins to that house in France, and shaken Cecile’s hand as if it were a business transaction. She is neither an enemy nor ally to the Ascendancy, but arrives unannounced before Nikolaas once every blue moon for favors.  Favors, wherein she freely takes their stashes of 200, their weapons, their files of classified information—and when she needs to take their personnel, too, it’s often Blue who is requested to carry out her assignments, killing targets for motives frustratingly undisclosed to her. Normally, Blue wouldn’t care—but there’s something dangerous about this woman. We owe our old friend a favor or two, Cecile always says: with unreadable eyes, with pursed lips. A friend who won’t affirm her loyalty to us? Blue challenges, knowing she won’t receive an answer. The short of it is, Blue suspects foul play—the Ascendancy is not a generous organization, especially to outsiders. Their compliance to her every demand, then, suggests she’s holding something over Nikolaas. Blue intends to keep an eye out on PYTHIA, and if needed, take matters into her own hands to ensure the Ascendancy regains the upper hand.

PETER – YOU REMIND ME OF ME. She doesn’t feel bad, not really. Between two street urchins bleeding out in the rain, Peter was the weaker one: it was clear when he’d had rather Dimitri killed him than the other way around, and it’s clear now, watching his beautiful face crumple a little more with each cold look his brother from a past life sends his way. Don’t be a bitch, Kisara says lightly, and it’s a subtle warning. He was under my wing, you know. Zelda’s silence affirms a similar sentiment, as is the frown that comes over her face for every barbed remark Blue launches at Peter anyway—an open declaration of war, a last word, an arched brow daring he try to put a scythe to her neck and kill a killer. To his credit, Peter always puts up a good fight—his training by the House has hardened him up, and there are enough bodies to his name that she sometimes thinks she can maybe begin to respect him at last. But, of course, it only ever takes Dimitri to enter the room for Peter’s gaze to melt and Blue’s opinion of him to deteriorate again. Truthfully, he’s the kind of weak man she hates most—because deep down, she's weak like that, too. 

OPEN ♦ FC: KHADIJHA RED THUNDER

[junker-town]

Why a dead English football club lives on

Jorge Luis Borges once claimed that “football is only popular because stupidity is.” He couldn’t foresee the imagination and resiliency of Bury FC’s community.

The Estadio Antonio Vespucio Liberti rises an incurvate bowl, puncturing the skyline of Buenos Aires. It has formed an integral part of the cityscape for 80 years. Known more commonly as the Monumental de Nuñez, or simply ‘El Monumental’, the stadium is situated in the Belgrano barrios of the Argentine capital and has provided a home to River Plate, one of the country’s biggest clubs. For a huge swathe of people, El Monumental is the beating heart of Argentine football; as far as River fans are concerned, you should remove your sandals, for the place in which you are standing is holy ground.

Imagine Honorio Bustos Domecq’s surprise, then, when he takes a walk around Belgrano and finds El Monumental nowhere to be seen.

A couple of opportune contacts later and Domecq finds himself in the offices of Tulio Savastano, president of the Abasto Juniors Soccer Club. To break the ice, he does what any fan would do and talks football: “What a goal! Canary Island All-Stars pressing through Zarlenga and Parodi but unable to prevent Musante’s delightful pass through to centre-half Renovales who smashed home. Football at its finest!”

Savastano sinks into his chair, takes a deep draft of his mate and, as if dreaming aloud, says, “And to think it was me who invented those names.”

Those of you familiar with the work of Jorge Luis Borges will have recognised the telltale signs: the surrealism, the scrupulous attention to detail, the fascination with the power of the imaginary.

As with so many of Borges’ works, “Esse est Percipi” is a modern-day morality play. Beneath the surface of the narrative lies a question about the role that the imagination plays in the production of cultural phenomena: even cultural phenomena as seemingly banal as football.

The title of the story means “being is being perceived.” Borges is asking a seemingly absurd question: To what extent does the reality behind our cultural artifacts even matter? To what extent do we rely on the stories that media tell us? Would it make a difference if football was just a sham? If being is being perceived, who cares about the substance that underpins it?

Mellow-voiced sportscaster Ron Ferrabas enters the room in which Domecq and Savastano are talking. Savastano relays a message: “Ferrabas, I’ve spoken to De Filippo and Camargo. In the next match, Abasto is beaten by two to one. It’s a tough game but bear in mind — don’t fall back on that pass from Musante to Renovales. The fans know it by heart. I want imagination — imagination, understand? You may leave now.”

Gradually, it dawns on Domecq. “Am I to deduce that the score has been prearranged?”

Savastano’s answer, in Domecq’s own words, “tumbles him into the dust.”

