#spectreintro

basics.

full name: winifred anneliese james  nicknames: freda, win, anything you want really  age: 20  birthday: march 18, 2000  astrology: pisces sun, virgo moon, pisces rising  major: computer science  positive: kind, forgiving, loyal  negative: naive, insecure, guarded

about.

click here for winifred’s full bio. tw: domestic abuse, death, suicide attempt

winifred’s father comes from old money, and her mother was a housemaid working for his family. he fell in love with her and his family cut him off when they found out. they were young and in love so they eloped and moved to a small village by the seaside. i put brighton for the sake of putting a town down, this is subject to change if i find a town that better suits the vibe i’m going for.

her father was pretty impulsive n fiery. he was the youngest son and prone to making decisions he didn’t really think through, and his marriage was one of them. he grew up with a silver spoon his whole life and he didn’t realize how hard it was and how much he would miss it when he got cut off. he becomes alcoholic and abusive toward freda’s mother

when she’s twelve, she finds out that her father dies driving drunk. her mother still loved him and really spirals after this. she gets really depressed, and even though she can make it to work most days, winifred and her younger sister, francesca or chessy for short, basically raise themselves after that.

freda has photographic memory and is tagged as gifted at a pretty early age. she does well academically and is granted a lot of opportunities that she wouldn’t otherwise have had because of teachers who recognize her potential. they encourage her to do extracurriculars, to enter competitions, etc

she gets into ashcroft on scholarship and decides to study computer science even though what she really wants to do is study art history. if she was allowed to pursue what she wanted without thinking about the consequences it may have on her family, she would wanna be an art museum curator who lives by the seaside and paints on her days off tbh

she’s incredibly gifted and well-read, but she has crazy imposter syndrome. she doesn’t feel like she belongs in the imperium society at all like she thinks the only reason she does well is because she knows how to memorize, but that’s just not true. she’s articulate and critical, she always has something interesting to contribute, even if it’s just her opinion.

she’s a very talented computer scientist, and she participates in hack-a-thons and won first place at the fall hacks ashcroft has. also, the summer after she graduated she interned at a company and helped develop an app to promote women’s safety and prevent rape or assault. the company got really big after this app, so i imagine her involvement is how she got in the society. or at least how she thinks she got in the society

winifred’s pretty torn up about octavia’s death. she and octavia weren’t super close or anything since i would imagine that they only really got to know each other during the second semester and while lysander was with octavia, but winifred really did admire her. i’d imagine that she never saw octavia’s “bad” side per se; i’m under the impression that she can be slightly manipulative and volatile and i feel like winifred was never close enough to see that.

to her, octavia was always just someone who was full of life and bright and stuff. it doesn’t feel real to her that she died. she also never believed that lysander was guilty. she just doesn’t look at him and see a murderer.

when octavia started showing up, she was honestly pretty invigorated by the implications. lysander’s not guilty, and she’s always known that. she’s not righteous about it, but it does change things because before she couldn’t really justify doing anything about it when everyone so clearly thought it was lysander. now she actually could help look into other possibilities without feeling like she was being disrespectful to anyone.

of course that doesn’t change the fact that people will still think it’s disrespectful, but winifred thinks she’s justified and she doesn’t think any of this is a coincidence or a prank. she loved octavia, and she loves lysander, so she can’t just sit by and do nothing when the signs are this clear

fun facts.

always smells of lavender. she has sprigs of it tucked everywhere, in her pocket, in her purse, on her desk, between notebooks.

she has a rubik’s cube on her desk that she is perpetually solving then scrambling. she’s probably done this hundreds of times, and it’s like her own fidget cube. she doesn’t mind people messing it up or trying to solve it on their own, but it’s just something she does if she’s sitting around or trying to take a mini break. she’s also painted her rubik’s cube so it has prettier colors

she sketches a lot. she sketches in the margin of her notes, but she also has a sketchbook. she sketches her mother, her sister, hamlet, othello… romeo. so many of romeo. if you’re sitting across from her and she thinks there’s something interesting about you, she’ll start sketching you, even if she’s supposed to be studying.

would’ve wanted to become an artist if she could absolutely do anything she wanted, but doesn’t believe she has the right creativity for it. she would’ve wanted to work at an art museum where she could literally just spout facts about different art movements or different artists, but is pressured by her desire to provide more for her family to pursue cs instead

she really enjoys arts and crafts because she likes the idea of self-expression through art: she likes embroidering things, she’s done pottery once and did a little thing to keep her pens, she likes calligraphy/bullet journaling, she paints a lot of things (her phone case, laptop case, the aforementioned rubik’s cube)

she’s fluent in french, spanish, and russian. she took a couple of language classes for fun because it comes a little bit easier to her

a big believer in stretching and meditating in the mornings. she usually takes this time to just clear her head and think about what she needs to do for the day

her favorite thing to do when she’s near any body of water is skip rocks. once she got it to skip eight times. yes it’s her proudest accomplishment. yes she jokes it’s why she got in the imperium society.

winifred’s got a thing about wishing on coins and throwing them into fountains. there’s a small fountain on ashcroft (is this allowed? i made up this fountain) that she can often be found at with her eyes closed, hands clasped around a silver coin, a whisper of a wish on her lips.

a pineapple pizza WARRIOR

she loves an underdog. her favorite male character of all time might be cameron in ferris bueller. he is her KING. she loves sidekicks. she thinks they’re sweet and needed and overlooked too often.

always sings mindlessly when she’s baking or doing chores or whatever, it’s only nice because her voice is quite sweet

her style is conserved and comfortable, simple pieces that are feminine, mostly muted colors. an absolute slut for turtlenecks. wears a pair of white sneakers that are worn to death but in a cute and charming way where you know she knows how to love things long term. is always wearing a necklace her sister got for her as a graduation gift, a delicate gold chain with a snowdrop engraved in a circular pendant, on the back are chessy’s initials (f.j) so she is always with freda

winifred doesn’t wear that much makeup but she usually doesn’t leave her room until she’s put at least a touch of concealer (to cover those dark circles babey), some brow gel, and a pretty pink lip stain that she’s probably been using since high school. classic no makeup makeup kind of gal

really enjoys 70s and 80s music. her parents used to play it when she was younger before everything turned to shit and they’d dance in the kitchen and sing while making dinner. her mother had the prettiest voice.

some favorites:

flower: snowdrops

movie: about time

book: a tree grows in brooklyn

season: spring

Hi everyone! I’m Olivia, 24 from the pst timezone !! I love romantic foreign films and every incarnation of Skam ever created. Also, tik tok. Way way too much tik tok. This is my interpretation of Mercutio (loml tbh), Alexandre! A pretty boy with charm and brains and you bet your ass he knows it. Portrayed by the beaut that is Maxence Fauvel,  i’m genuinely filled to the brim with muse for this boy so, without further ado, time for the main event! (as he prefers to be lbr )

name: alexandre henri preston

age: 21

birthday: July 28th, 1998

gender: male

pronouns: he/him

degree: double major of business & music composition (father currently aware of the 1st)

zodiac: leo.

languages: fluent in french & italian, attempting to swear in russian and japanese.

hobbies: piano, cello, running, sex, parties, reading

vices: whiskey, gin, socialites, card games, fast cars, midnight symphonies, menthol cigarettes

pinterest is here !!

the aesthetic: Dom Pérignon, lipstick stained shirt collars, blue eyes with darkened circles, menthol cigarettes, 2am melodies on a piano down the hall, bruised knuckles, hotel balconies, strobe lights and heavy bass, macarons flaked in gold, lips pressed to cheeks, 3am club invitations, lingering eyes, too bright smiles, bitten bruises soothed with a tongue,shattered mirrors, ripped fingernails, screaming into the silent night, laughter whispered into skin, pills pressed to tongues,  platinum amex cards, chewed on pens, eyes growing distant, texts left on read, ink over his heart for his maman, naps under campus oak trees, flasks sipped in a lecture hall, hands on hips, backs, and his own throat.

