INTO THE SEA

𝙷𝙾𝚆   𝙳𝙴𝙴𝙿   𝙳𝙾𝙴𝚂   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝚆𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚁  𝙶𝙾  ?

[ofherbalisms]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐕𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒  /  𝑟𝑒𝑢𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑒𝑠ℎ𝑘𝑜𝑙 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑜𝑣. 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑦-𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑒. 𝑤𝑖𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟. ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑏𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡. 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑒𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑦 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑓𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑟 + 𝑛𝑎𝑣𝑦 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑙.

             a dependent muse for endurefm              analyzed by m • 26. est. he/him.

   TAG DROP  ↓   //     BIOGRAPHY.  WANTED CONNECTIONS.  HEADCANONS.

[petaltexturedskies]

Albert Camus, from “Notebooks”

[letsbeapoemtogether]

Sunrise, Louise Glück

[nezben-deactivated20230726]

[1617]

[petaltexturedskies]

Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Ethel Smyth written c. January 1935

[absta1n]

`　　　CLOSED　　▸　　reuven ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎/‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎@ofherbalisms　.

lingering behind a double storm door, she's had her open palm pressed to the resilient metal for five, ten minutes, doing nothing more than anticipating. the cat. the man. and always in that order, if they should come at all. it had been only this in the beginning — a perchance noticing man and beast wandered past the short stretch of her living room window. almost always around the same dusky edge of the evening. it was a short jump from scheduled curiosity to positioning herself in the four-by-six square of wild penstemon and yarrow. a selfish waiting. tending to her garden. to the cat, the harbinger of man — reuven, the name knotted in her throat, tangled in his unexpected gentleness. so like her father.

the cat, a disheveled, mottled thing, leaps onto the red brick garden wall that frames danielle's front door on either side. she catches the anticipation in her throat and pushes through the door, to the short wall — a half-finished project, begun and abandoned by a long-dead survivor. still, the cement binder, now solid, seems to ooze from beneath the last laid brick. danielle drums her fingertips on common burnt clay, enticing the stray to ram it's head beneath her attentive hand. " hello, darling. " it purrs, a quiet hum of a reward for routine feeding and care. feeding, she supposes, does much of the heavy lifting — to that end, the seamstress unfolds a square of cloth, scraps sewn together into a patchwork, to reveal today's picnic: scraps of meat and the crumbled yellow yolk of a hard boiled egg.

it eats voraciously. she gives an exhale of a laugh, stroking its coarse fur from nape to tail. how precious this small, half-feral life had become to her. and when she finally hears the crunch of boots on gravel — " i was wondering where you'd gone off to, " danielle lifts her chin toward him, followed by her gaze finally drawn from the docile beast. her smile softens, enthusiasm tempered by the nervous comfort that so often accompanies his appearance. " it's not like him to wander this way without you. mm? " the cat has settled, the egg half devoured, purrs replaced by the gnashing of canines on muscle. danielle cautiously withdraws her hand and folds both arms over her chest, skin prickling in the evening chill. now, observing him properly, her brows knit slightly. " was it a ... difficult day? "

[ofherbalisms]

    𝑰𝑻 𝑰𝑺 𝑨 𝑺𝑰𝑮𝑵 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬𝑺. Frigid and unforgiving gusts of wind whip through hair, sting the tips of his nose and fingers. Winter has begun to settle into all of his corners. Reuven is awaiting the day he returns to that lake he so often frequents and finds it frozen over. It has, of course, become virtually unswimmable since the temperatures dropped and drew both the life and heat out of everyone and everything. His beard and hair has grown long and unruly in an attempt to stay warm. Things on the farm are more difficult; crops more scarce and meat less prosperous. The greenhouse on the farm will hopefully sustain the community through the winter, along with the horde of slower-perishables they had stockpiled through the year. Still, despite this, the worry about famine has resurrected, as it does every year, and has it has done since the day his son died from a malnutrition-borne immunocompromised state. The distance between now and then has grown long, and yet, Reuven feels that guilt in his gut like it just happened yesterday. If he had just been able to find enough food... if he had just skipped one more meal himself and given his boy extra... might it have made a difference? Now, in a community full of mouths to feed, he hardly feels just an herbalist. His time gets divvied up between the medical greenhouse and the farm and, when he can't sleep, the watch tower. So he drags himself back home at the end of the day, only when he can say with certainty to himself that he did all he could.