“There’s no score, no teams, no matches,” the Abasto president admits. “The stadiums have long since been condemned and are falling to pieces. Nowadays everything is staged on the television and radio. The bogus excitement of the sportscaster — hasn’t it ever made you suspect that everything is humbug? The last time a soccer match was played in Buenos Aires was on 24 June 1937. From that exact moment, soccer, along with the whole gamut of sports, belongs to the genre of the drama, performed by a single man in a booth or by actors in jerseys before the TV cameras.”

Domecq grows bold. “Sir, who invented the thing?”

“Nobody knows. You may as well ask who first thought of the inauguration of schools or the showy visits of crowned heads. These things don’t exist outside the recording studios and newspaper offices. Rest assured, Domecq, mass publicity is the trademark of modern times.”

“And if the bubble bursts?” Domecq barely manages to utter.

“It won’t,” Savastano says, reassuringly.

“Esse est Percipi” is a caution. For Borges, what begins as a shared social practice — the watching of football matches by fans — takes on a life of its own in the imaginations of these fans until, before long, the mechanisms by which fandoms exist become more important than the games.

The real protagonists, as far as Borges is concerned, are not the players themselves but the media — those who are literally in media res, or in the middle of things: “the men [sic] in the booth or the actors in jerseys in front of the TV.” Beyond these media, there is nothing. In the words of Savastano, “These things don’t exist outside the recording studios and newspaper offices ... mass publicity is the trademark of modern times.”

Borges carries the logic of his story to its reductio ad absurdum, but in the process he falls into the trap of jumping straight to the end without making his way there from the beginning. Is it necessarily the case that, because the imagination is involved in the production of fandom, that it is therefore entirely imaginary? Does reality fall away altogether?

At the end of “Esse est Percipi”, the most generative question of Borges’ narrative is left unanswered: “And if the bubble bursts?” What then?

“It won’t,” Savastano says. But he is wrong. In the last year, the bubble burst for a football club in England. And when it did, it taught us something deeper about the powerful role the imagination plays within the human endeavour.

Visionhaus

Here’s another story; this one no less surreal than the Borges tale.

It begins in the United Kingdom in 2010. A general election is held and, when no political party holds an overall majority, a coalition government takes over, made up of Conservatives and Liberal Democrats.

One of the Tories’ manifesto promises is a restructuring of the payment system for people heading to university for further education. To determine the course of action, a review is carried out. By November, the government has agreed to raise the yearly cap on fees from £3,000 to £9,000 and, by 2012, these increased fees have been rolled out.

With this influx of capital into university coffers, a building boom takes place. Institutions in higher education see an opportunity to reinvigorate the tired fabric of a sector that has been underfunded for years. Unsurprisingly, where there is money to be made, there is a market. A number of companies spring up to respond to this boom.

One of these companies is Mederco, owned by Stewart Day. With business booming and the future looking bright, Day does what many industrialists have done before him: he buys a football club. Bury Football Club.

Unfortunately for Bury, Day’s company goes into receivership. Despite the riches to be found in university property, Day was reliant upon a ‘peer-to-peer’ lending company imaginatively titled ‘Lendy’. With Bury’s ground, Gigg Lane, mortgaged off to an equally dubious outfit, Capital Bridging Finance Solutions, the club accrues debt on their stadium to the tune of £1,500 per day.

Confusingly, the perceived solution to this conundrum is to find another equally unfit property magnate to buy out the club. This time, he arrives in the form of Steve Dale, who takes control of Bury FC after handing over £1 for the pleasure, and despite his failure to demonstrate to the EFL that he has the economic wherewithal to salvage the club. Dale fails to pay the players and holds onto the club long enough to instigate an insolvency process in which creditors receive just 25 percent of what they are owed.

If the creditors aren’t happy, neither are the EFL. After the Insolvency Practitioners Association announces that it will investigate a £7m claim admitted into a Company Voluntary Agreement as a debt owed by Bury to Mederco, the EFL offer Dale ultimatum. After a series of deadlines are not met, he is given a deadline of 5pm BST on Tuesday, August 27th, to provide proof he has the money to finance the club and its debts or to conclude a sale.

The deadline passes with no reply, and after 125 years of membership, Bury Football Club are expelled from the Football League.

What is left behind when a football club’s infrastructure collapses? When the stadium is dismantled? When all the historical artifacts of that club’s existence fade into oblivion?

If you were to ask Borges this question, he would say, “Nothing but the imaginary.” But as to the nature of this “nothing but,” Borges ascribes it a fair amount of heft. The power of the imaginary is enough to undercut the reality of the footballing sphere and leave it in the thrall of narratives spun by its purveyors.

Because of the capacity of the imaginary, Borges suggests that the need for actual players, actual matches, actual stadia, and the actual artifacts of fandom is entirely superfluous. In his short story, the reality that props up the imaginary realm of the football fan is slowly dismantled and the whole rigmarole continues unaffected.