           ➺ but what is in a name?

➺ { Alexandre } : The french translation of Alexander. Defender of Man. The irony of a name is not lost on him, nor the man who’d held it. He was named for his maternal grandfather, a man who had sold his soul (and his eldest daughter)  for money, power, name, all under the guise of the importance of family. A name meaning man of honor. Certainly a strong name for a boy who’d been born to rule a soiled throne, but content to find ways to sneak sweets from the kitchen, trick a smile from his mother as she stared out the window yet again. But defenders are not born, no.They are made, and from the moment blue eyes opened for the first time he was destined to be just that. Made. Into his father’s visions, his mother’s dreams. And Xandre is no fool. All he wants — no, rather. All he desires from life is simple. Everything.

➺ { Henri } Ruler of households. Once again nothing but irony for a boy who grew up wanting for nothing in life, but knowing the expectations were to be just that. A leader. Who would be the one to tell him that the throne he was set to rest upon was built on the blood and bones of the lesser fortunate? More importantly, who would teach him to care?

➺ { Preston } Meaning priest, settlement, enclosures of God. Carried to England from Normandy after the great conquest. A name befitting to the family who in some circles considered themselves holier than most. Gods among men. Who turned whiskey to gold, words to bank notes, and blood into power. If you were a Preston, people knew it. And what could be better than that?

   ➺ for he  is the devil in every detail                

➺ ( + ) He was a boy of pressed shirts and dark windswept waves. Blue eyes that sparkled of mischief and peels of laughter that echoed down marbled halls. He was Alexandre Preston, a boy with the stars in his eyes and the world at his feet. Who when he smiled, his entire face lit from within and led to that hint of the  devil sparkling just so from that gaze of his. Who smelled of citrus and whiskey and a bite of mint. Who adored beauty, in life and what it had to offer him. A man who’d grown into his looks and was taught by a wise mother just how to use them, a well placed kiss to a cheek or brush of skin, eyes meeting across a room enough to give them what they desired and more than ever, what he craved. He was tall, dark and oh so handsome, and knew how to get just what he wanted. Born with his father’s intellect and drive for more, padded by his mother’s beauty and ability to wield it for the weapon it could be. It made him anything but a bore, a useless first son too afraid to grasp what was before him. No, Xandre knew his fate. But in the meantime, he lived his life how he chose. If dearest dad was none the wiser, well. What’s the harm?

➺ ( + ) But let’s go back to the beginning, shall we? Born on a warm evening in late july, Alexandre Henri was destined to be the only child of Simon Preston and Violette Dupont. A product of two passionate individuals and a loveless marriage, Xandre’s mother was the eldest daughter to a man of debt. The Dupont family had in name what they lacked in capital and with a marriage between Violette and Simon, had everything to gain. Xandre’s birth was a bright burst of fleeting color for a mother who felt caged into the world she’d sold herself to, doting on the little boy and doing what she could to leave him with a part of her, a piece of her own waning soul. Where Simon was boastful, she was wicked, demure. Where he was aggression, she was soft sighs and whispered curses. Two sides of  what lead to be a machiavellian son. Destined to rule with a gilded fist and fleeting, passionate heart.

➺ ( + ) He was put into lessons as a boy to dwindle that energy that thrummed with his every step, sports and arts and languages but they were fleeting moments of time, hobbies cast aside once the obsessive grip of his mind released them. But his mother’s love of piano rang true to his blood, picking up the instrument even with some difficulty. It bothered him so, to have something he couldn’t master with minimal effort. It required a honed drive, a passion and ethic to create something magnificent through nothing more than hard work. It fueled him, the boy almost manic with the late hours he spent alone in the sun room, fingers dancing along keys and cursing with every missed note. As he grew, so did the realization that it was not something you could master. The great composers themselves went mad with trying. It was a never ending race, and one he still holds steadfast this very day. It is as much a part of him as anything could be. Alexandre is meant to be a leader, Alexandre blows thousands on parties and card games, Alexandre needs music like air to rattling lungs. His current double major at Ashcroft is a direct result. If he’s to live out this new version of day to day, he’ll do as he pleases. As long as his father remains where he belongs, ignorant as the rest are.

➺ ( + ) if music was a stronghold, most everything else in his world was a passing fancy, aimless ways to spend time and money and have fun in this life he was so destined to lead. High school meant parties and fun, learning the intricacies of the body and passion as girls and boys alike came and went from white rumbled sheets. For his mother had taught him to wield beauty for what it was; a weapon. And oh, did he learn with the best. A university career begun at Oxford (if only to spite his father), where the real fun began, nights spent in club after club until the sun rose again, liquor fueled nights of passion and fun, barred from certain clubs and embraced at others, heavyweight card games and street races with a bottle of dom in hand. Started a gambling ring in his dorm hall until the RA caught wind a year later. (But he eventually joined, so no harm no foul) He was at an all time high, never fearing the inevitable crash to follow. He welcomed it like an old friend, navigated the highs and lows with a long learned finesse. Now in Edinburgh, he chases the residual high with his normal vigor, finding drinking buddies to waste an evening with, occasional bodies to slip into his too high thread count sheets.

➺ ( + )  The very definition of love ‘em and leave ‘em. Xandre doesn’t do true relationships, has never truly given his heart to someone in any form. He doesn’t believe in it, the type of love that makes people do such foolish things. He does foolish things just fine on his own, heart be damned. He can be passionate, charming, attentive lover at the best of times, possessive fool at the worst of times. He loves to feel desired, wanted, needed even. But never aims to be someone’s entire world. That type of need, that type of love does nothing but wound. And every wound he will ever have will be of his own creation. Has had more than a few flings, even reoccurring instances of women or men a few times in a row. But the connections are shallow, surface deep. You don’t need to witness his soul to get into his bed, afterall.

➺ ( + )  It was all a beautiful distraction from the blood that stained every letter of his name. His cousin was allowed to live in blessed ignorance of the family means, but Xandre, he was thrown headfirst into the lion’s den and came out grinning, the truth of it never leaving past blood stained lips. He isn’t resentful of that fact. A part of him feels it was always meant to be this way. If his cousins were the sun, he was the endless night, the whispers of shadows and secrets meant to withstand. For he could take it, surely. Right?