    Worn boots crunched on frosted grass as he rounded the corner to the dorms wing, then gravel as he neared closer, and then before he could beeline back up to his room and strum his guitar and hope to gain company, a neighbor chirped out. He had not known much about her other than her name and that she was one of the seamstresses. He'd meant to bug her about fixing a tear in his jacket, and perhaps gluing the sole of his boot over again. Now was certainly not the time to put her to work, though. He welcomed the interaction in the way he might invite in an old friend—caught off guard, but willing nonetheless. He returned the smile, politely, as he stepped forward to scratch the mangy little cat between the ears. "Hey, stinky," he greeted the furry friend first, then drew in a deep but content sigh. "Yeah. I guess he and I do come as a pair most days... I'm surprised he's still alive. Gettin' cold out." He drew in a sniff, and then moved to shift under the cover of the building's entrance and out of the slowly falling snow. At her question, he shook his head, and reassured, "No. No." Yes, it was. He was exhausted, in that way where every muscle in his body ached to lay down in some visceral need for rest. "How about yourself? I'm sure work's picking up now that everyone needs winter gear...?" Small talk wasn't his strong suit. If he was honest with himself, he wanted to go upstairs, make a hot cup of tea and play some Arctic Monkeys, or maybe Stevie Ray Vaughn. If he was feeling particularly confident, maybe he'd try to acoustic some Jimi Hendrix.

[wiresandwiresandwires-deactivat]

Jun was a bit intimidated by this stranger’s sheer presence. He could not parse the general feelings in the air. If only they had been akin to signals sent directly to his brain. The ambiguous intent of the whole thing kept the operator glued to his spot, blinking mindlessly as Reuven suddenly sat. Oh! Was that an invitation to sit back down? The Freshman was about ready to bolt for it — this was perhaps worse than any creepy crawler — but then the older offered to help him. Whether or not that meant Reuven wanted to lay eyes on a terrible rough draft or not did not deter Jun. His eyes lit up, a smile ghosting his lips. This stranger was going to be at the other end of one of Jun’s endless strings of racing thoughts. Speaking of his interests out loud had always helped him hone in on what needed the most focus. The signals usually stopped bouncing around like a DVD logo and redirected through his mouth. “Yeah, actually! Check this out.” Long arms quickly retrieved the lost papers and held them out to the fellow tea drinker. The radio operator couldn’t help but divulge his precious notes, silly doodles of grey aliens, and unorganized amendments. Despite the awkward start, he felt he owed an explanation to fill the empty air. “I’m studying weird signals for one of my classes. The Arecibo looks kinda like a Tetris screenshot. I think it’d be cool if we could update it or something — like, add in a warning to aliens that this place doesn’t have room for them because of all of the monsters and stuff.”

[ofherbalisms]

     𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑨𝑵 𝑾𝑨𝑺 𝑺𝑼𝑫𝑫𝑬𝑵𝑳𝒀 faced with a conundrum. At the vibrancy that graced the stranger's features, a softening of Reuven's natural defenses occurred. Much like he might entertain the excited ramblings of a child brandishing a very colorful something on poster paper, Reuven stifled down his admitted disinterest to humor the other. He definitely wouldn't be able to sleep if he crushed the guy's dreams here.

     A slightly amused eyebrow lifted as the doodles came into view, and his calloused grip handled the papers rather... carefully. As if they held some sacred texts, because he was certain they were just as valuable in sentiment to the other survivor as perhaps a Torah might be to Rabbi. Unkempt curls fell into his dark gaze as he studied the drawings and notes, finding himself searching between them for this stranger. What might have been extending out from the artist that managed to touch paper. The images looked... a bit chaotic, but revealed all the imagination of a lingering innocence. In a way, it made a sort of sad yearning kindle within the older man. He wished he could have the same hope. The same imaginative nature. Think of fictitious aliens and their overlords, rather than the reality that roamed the here and now. It brought a sad smile to his lips, and then he passed the papers back to the stranger solemnly. "Who knows? Maybe the aliens would fight the monsters, and we could escape out the back." It was a joke, but somehow his tone didn't carry that. It had been even more difficult to draw his emotions into his voice as of late; a relapsing of depression, perhaps. Either way, Reuven would choose not to pay it the mind it deserved and needed.

     "There used to be this video game," he began, ruminating absentmindedly against a threatening nostalgia, "before everything... went to shit. Monsters versus aliens. Used to play it with my kid—well... in front of my kid. She liked the explosions." He chuckled then, and swallowed, trying not to remember his little Chedva in too much detail. Otherwise he might start crying, and that would be embarrassing at best. "Little dingbat." He paused, then leaned back in his chair, wondering how much of life the stranger had gotten before the apocalypse began. He'd mentioned a screenshot, so certainly he'd had to have interacted with a cellphone. "I'm Reuven. Don't think I caught your name, ...?"