The imaginary, then, as Borges views it, is detachable from the real; there is no necessary link between the two and, in fact, you can detach one from the other without the existence of either being affected.

This approach pushes us towards a bleak philosophical outlook. If the stories that we tell about the world bear no resemblance to the reality that underpins them, then what use does that reality have in any heuristic sense? You support this team, they support that team; there is nothing intrinsic to your support that makes it any more or less meaningful than that person’s fandom. The whole thing is arbitrary. It is hardly surprising that this worldview would lead Borges to utter the immortal words, “Football is only popular because stupidity is.”

In the end, Borges muses, the bubble will never burst in football because the world underlying our fandom will never break through; we are already too mired in the imaginary to allow the real to emerge before our eyes.

Getty Images

What is left behind when a football club’s infrastructure collapses? When the stadium is dismantled? When all the historical artifacts of that club’s existence fade into oblivion?

Bury’s slow decline illustrates that the relationship between the real and the imaginary is tighter than Borges suggests. Compared to the fictional Buenos Aires, the real Greater Manchester was less forgiving about the dismantling of one of its football clubs. Fan groups mobilised, attempts were made to find the club a new owner, and even local politicians were drawn into the conversation. The imaginary hardly continued on its merry way as the real Bury struggled.

The media also refused to play the part ascribed to them by Borges. Instead of persisting in their production of an imaginary that proceeded without accounting for what was going on, the media turned the situation to their favour, sending in news crews to Bury to interview fans, to speak to club and league officials, and to keep their audience abreast of things; a far cry from the cover-up of “Esse est Percipi”.

For fans of Bury, the reality where they now find themselves has an undeniable impact on the imaginary space in which they construct their fandom. Without a team to support at the weekend, without a stadium to visit, without a place to call their own, there can be no supposition that Bury supporters have not been affected by the situation of recent months. But rather than reveal the ultimate meaninglessness of fandom, Bury’s dissolution has done the opposite: fans have found renewed meaning, have been given a clearer sense of what their fandom consists.

When the club dropped out of the Football League, a number of fans and fan groups mobilised under the banner of the Bury Phoenix Club. On Oct. 26, they made the following announcement:

We are here to tell you that whilst the incarnation that we all know and love will soon be no more, from its ashes this club shall be reborn. 134 years of history will not die when Bury FC’s last rites are read. Bury FC is alive in every single fan.

We are what makes Bury FC and whilst we have fought tooth and nail to avoid the scenario that faces us, it is now time to look towards the future. A small team of supporters has been exploring ways to create a Phoenix Club from scratch. The aim is to have a football team playing competitive fixtures in Bury by August 2020.

This is not the end of the story for them. A club called Bury AFC could be playing in 10th-tier English football next season. Bury FC’s closure has not led to an existential crisis. This is simply the beginning of another chapter in the club’s history. Their imaginations are in overdrive as they make Bury Football Club a reality again.

The feted emergence of a new football club in Bury suggests a different relationship between the real and the imaginary to the one proposed by Borges.

Where “Esse est Percipi” is a tale of an imaginary whose relationship to the real has been slowly eroded, Bury FC presents a narrative in which the relationship is reciprocal: the threat of non-existence pushes Bury’s fans even closer to reality, until they are confronting it head on.

This return to reality doesn’t result in a negative attitude towards the imaginary aspect of fandom. Instead, they augment one another, creating possibilities where previously there had been nothing. A year ago, Bury FC were owned by an inveterate capitalist whose main concern was to break up the club and sell the parts for profit. Now they face the prospect of a fan-owned Bury, offering them the ability to make decisions in their own interests and take the club in any direction they want.

When Bury Phoenix Club make the claim that ‘Bury FC is alive in every single fan,’ then, this is not a rhetorical flourish or ideological nicety; it is a recognition that the imaginary which has slowly developed across the 134 years of Bury FC’s history is all that is needed to affect real change in the world.

So where does that leave us?

The story that Borges tells about football also tells a particular story about who we are as humans. As he sees it, our over-reliance on the imaginary makes us little more than automatons ascribing meaning to our meaningless lives in a bid to make sense of the world we find ourselves in. In Borges’ reality, those meanings are arbitrary; we could tell any story about ourselves and it would make little material difference.

This is why Bury Football Club must persist. Because it tells a different story about who we are as humans. It tells us that it is only through the operation of the imagination that we can ever catch a glimpse of the possibilities available to us within the world. And because the imaginary can impact upon the real, there is always the chance that we can enact these possibilities into existence.

The imaginary impels the real. Without it, there would be no Bury FC. The club would die, consigned to the annals of history. In reality, Bury Football Club only exists in the imaginations of its fans. And with them, exists the possibility that a dead football club might rise once more.