➺ ( + ) while his fate may be anything but up for debate, he is anything but a too willing participant. Being at Oxford meant enough distance to gain a bit of the freedom he craved. The night his father was arrested, Alexandre was doing what was normal, even on a tuesday evening. Partying at a local hotspot four bottles deep in champagne and whiskey, pills pressed to lips in between fevered kisses of a woman who’s name escaped him the next morning. Sweetened black coffee in hand as he watched his phone buzz over and over, the news blaring the headline of what he’d always known would come to fruition. But his father was still kicking, and so the heavy head who bears the crown was not yet his own. So he went about his day, his week, his months. Until, octavia.

➺ ( + ) his cousins were the siblings he’d never had, and for a man who doesn’t truly believe in intricacies of love he loves them with all he has in him. Wolfie the brother he’d craved, the two stirring trouble with every laugh as they raced down the cavernous halls of their homes. Days spent listening to his whispered dreams, his own a hollow echo in response to the passion that thrummed from his cousin’s. The lectures of his poor influence never bothered him, his role had always been rather set after all. The shadow to the sun. Was he ever to be a leader? Possibly. But he was never born of the responsibility and dreams that lingered over his cousin, never expected to amount to anything rather spectacular beyond the built business reputation and blood that soaked the name Preston. He was too impulsive, too passionate to have it beaten from his bones, just always a little too much.

➺ ( + ) And Octavia – she held a special place in his heart. Daddy’s little girl, it was easy to see how she could bat her lashes and smile her smile and let the world fall at her feet. He admired it, respected it even. Game always has to appreciate the game. She and her brother leaving for Ashcroft was a blow he hadn’t anticipated, for they’d always had one another, the two musketeers and the girl who fought to be anything but a shadow. It was an unfamiliar ache, missing them. And with Octavia now gone, that ache has grown tenfold. Morphed into anger for what he knew she was up to, for somehow somewhere, she’d pissed off the wrong people to where even the Preston name couldn’t quite save her soul. But her essence is everywhere, haunting the halls and whispering in ears. It’s all so very dramatic, so very her. He’d pour one out for her if he didn’t think she’d simper about his distaste for wasted wine. Her spirit was a mild comfort, a balm over a roughened wound. a bigger amusement than anything, a middle finger to those who’d ended her bright existence. A Preston knew how to fuck you over, that was made all the more clear with each report of her sightings. And god, did he love her for it.

➺ ( + ) and that at the very crux of it all, is what has brought him to ashcroft. A new scene for parties, new faces, and a remaining cousin who could use a shoulder to lean on. & those all look lovely on paper, but the fine print? Always read it carefully. For the smiles and charm are all Violette without a doubt. But the danger that lingers, the passion and fire that fuel his soul and border on the precipice of mania? Alexandre is Simon Preston’s son, that was never to be denied for long. And someone has wronged them all, taken things they had no right to take. Someone he considered to be a part of his heart. He doesn’t take kindly to such things, and so to Ashcroft he’s come. He is passion, recklessness, a hidden grief fueled by fleeting love wrapped in a shiny veneered package. He’s here to revel, to discover, to maybe even punish. If deemed necessary. Blood will always be blood, and for a man who’s always willing to go a little too far? It is all that remains.

➺ ( + ) as for what has qualified him for such a prestigious society upon his enrollment well, that is a mystery to some and a hard headline to others. His family’s connections? His relation to Wolfie? His letters of transfer from his classical composition professors back in London? As far as Xandre is concerned, it’s nothing more than a certain Oberon Ashcroft seeing he has a role to play, and one he plays rather well. Unassuming at first, a disarming charm soothing the blunt edges of his words. He says what he feels, and what he knows must be said. And due to that, he knows his worth, what he brings to the table. Knows how poorly it would look if he hadn’t been inducted. He brings a good time, a laugh, a chance to rebel against the societal norms and oppressions that leak from every pore of Ashcroft. But he also brings a weighted name, a wicked ability to decipher through the purple prose people can preach, to the truth at the core of it all. And he plays a mean Chopin, what can he say?

➺ ( + ) there is no way to wrap up all that he is, to summarize a man who is nothing short of a dichotomy, a symphony in fractured parts. Perhaps a jekyll and hyde of his own making, two heads of the same beast he wielded within his soul. for there was something to be said of being seen, eyes drawn to your every move, to feel the power of being adored, desired, craved. He is the devil on your shoulder, crooning saccharine words and screaming in triumph in a breadth. A gleam of mania tinging those baby blues when he pushes just so to get his way. He is that very symphony, a concerto who’s pace continues to drive faster and faster, upward and onward until its very PEAK, a cacophony of beauty and agony as notes ring out, clash, COLLIDE. and then, the briefest moment of silence. He has discovered the distractions his body can wield, but also the power to be found in stillness, in silence. At his lowest he craves it, aches to be surrounded by masses just once more to drown out the roaring in his mind, to draw it to ecstasy, to blissful silence. All leading up to the final, ringing note. Before the applause, of course. never deny yourself the applause. That had always been Lesson One.

                          ➺    A LETTER TO OCTAVIA:

Tavia —

Where do I start? You always knew how to make an entrance, tav. should’ve figured your exit would be the same. But…why the fuck wouldn’t you call me? Why wouldn’t you tell me the extent of just how bad shit had gotten so quickly? You knew no matter what I said, or how I complained or warned you off to be careful I would’ve been there in a heartbeat. You didn’t have to do this alone. I should’ve seen that and come the first time you called. Don’t haunt me for that. And that police chief mentioned a baby, Tav. You never– me of all people would have understood. You were the only one I ever told about Clara, how my dad paid her off. You never judged me for him, you understood. Let me get wasted and cry it out in that shitty suite in London. We could have made a club of it, you and me. Poor little Rich kids with secret kids. Poetic, no?  Poetic justice is bullshit in hindsight. And I just really, really miss you.

I’m sure everyone in these letters are telling you the reasons they adored you, how they’ll never forget you, the wild memories they’re sharing with you, that they say they’ll never forget. I don’t need to say all those things. You know I do, and you know I won’t forget. You’re a part of my heart, as battered and shriveled as we liked to joke it is. But apparently death makes us sentimental fools, so here’s this for you, because it’s 4am and the memory won’t leave my mind no matter how many times I close my eyes. That summer we spent, all of us, vacationing in that house on the riviera. Remember? I spent the day running around the grounds with Wolf and we’d laugh and tease like elder brothers do when you’d seek us out, pouting those lips and crocodile tears until we included you in our games. But when the sun set and dinner was long gone, you’d drag me into the tea room with that baby grand in the corner and demanded I play. You always were a determined thing, you brat. But you’d smile that smile and even I couldn’t fight the urge to sit and play your favorites.You sang along and danced and danced and danced until you were breathless with it. Only you could make dancing to britney fuckin’ spears look like an artform you know? You’d call me your co-star, and never let me hate myself for the mistakes, never laughed if I stumbled on a note. You were my biggest supporter that summer, but I was only one of your many adoring fans. That’s how it was supposed to be. That won’t change, I promise.

( A few tears stain the edges of that previous paragraph, angry, bitter droplets that he wipes away and slips the paper further to defend the onslaught of them. He sighs deeply, clears his throat. )

And look at you now, huh? Haunting your friends and your brother with the best of ‘em. Leave it to you to find a way to remain the star of the show even in death. I can see how it’s unravelling them. The ones who look too pale to be innocent, everyone here has a fucking secret. Thanks to you maybe we’ll see them all sooner than later. And what fun that’s gonna be. But do me a favor and haunt some hot freshman for me, will you? Whisper sweet nothings of my beauty in their ears, make it a good one. I’ll owe you one. You know I’m good for it.

I’ll watch over Wolfie. Of course I will.  I’ll get him piss drunk at that club you mentioned last time we talked, bring a few lines and a bottle of dom all just for you, gorgeous. I’m here now for him, for you. I’m here for what I should have done from the beginning. If you had to leave him —had to leave us, it won’t be for nothing.

I miss you, cherie. Visit me tonight in my dreams, alright? You can dance for me, I’ll play you a song.

We’ll make it a happy one, for old times sake.

history !

born in the french alps, lived there with her two mothers until age 8

her mama found a tumour in her brain so they moved back to england, where they stayed in a small flat on the outskirts of london 

after nine years of treatment, her mama died when ilana was 17

the family are pretty damn poor - the nhs supported most of her mama’s treatments, but there were some that they had to pay for themselves ; ilana has worked a part-time job since she was 14

discovered her love for art in year 12 - particular interest in oil painting ! which is actually how she made ashcroft notice her and make her a member of imperium lmfao

bad attitude, but she’s playing a game here ! wants to take down imperium so she’s tried to sand down her rough edges, but everyone can still see that she’s a scholarship kid, she feels herself sticking out like a sore thumb 

here’s the most juicy thing ! valentine’s half-sister, which influenced ilana choosing ashcroft to study LMAO also has a personal grudge against her

extra !

ilana martin-king - b. french alps [french citizenship], agnostic [ alive ]

rebecca martin [mama] - birth mother, b. spain, spanish, jewish, deaf [ deceased ]

lottie king [mum] - step-mother, b. england, black, atheist, deaf [ alive ]

on their hearing: rebecca is completely deaf and has been since she was young, due to genetics. whilst the dominant gene has passed down from biological mother to child, ilana's hearing is unaffected [ her biological father was merely a sperm donor]. lottie has struggled with hearing impairment her whole life, which has gradually gotten worse - she now uses hearing aids. both ilana's mothers use british sign language as their main form of communication.

character parallels: samuel garcía domínguez ( elite ) ; kaz brekker ( six of crows ) ; trish walker ( jessica jones ) ; thalia grace ( percy jackson ) ; bellamy blake ( the 100 ) ; blue sargent ( the raven cycle )

aesthetic: gritted teeth. fingers stained with paint. running in the early morning. messy buns. finding the peace in the quiet. breathing in the air, cross-legged on rooftops. plastic water cups and yoghurt pots from the hospital. ripped trainers. big sweaters, the kind to drown in. restless energy, fidgeting hands, foot-tapping.

myers briggs: intp ( the architect )

ilana is fluent in british sign language and english, highly proficient in spanish sign language, french and spanish.

ilana is bisexual and has had her fair share of hook-ups over the years, but has never been in a relationship. she has not had an interest in having one.

rebecca martin was sephardic jewish, but did not practice after her teenage years. ilana was raised without religion, other than offhanded mentions and old habits.

ilana texts her mum regularly and calls at least once a week.

ilana stands at 5'9.

in school, ilana did not participate in any extra-curriculars and her art supplies were mostly taken from the school -- yes, she knows the irony in pursuing a field with expensive equipment. at ashcroft, she took up boxing, which is a good outlet for her.

the basics.

skeleton: titus name: roman alexander rothschild age: 22 faceclaim: nick robinson  gender: cismale  pronouns: he/him degree: chemistry 

the start.

his mother and father were only seventeen when roman was born, freshly out of high school. it would be a lie to dub the pregnancy as anything other than a massive accident, born out of the incessant desire to be known and seen by someone else at that age, right down to your core. what better way to do that then to let them in fully, spreading yourself open so wide that maybe someone might like even the ugly bits of you? maybe they loved each other, but maybe they didn’t. roman never did quite figure it out. they must have at least liked one another to some extent to stick it out, to produce two more lives after him. augustus and lucretia. they weren’t many things but they were consistent. 

new money. how very fitzgerald for a boy from england. how very ironic it is with a name like rothschild. roman’s mother had always claimed they came from royalty, that their blood was tinged with blue. that always seemed like bullshit as far as roman himself was concerned. just because things sounded important did not always mean that they were. but then, one day they were important. fortune has a funny way of finding the most entitled. childhood was almost painfully boring. no traumatic stories or wondrous tales. he was born in bath, and was raised in a flat that was under furnished and a bit small, but cozy nonetheless. he loved it there, and even after moving into their cavernous home in london when the money trickled in, felt more at home in bath amongst the olden architecture. the city was ancient, just like his soul. most of his youth was spent under the sky, devouring books by natural light, a quiet and calm boy who hardly ever even scraped a knee. his mother had resigned herself to looking after roman once he was born, dashing her dreams of being a grand actress for wiping the spit off of roman’s chin. maybe that’s why she harbored a hair of resentment for him. his father went forth to achieve his mba, specializing in computer sciences. he’d later go on to invent some very important, very complicated anti-virus system that ensured the protection of your pc. it was bought and then patented by apple on roman’s eleventh birthday. money was no longer an object. 

graduating to a higher social bracket proved to be more difficult than roman had anticipated. his mother had no issue in the matter, almost immediately swapping her dulled coats and modest silver for furs and diamonds. his father seemed relieved somehow, even if he spent even more time away than before. (though, it was later revealed that this was no longer due to work but due to the twenty-five year old secretary that seduced him. the family functions on a very, don’t ask, don’t tell basis. they all still pretend they don’t know.) even his siblings seemed more taken with their situation, getting lost in harrod’s with his mother, fetching treats they never used to be able to afford and filling their rooms with fun and frill. only roman was miserable. he longed for home. the nosiness of their street caused him to spend the night gaping at his ceiling, tears brimming his eyes. no matter how badly he willed it, he could no longer remember what the air in bath smelled of. he could no longer make out what the local bakery’s hot cross buns tasted like. all the money in the world could not cure his seemingly terminal case of homesickness. 

the preparatory school he attended was a buffet of different flavors of the rich and very posh. some who were even actually were related to the crown, and not in the naive sort of way his mother had claimed. most of them seemed to speak a language of their own, already so determined of their futures. future parliament members just like their parents, or perhaps diplomats. there were even a few children of celebrities, who roman discovered either had a thirst for the crafts of their parents or absolutely abhorred it. there was no middle ground with the children conceived by artists. 

during this period of solitude, roman as we know today was formed. once a sweet and relatively shy boy, he became a scribble of snark, sarcasm, and wit. it was not meant in malice, like many of his classmates and peers thought, but simply his sense of humor, outlook, and demeanor. anyone who was willing enough to befriend him, found him to be composed surprisingly of boyish grins and mischief. he was not the block of ice people made him out to be. all one had to do was offer him the warmth of their trust for him to melt. 