[magicshopaholic]

Hi I really love your oc's and i want to ask if you don't mind to put a face claim to see how they look like in your opinion and their body type love you 💗 and thank you for your hard work.

Thank you! This is such a nice message and I’m glad you find the OCs so interesting. I don’t have exact face claims for them; I do have a certain face for each of them in my mind though. I’ll give it a shot anyway 🤓

Bear in mind, these face claims aren’t exactly how I see the OCs, particularly because the the FCs are all celebrities, but they capture most closely the vibe and general feel I get from them.

Kaya - Naomi Scott. I don’t think they share the exact same features but i think she has, in Namjoon’s words, Disney princess eyes. She has the exact combination of vulnerable doe eyes that I think would activate the protective instinct in him (as we’ve seen in fics already) but also gives off a very independent, girl power kind of vibe that I think fits Kaya really well.

In terms of body type, she’d be around 5’6” and have her fair share of curves that she wouldn’t mind showing off sometimes. She’d pretty much walk everywhere in Amsterdam so would be getting her quota of cardio. Her hair would be black and overall straight, usually a few inches below her shoulders, but she would start letting it grow it a bit once she sees how much Namjoon likes it.

Nari - Nana (Im Jinah). Obviously while Nana is known for being one of the most beautiful visuals ever, I think her closest similarity to Nari is the very casual kind of beauty I think she has. I think Nari would be the kind of person where when you first look at her, you probably wouldn’t do a double take, but when you take a good look at her features, they’re actually very soft and pleasing overall.

Nari would be tall, around 5’9”, which would automatically make her look slender. She’d have heavier hips and thighs though, something she’d be a bit annoyed about sometimes. Her hair would be relatively straight and maintained at a manageable length, something she can easily tie up and not think about.

Miso - Park Sodam. Again, I don’t think her features are exactly like Miso’s but I think she has a great poker face that would suit Miso immensely. There’s a sort of aloof quality to her smile where you don’t know what she’s thinking that I think is very similar to Miso.

She would be of average height, around 5’5”, and very slender. She wouldn’t have very prominent breasts at all, but this wouldn’t bother her; she’d ditch bras fairly often because of this. She would tend to wear a lot of black which would only accentuate her thinness, much to her mother’s displeasure. Her hair would be short and straight just an inch or two below her shoulders, with a fringe.

Chaeyoung - Danielle Marsh. Once again, I don’t think Chae’s features are much like Danielle at all, but I think her vibe is exactly the same - very youthful and playful. Even before I knew the names of the members of NewJeans, I remember noticing her and immediately thinking of Chaeyoung.

Chae would be relatively shorter, around 5’3”. She would wear clothes to try and seem taller though, including shorter skirts and heeled boots. She would attend yoga classes regularly. She does have natural curves as well and would be prone to weight gain easily; given her industry and her impressionable age, she might also tend to go down the unhealthy route of regulating her food too much. Her hair would be long and flowing, and she’d regularly experiment with bangs, layers and colour.

Sooah - Nam Jihyun. This is largely due to Jihyun’s smile; it’s one of those 1000 watt smiles, wide and blinding when you see it. That’s really the only similarity they share in terms of features. Jihyun also gives me a very free and fun vibe, something I think is a defining characteristic of Sooah.

Sooah would be around 5’5” and definitely a curvy girl. She’d have nice and shapely breasts, curvy hips and full cheeks with a soft dimple. It would annoy her once in a while because she wouldn’t be able to wear certain tops but she’d overall be quite happy with her curves. She would do yoga too (I think she and Chae would go to the same class) so she’d have decent stamina and strength, but would have flesh that she wouldn’t go out of her way to hide.

Dilara - somewhere between Sofia Black D’elia and Ananya Panday. Despite she being the first OC to ever come to life in my mind, she’s the hardest to describe physically. Her facial features would be slightly sharper and angular and she, too, would have a slight dimple in her left cheek.

She’d be 5’1” and a natural C-cup; but as an athlete, she would definitely be extremely fit and work hard to stay lean and light, especially since she’s in F1. Her diet and workout would be defined to the T and would take great care of her health (despite certain vices). Her hair would stay purposely long and is naturally curly (she’d blowdry it almost always).

Lia - somewhere between Han Sohee and Park Minyoung. Unlike Nari, she would absolutely be one of those people where you see them and do a double take. She’d be quite conventionally beautiful, with high cheekbones, full lips and a clean, white smile.

Lia would be about 5’7” and would work hard to keep her body toned and muscled, frequenting the gym and playing basketball. Naturally though, she would also tend to gain weight easily and would continue to keep some flesh around her stomach and hips. Her hair would usually be long and she’d typically have an elaborate hair care routine, wanting it to be shiny and presentable at a moment’s notice.

Thanks for the question, anon!

Read more about the OCs here