the skill that permitted him into imperium happened somewhat accidentally. worried that their eldest son was falling into a depression, his parents had him seated with a psychologist at fifteen. unbeknownst to him, his mother had stolen the journal he faithfully confided in and presented it to the spidery woman responsible for unspooling the tangle of roman’s thoughts. while she did find some of the contents troubling, most of all she was impressed with the nature in which the boy wrote. a penchant for words, able to bewitch the page and to turn it into the picture perfect image of whatever he envisioned in his brain. poetic and dark, like a brewing storm. she encouraged him to follow this talent, to untether it from his moments of melancholy and allow it to speak for stories. which is what he did. by seventeen he had published two books of poetry, and was working on a murder mystery story, involving two reunited lovers piecing together the murder of a recently deceased childhood friend. despite the fact that the works that he had published were done so anonymously, ashcroft was able to uncover the truth. and so as he entered university, he was accepted with much prestige into imperium. the one and only place that roman felt as though he might belong. that he might actually be happy.

until octavia’s death, of course. 

roman had loved tragedies until he had become one. that all he was now, tragedy with a heartbeat. was it better to love and have it taken from you? or was it better to have not loved at all? all he knows is that he was certain his heart had endured enough when she’d left the first time, he did not know what egregious sin he’d committed to lose her the second time. there was no peace for him anymore. nothing could quell the rainstorm in his soul. not even the things that used to work. laying out in the library with leather books in hand, walking around campus with the rest of the club and laughter in their voice, coffees with too much sugar, the first snowfall. all of it, devoid of anything but misery. ache. death. the only cure would have come in the form of her, octavia’s nimble fingers in his hair. missing her was so jarring, he felt that it was only a matter of time before he too would join her. 

as naive as it was, roman felt grateful for the ghostly visits. first he’d chalked it up to insanity. what else could it be? at least now he could see her, he could hear her, beyond the times when he pulled up videos of her on his phone while the sounds and sights of her were snuffed out by the sounds of his own wailing. he’d rather a shadow of her presence than nothing at all. 

rage came next. he wanted it to be lysander. needed it to be. lysander was responsible for all dissolution of his happiness. it was lysander who had seduced away the one person he’d ever loved. clearly it had to be lysander who had selfishly expelled her from the world too. it felt easier to condense his hatred to one person… roman wasn’t sure if there was enough space left in him to hate anyone else. but to learn this was wrong? roman had no idea what to make of it. it caused him to wet his sheets each night with sweat, to carve bloody moon imprints onto his palms. he felt ravenous for revenge. 

the brain.

[ based off loosely off of: camille preaker, theodore laurie, ponyboy curtis, & draco malfoy ]

+ romantic: it’s no secret that ro is a massive romantic. anyone who saw him interact with octavia could see it clear as day. he genuinely enjoyed the little things in a relationship many thought organically lessened with the hands of time. however, he continued to be spontaneous, attentive, and sweet. he continued with love notes, and presenting flowers whenever he could. even in the way he looked at his love seemed to be veiled in something ancient, something innate like he’d always known her in all of his lives. roman’s romanticism did not stop at tiv, though. it leaked into his poetry, as intense wafts of emotions always seem to steal our words. but there is even a romantic manner in which he treats his friends. he’s a little bit of your boyfriend when you’re close enough friends, to be perfectly honest. the boy has a earnest love for making those he cares for feel looked after. not all loves are amorous in nature, but that does not mean they are not to be cultivated with the same dedication to magic as the one he shared with his beloved. 

+ empathetic: sometimes a negative, mostly a positive roman has the unbearable burden of a heart too large for his mind. he sees whispers of goodness in every person (save for fucking lysander) even if he does not want to. if someone is under duress, or is wallowing in some sort of pain, roman’s instinct is to alleviate their plight. sometimes it comes begrudgingly, as though someone is holding a gun to his temple to execute such a task. not even a hint of a smile dressing his face, but he does it nonetheless, knowing he may be robbed of his sleep if not. but for his friends, he’d gladly die doing right by their hearts. 

+ noble: perhaps roman is of aristocratic blood after all, because roman is the most noble of them all. he’s not quite sure when the moral compass forged itself into his soul, and when it began to guide nearly all of his actions, but one day he woke up and was highly aware of the importance of sticking to one’s words. once he adopts something as the decent thing to do, he has a hard time shaking it. it shackles him. it ensnares him to do the right thing each time. for this reason, he’s been in trouble a few times for sticking his nose where it doesn’t necessarily belong, getting into tiffs with moronic bullies who pick on others or sleazy men with wandering hands. sometimes he wishes he could just mind his own fucking business. it certainly may have prevented him a black eye or two. 

- cynical: you could almost say that from the moment that roman kissed octavia, he could taste the doom on her lips. he certainly did not anticipate her grim ending, but he always knew she was too good for him. too beautiful, too happy, too perfect. just as her fickle gaze wanders, so shall she. but, this frame of mind was not unique to just this singular circumstance, it was roman’s entire mantra. all good in life would be expunged from him eventually. one must always anticipate the worst, and be pleasantly surprised when things pan out. for example, he’s a writer and yet he studies chemistry. why? because he’s afraid that his writing isn’t as good as he believes and will need a fall back. as of now, his fallback is pharmaceutical school. he finds happy endings in movies to be unbelievable. how is it realistic that everyone ends up happier than ever? bullshit. no fucking way. 

- self-destructive: (tw: drug/alcohol mention) he drenches himself in gasoline with the cynicism, but he lights the match by participating in self-destructive behavior. drinking and drugs become a regular part of ro’s life when he’s lounging in a pool of his own pain. he finds it best to numb it, to muffle the screams of doubt in his head with sharp shops of bourbon and snowy lines of cocaine. besides, he always tells himself it may make him a more interesting writer. what’s life without a little scandal, anyway? 

- aloof: despite having a pure heart, roman has a difficult time expressing himself. with page and pen, he manages to do so, but in person? to unlatch your cage of ribs and let someone inside? to watch the softness in your eyes when you admit a secret, or a snippet of deep affection? his shrink had chalked it up to the fact his parents never told him that they loved him. awkward kisses on the head on birthdays and maybe a stiff hug or two in between, but roman himself has always had a painfully hard time coming across as soft as he truly was, no matter how hard he tries. 

the quirks. 

has a tattoo of joan of arc on the left side of his ribcage. that sounds poetic but he also has a tattoo of the lochness monster with sunglasses on that he got while drunk in mexico one summer break.

presses flowers. usually he presses them to make bookmarks. leaves his favorite ones in his favorite books at the library for people to enjoy. if you ask him directly if he’s behind this random kindness though, he’ll tell you to fuck off.

has a pet goldfish that he’s successfully kept alive for six whole fucking years. her name is peaches. i think he’d fully lose it if peaches kicks it sometime soon too.

incredibly gifted when it comes to billiards. is known to drive further out of town to new bars to hustle people for money.

very much a “here’s my other headphone, let’s stare out the window together depressively” when on buses and train with his friends.

if you listen really hard in the library at like 8 pm, you will find him softly cry into the last book octavia checked out. come say hi, pals!

has very conflicting senses of style. likes clean lines and pristinely clean shirts and slacks which he then pairs with his most worn out chucks, and most lived in sweaters. if his shoes are clean and tidy then he has to be in a leather blazer. has this man ever brushed his hair in his life? absolutely not, but literally nothing he owns will ever appear wrinkled.

only has one pin on his leather messenger bag: “eat the rich” it says, as if he and literally most of his friends don’t consist of “the rich.”

his favorite book is love in a time of cholera

is a bit sentimental. he’s the type to keep movie tickets and receipts from good days he’s had with friends. he has them all in a big box, and when things are too heavy to bear he likes to sift through it all and remember all the pieces in time where things didn’t feel so ghastly. 

carries around a disposable camera. roman’s too lazy to get into actual film, but he likes the concept of physical photos, so he’ll usually have his wallet, keys, a book, and the shitty camera stuffed into his coat at all times. please note that his keys have an obnoxious amount of keychains for a man of his age. his favorite one is a koala whose eyes pop out when you squeeze it, gifted to him by his little sister. keeps a photo of his sister, octavia, and his best friend in his wallet, always.

he still hasn’t finished his book. needless to say, his publisher is really fucking pissed. every time someone brings it up, he says, “it’s almost done.” it’s not. not even close.

always always always makes wishes in fountains. keeps coins on him just for that purpose. and no, he never does reveal what he actually wishes for. 

the letter.

tivi, 

the other day i read somewhere that drowning is relatively quick. between the midst of the panic and terror, the average person only has between thirty to sixty seconds before they involuntarily suck in a mouthful of water. the pain of this process is supposed to be so severe, that you pass out. but just before you do, the lack of oxygen sends you into a state of euphoria. you feel nothing but the swath of water’s gentle embrace. it blankets your thoughts, and the water’s clasp around you is meant to bring you comfort, the same way babies like pools. it feels maternal, safe. i used to think love was like that. both terror and elation ribboned and sandwiched down into a single person. it was morbid, to compare death and love, i know that now. but perhaps my self conscious was always preparing me for this. the death of you. the death of my heart. the death of all things colored and pure in this life, all of which is to be buried with you and our child. do you think our baby would have liked pools? 

the pain is visceral. i can feel it, heavy and harsh in my lungs. in the crevices of my bones. in my arms, where the warmth of you lacks. i can even fucking taste it, even the bitter burn of scotch turning to ash in my mouth. no one knows how to approach this, or what to say to me. i keep receiving tight-lipped looks of people awash with pity and sympathy. you always hated when i cried. i did that a lot, didn’t i? a stupid fucking commercial about a father taking his daughter to ballet class and suddenly i’ve got my fists balled up hot and tight, and my eyes are at the ceiling trying to evaporate the ocean in my face. you were the only one i felt safe enough to be a complete an utter wreck in front of. but don’t worry, your headstone will get regular updates of my too loud, too long series of sobs. i’ll be forever faithful. 

i found ten synonyms in the thesaurus for “miss.” pine for, long to see, ache for, feel the loss of, regret the absence of, yearn for, feel nostalgic for, long for, need. none of them seem to fit this all consuming rot that you left behind in my heart. nonetheless, each of these substitute meanings live inside me. when i walk, i can feel them all shifting around, clashing around my insides, against one another, like bits of a snow-globe. except none of this feels glittery. i know it sounds childish, but before the day begins, and just as the misery begins to sink in, my first instinct is always to reach for my phone and call you to tell you about it. there was always honey to be found in your words. god, i fucking miss you.  

i have much to thank you for. it’d be naive to believe i could shrink all of it down into a single page, but i’ll try my best to do you justice. thank you for your patience, that of a saint at times. thank you for allowing me the great honor of your affection. thank you for every shard of laughter you extended to me. thank you for never calling me out on being a fucking awful dancer when i most certainly was. thank you for being the shepherd to my darkest secrets. [ REDACTED SECRET, BAYBEEEE ]  thank you for existing in my life, and washing my world with worth. i wish i could forget it now, but i’m afraid i’ll be chasing this, you, for the rest of forever. at least i have something to chase, i guess. thank you, thank you, thank you. 

tiv, wherever you are… please know that i love you and have loved you from the very moment we met. i would have died for you, but i don’t know if i can live like this for you. i feel carved out, hollow. you took with you every glimmer of light i had left. it’s too dark now… and enough of the prose for a second, i keep crying so god damn much i can barely see. like literally, i think fucking going blind too now. great. guess it really is dark now, huh baby? you would have hated this joke. 

come back. even just for a little while. i love you. i love you, i love you. should have said it more. 

i love you. 

forever yours, 

ro

the extras. 

pinterest board

spotify playlist

thank you for reading all of this if you did lol.

hello & welcome aboard the hot mess express ! am i talking about me or theo ? YES !

quick stats !

skeleton: m*cbeth.

name: theodore st. clair.

age: twenty-two.

faceclaim: gavin leatherwood.

gender: cismale.

pronouns: he / him.

degree: international relations.

background !

— TRIGGER WARNING for mentions of a car accident, murder ( rip octavia ig )

you know the st. clairs. everyone knows the st. clairs. acacia and montgomery, two of the most famous actors in the world uniting in holy matrimony before the eyes of god — and the cameras of paparazzi spying from helicopters, of course. 

that’s part of being in the imperium society, after all; for one reason or another, they’re known. whether it be for the place they clawed out for themselves in this world, or one lovingly ( not so lovingly ? ) provided for them by their parents, everyone in this elite circle has eyes on them for some reason or another. 

for theo, being watched is an undeniable fact of life. being the product of two academy-award winning actors will do that to you. his birth was covered in no less than six tabloid magazines; his parents framed them to use as decorations in his nursery. 

as a child, he wanted for nothing. whenever theo was allowed to make an appearance at one of his parents’ parties full of the most powerful people in hollywood, he made a splash – it wasn’t hard to see that he would grow up to be as stunning as his parents, and something about him set him apart as the darling of it all. it was his dark, soulful eyes, wise beyond his years; his smile, charmingly adorable; his delightful mannerisms, even at a young age; his parents’ friends would raise an eyebrow, tilt their heads in his direction, and say that boy is going to be someone someday.

though his parents were long since accustomed to the spotlight, theo never gravitated to it as they did. he was a handsome child, well-spoken and mischievous, but he never understood the acting bug caught by his parents in the sprightly days of their youth. instead, he was a hardworking student, a clever, quick-thinking boy, someone who set goals and followed through on them. 

at 15, theo conceived a new brainchild— ST. CARE, a philanthropic and awareness-based nonprofit to advocate on behalf of exploited and at-risk children all over the world. his efforts weren’t focused on a single issue; he proposed a multitude of beneficiaries for the charitable side of things, ranging from treatment for children with HIV / AIDS to funding for girls to attend school in underprivileged areas. within a year, the wild success of both his charitable and awareness promotion efforts had earned him the international children’s peace prize.

around the same time, the st. clairs’ marriage deteriorated, messily and violently, all in front of a whirlwind of paparazzi. teenage theo was caught in the middle of it all, the unfortunate epicenter of the split between two of hollywood’s brightest stars.

tabloids cited nearly everything as reasons for the impending divorce; drugs, affairs, secret babies, anything was fair game. the truth was much more innocuous: it was simply a marriage that was no longer working, succumbing to the pressures of fame and society. but the truth didn’t sell. paparazzi competed for the money shot, their attempts growing more and more wild every time they failed. one even ended up in a car crash with his mother, leading to her spending a short time in the hospital to recover. needless to say, this was all very stressful for theo’s family. 

nevertheless, theo has always been a shining, bright example for young people across the world; it came as a surprise to absolutely no one that he was accepted to ashcroft— and, by extension, the imperium society. he thrived there, majoring in international relations and preparing himself to take his philanthropy to the next level once he graduated school.

theo has never been able to resist a person in need. so when valentine came to him, mascara smeared under her eyes, pleading for his help, he didn’t think twice. 

what he hadn’t planned on was what came next. 

before he knew what he was doing, theo found himself standing over octavia’s body, water bottle raised over his head and christian staring at him like he’d never seen him before. he doesn’t remember the act itself— not in the slightest. but he’d be a fool not to know what he’d done. 

and he watched. he watched as valentine took the water bottle from his far-too-steady hand, he watched as she disappeared with the bottle first, then with christian next. he watched his cosmic punishment for what he’d done carried out in real time: the woman he loved, whisked away by a man who’d witnessed his undoing.

he never wanted to follow in his parents’ footsteps, but maybe he should’ve. after all, pretending he didn’t kill octavia is the role of a lifetime.

before, he was able to push everything down, bury it beneath the layers of denial and misplaced justification. but with octavia’s ghost making appearances all over campus, it’s getting much more difficult to disguise his guilt as grief.

𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬

wowowow okay first off sooo excited to be here ( totally not writing this at five in the morning just so i can have it ready to go ) ??  my name’s moosh, i’m 21+, and have no preference for pronouns. this got pretty long i’m super sorry i always try to keep it short n it never works sdfnskdjf ANYWAYS HERE’S MY BB i’m planning on plotting w every one of u but still like this post n i’ll come plot ♡

𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬

name: august reyn age: 22 / senior gender: cismale ( he/him ) major: business + econ minor orientation: heterosexual / heteroromantic mbti: estp house: gryffindor ( 60% ) / slytherin ( 40% ) alignment: chaotic neutral

𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨

i haven’t uhh gotten around to a bio but i’ll also try to keep this as simple n concise as possible ??

death due to birth tw. baby boy is born as august tenold in los angeles, no dad in sight and mother passed. spent three/four days in the hospital until his grandmother finally made it across the country from new york to take him home to brooklyn where he would spend the next SEVENTEEN years.

they weren’t very well off and by that i mean that they had to sometimes worry about heat, leaks when it rained too much, warm water, so forth, but they were lucky enough to be able to afford a two bedroom. 

BUT august never attended a public school once. before her death she had been promised the best education for their son, in place of a role in his life. grandma would take the train with august everyday, an hour and a half to school, and she luckily found a job near his school because the commute alone was a journey. three hour commute, five times a week, and by the time he was in fourth grade he could find his way to school himself.

it was at school that he saw such a stark difference in lifestyle. it only got worse as he got older and whatever they bought would only become more and more expensive. it was there he learned that there was power and influence in wealth when he would get detention for defending himself in a fight he didn’t start while the others got away with things because of family names.

after elementary school is when boarding school starts, where he only sees his grandmother during summer vacations because flights back home only to stay for winter break are too expensive. where he gets special permission to leave school grounds because he needs a job to earn some spending money.

grandma falls ill in the beginning of his sophomore year, but he’s so busy with school and they rarely see each other as it is ( only during the summers ), that he only finds out when he’s a junior becoming a senior. his entire summer is spent working to help pay rent for the apartment no one was living in, and then his nights at the hospital. the staff allow him a makeshift bed after he’s spent a week sleeping there, and as reluctant as he is, his grandmother tells him to go to school to continue his last year, and he obliges. she tells him she’ll be there for his graduation, and it becomes the last time he sees her.

she passes in the middle of his senior year and it’s quickly followed by news that he has a new guardian. his father, who can’t be older than thirty five years old, is geoffrey reyn, ceo of reyn enterprises ( think of wayne enterprises in that they literally have their hands in everything ). he’s come under some heavy fire recently and is not favored by the public, but what’s a better than a long lost son sob story to cover it up ??  

violence tw. literally shows up to school the next day and the energy is different because he’s for once at the top of the pyramid. the same people who had tormented him for years step on his toes and he fights back knowing he has a bite to match his bark now. the first time he feels that smug feeling of power is when he leaves the principal’s office for the first time with just a tissue.

he’s dragged around places by his dad during that summer, asked about his new life, how much better it is than living in the shabby two bedroom apartment in brooklyn and not once asked about his grandmother or if he got to attend her funeral ( which he did not ). hurriedly having applied to ashcroft, he got in, and soon he was shipped off elsewhere.

child abuse and violence tw. relationship with his dad was always very violent, but august never took hits sitting down. august wasn’t the grateful puppet geoffrey had needed, and his dad was not a savior. there’s still a lot of constraint and control he tries to place on his son, however, even though years of failure have only confirmed he can’t be controlled. the last few years, however, had been running smoothly. business and econ were finally taken up as majors and minors, their interactions less turbulent, and this was all due to one thing: octavia.

so let’s backtrack a lillll so august first meets octavia when he's 17 where he’s working off the books the job his granny has ( cleaning up after classes at a prestigious ballet studio ) due to her back acting up. he becomes infatuated with her, her lifestyle, and they quickly grow closer. she builds some sort of greed within him to want to be good enough for someone like her, or maybe just her. he swears it, and then his granny passes. the next time he meets her is two years down the line at some gala his dad would insist he attend, and they spend the night stowed away in an empty ballroom, a bottle of champagne in hand and a secret kiss shared behind closed doors. she tells him she’s thinking of applying to ashcroft and he insists that she must, that he’d wait for her. the following year, he’s there to greet her on campus, and immediately they’re an item. 

around all this time, his relationship with his dad is supperr rocky. every time they spoke they fought and when august hung up on him too much, he’d appear on campus ( an effective way of getting august not to hang up ). he’s met with octavia and her parents and he realizes the kind of status he has to uphold in order to date someone like her. he finally declares the major his father had chosen for him and understands it’s a choice he has to make to stay with her. he becomes much too obedient with his dad, knowing that the way to stay in favor with her parents would be to finally yield to what his dad wanted. so he becomes a proper heir, majoring in the correct field, taking his studies more seriously, acting and talking the right way. he falls in line to keep her, he gets along with everyone and it’s all because she dulls his sharp edges and he can lean on her. a lot of his life begins to warp around her, and that’s when his dad threatens to touch the thing that had been keeping the waters still.

geoffrey had been having complications in a business deal that octavia’s dad was refusing to agree to. with the knowledge of his crimes, getting rid of the other would be easy, and closing the deal even easier. not wanting to be tainted with such an image, he tells august to end things and even goes as far as to threaten her safety. there isn’t a doubt in august’s mind he’d follow through, knowing all the dirt on his new surname, and things with octavia come to an end, though they continue to keep seeing each other as she begins her new relationship.

has fallen into a bit of a depressive slump, even after the rest of the semester was given off to them. for the first few days afterwards, no one really sees him around. he spends his days locked up in his room, not touching his assignments and not answering to the house maids that knock on his door. he’s completely heartbroken because truly, he believed the rest of his life would be spent with octavia. then comes the anger almost immediately, because while alcohol and drugs allows him to ease the pain it doesn’t allow him to forget, and after coming to bail him out of jail three times, his father stops picking up the phone and cuts august off, taking his cards, cars, everything, unless there’s a promise to behave better. obviously his father is not someone he can come to lean on emotionally for this, and so he picks up other ways of easing the pain: alcohol, drugs, adrenaline, women.

her death is very heavily placed on him for an obvious reason ( she was the love of his life ) but it also comes with the struggle of finishing his degree. he’s so close to it, yet he feels like there’s really no reason for him to continue on with it. octavia had been the sole reason his relationship with his father had been steady. now that she’s out of the picture, there’s no need for a business degree, no need for a shining reputation, no need for whatever upper class bullshit. that’s the mindset that he’s in going into the last semester of college with, and whether he royally fucks up his future because of his grief or if he decides to push through because that’s what octavia would have wanted is up in the air. 

so as usual i’m better at describing bg rather than personality so bear with me.

getting to know august is easy, because he makes it easy. he’s amiable, playful, witty, sarcastic to a fault, but he’s also pessimistic. without octavia’s light to balance it out he’s kind of let himself sink into that cynical mindset that has always been overbearing. unlike his father, however, his anger is always quiet, still, and strikes when least expected. there’s never a scene because there’s never yelling ( unless it’s to his dad ), always low voices that drip with threats and cold eyes that warn of something worse to come if the line keeps being tread. how his knuckles become bloody is always a mystery, because you never heard about august reyn getting into a fight until another kid showed up the next day with a black eye. now, there isn’t much that can be done to bring that out in him, but that’s the dangerous part that people always tell you to look out for. it’s because he always seem so easy going that people don’t ever see the darkness until it’s too late.

i  can’t  even  begin  to  put  into  words  how  excited  i  am  for  this  group.  i’m  honestly  still  in  shock  i’m  here ??  i’m  super  passionate  about  every  aspect  of  this  group  already  but  ANYWHO  i’m  nica  ( 20 in the cst. chaotic writer and english student )  and  i’ll  be  writing  the  naive,  gentle,  miss  bardot  --  scholarship  student,  whiz  kid  photographic  memory  extraordinaire,  mom  friend  to  all  of  your  chaos  children.  an  endless  resume  covered  in  flowers.  her  pinterest  can  be  found  HERE   which will  give  you  a  good  aesthetic  summary  because  i  know  her  intro  might  be  a  bit  wordy ??  i’m  also  going  to  put  up  a  connections  page  and  post  her  letter  separately  soon  but  please  message  me  for  norah  ramblings  and  plots !!  

character inspo :    hermione granger ( harry potter ) ,  lucie manette ( a tale of two cities ) , eponine ( les miserables ) ,  jo march ( little women )

you never knew opulence  --  no razor sharp collar bones framed in pearls nor soft silk on softer skin  --  no, certainly not in the traditional sense. but your life was wealth in abundance, if you knew where to look. love overflowing. two warm parents, nestled in a warm apartment tucked away in an unassuming, cold south london borough. a carousel of family pets, usually strays you plucked from the streets, desperate to nurse back to health. your mother blamed that   hero gene   you inherited from your father. a moral code so completely spun into your dna that sometimes it would feel inescapable. you would do what’s right, no matter the cost. your mother blames your family’s poverty on the hero gene, too. when she mentions it like that, with her face straight and voice so flat, you aren’t sure it was ever a compliment. 

you always questioned if it was inherited as much as it was taught, the good parts of you, the selfless parts. it was, after all, your father who ran the soup kitchen just down the block, who brought you with him nearly every weekend to help serve.  look, look at those that have it so much worse, and you will know why i do not want.  ( and if this mantra, so instilled in you it’s whispered almost like scripture , makes you see the other students at ashcroft a little differently, could you really be faulted ? )   

it was in the kitchen your family first noticed your potential  --  your genius  --  a quiet girl with a brain like an elephant.  you do not forget .  you could recant shakespeare like you had hamlet open in front of you, and you loved to spoil the children with words, with stories, with the same escapism you used yourself  --  but must never admit.  do not want .  you memorized charts, recipes, sonnets with a glance. you skipped your fourth year, advancing so rapidly your parents didn’t know what to do with you besides gawk. it was your memory, photographic, and your work ethic, scrupulous, that set you apart. but it was your heart, your conscience  ( gentle, PURE )  that truly defined you. 

DEATH TW. CANCER TW.  if only you had been smart enough to detect the signs of cancer in your father, before it was too late. you’re stubborn, and from a young age you think you’re smarter than you are. gifted. there’s no way you could have known, your mother would tell you this, and the bills? can you imagine the bills? she’s right, of course, and fate is cruel, but you are resilient. you don’t give up on the soup kitchen, even with the memory like a knife. it’s what your father would have wanted, and all you crave anymore is to make him proud. build a life for your mother, a better life. maybe, without him around, it’s okay to want  a little. 

your life changed after that. your mother pulled you out of school; home school would suit the two of your needs better, anyway. you were smart enough to handle it. your mother seemed to think so. and you could work odd jobs, keep your home lest that be pulled from beneath your feet as well. but high school became nothing but a fantasy, something you saw played out in movies. boys in varsity jackets and girls in cheerleading kits. sneaking out through the window only to sneak into the bars. you wouldn’t know rebellion, you couldn’t afford to. naive innocence brushed across your forehead, branding you different. 

some days the loneliness liked to make a home of your bones, pitch itself into the hollow of your chest until you thought you might burst. an ever growing desire to be known, to be loved, like you read in the stories. the ones you couldn’t forget. your academics were your only defense against that suffocation, working towards something so you didn’t fall back instead. you were compensating, but it worked, that day you received your acceptance letter to ashcroft. the scholarship.  “ we recognize talent when we see it. ”  you’re pretty sure you would have memorized the letter even without your photographic memory. it meant that much. 

the imperium society followed suit, a natural progression for someone as bright as you. top of your class, because you work hard and you care for nothing else more. even with the pressure of maintaining your scholarship weighing heavy on your shoulders, you did not waver. ashcroft, the society, they were the proof that you could make your own way. that one day, your mother would live happily on a farm somewhere, and you would continue on to medical school. you starved for the future you were paving for yourself like you hadn’t eaten in decades. 

you fit snugly into the imperium society. you didn’t make any enemies, not like the others. you would sooner be stepped on than cause any trouble. in some ways, it was you that was the glue, holding everyone together. keeping everyone at peace. you with your level head, your encoded morals, your perception. your soft voice that had a way of ringing louder than all the others. there was no room for emotion when it came to the diplomacy of the society. you made friends that felt like family, you fell in love, fell into bed. it was all coming together. 

and then octavia was murdered. you knew her well, everyone in the society did, but you practically lived with her. you spent late nights studying together in the library, long weekends galavanting through the city. the two of you were so different, but that was what you liked about her. she forced you out of the shell you didn’t know you were trapped in. and then she was dating lysander, one of your closest friends, one of the few who really REALLY knew you, and you  loved  her brother. it felt like a web you were undoubtedly entangled in, but a grief that wasn’t yours to bear. is it wrong that you still aren’t sure what hurts worse, the loss or the aftermath?