[ofherbalisms]

closed starter to: @heartxsighs time + location: the library, midnight

    𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑫𝑨𝒀 𝑯𝑨𝑺 𝑺𝑶𝑭𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑫 into night. Shuffling footsteps and whispers have settled, dormant, in the corners until morrow day. There is the grainy residue of sweat long cooled and dried on the man's neck, chest, arms. Somehow, even in winter, he would start the day out bundled up and end it with sleeves rolled to the elbows and every button undone at the neckline. The icy wind felt refreshing on his bare skin during the trek down to the library. The day had long expired for most of the compound's residents, but Reuven tended to be one of the few that would stave off sleep; fight it, like a toddler to their mid-day nap, because even if rest would make him feel better, to him the day wasn't finished. He hadn't gotten to read that leather-bound journal at the far end of the reference section, tucked in between the encyclopedias and atlases. Surely whoever had put it there had meant it not to be found, but discovered it anyway, Reuven had.

    At first it had been innocent intrigue. After all, who would leave a nameless book tucked onto an incongruent bookshelf, as though it belonged there? The man had picked it up and thumbed through it, only to discover it was full of viscera. He had read some poetry as a boy, and then eventually once again as a college student himself, but he'd read the words of old. Hemingway and Poe and Dickinson. When he'd had the task of writing a poem himself, for a grade, it was done as fawn attempts to gallop. Reuven was not a poet, by any means, but this poetry collection he stumbled across had still captivated him so thoroughly. These words were relatable. The poet's grief was his own grief. He wondered how on earth he had been so lucky to come across such an eloquent and pertinent piece of literature, when he returned to read it again the following week and found that it had gained a new entry. His heart had thudded in his realization that he had been reading someone's diary. Someone who lived at the grounds. He felt that he had violated the writer's privacy, and it suddenly felt so wrong to pick it back up. His restraint lasted for a few weeks, until he thought to himself—well, what's the harm? I'll never meet them anyway. The book was unsigned. And he had, though he would never admit it, made casual attempts at figuring out who was writing it. Their identity remained anonymous. All of it except... all of it. He read about their inner workings. Their insecurities. Their dreams. Their depression.

    The man would find a quiet corner tucked in the very back of the library, sit down in one of the sofa chairs and melt into the writing. After long, empathy gave way to sympathy. Sympathy gave way to anxiety. And eventually, he could no longer deny himself the next page of the book out of pure necessity to know this person was still here. When he arrived to the library that night, he anticipated the silence and alone time. After all, who else would be in the library at midnight?

    Very quickly he discovered who. His linguistic effigy. His web weaver.

    He was rounding the corner of one of the shelves and stopped in his tracks. Dark eyes grew orb-like in surprise. There was a form, curled up in the same chair he so often sat wide-stanced in, reading the same book this form possessed now. There she was, with that leather-bound book open to its next page, weaving it together even more than its binding did. He stood, baffled and staring, for much too long, as when she realized a figure was staring at her, she gave a little start and a little scream and he found himself frantically apologizing for scaring her. "Sorry! Sorry, I—" but... he what? What would he say? He'd come to read her journal? Her most vulnerable and authentic thoughts? Finally, coming face to face with this poet he'd grown to know like the back of his own hand, the herbalist was struck with overwhelm to meet her, properly, and also to go running for the hills, because how entitled must he have been, to go waltzing up like it was written for his eyes alone to read? Reuven swallowed, and then suddenly he couldn't look at her any longer. His gaze panned off to the side, palm finding his neck. Gaze panned off at nothing, nowhere, anywhere but at her and that damn book.

    "Are you—uh—" he paused, cleared his throat. "Are you reading that? I was gonna..." but he trailed off. Should he even admit to his sins? Would she not be mortified? "Uh... You know what? Nevermind, I'm just gonna..." thumb pointed back, the way he came. "Sorry for bothering you. Um... Have a good night."

[ediesedgwicks]

“I wasn’t sure about the existence of a higher power, but I believed in floating, in clear blue above me and clear blue beneath me. I believed in the silence I could find only when I was lying, weightless, in salt water. In salt water, there is nothing looming over me but sky, nothing that might collapse.”

— Nadia Owusu, Aftershocks (via 89words)

[museinspo]

“It is hard to stop loving the ocean. Even after it has left you gasping, salty.”

— Sarah Kay, The Type  (via 89words)

[ofherbalisms]

open starter ! time + location: the hospital, 19:00

    𝑨 𝑻𝑨𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑬𝑫 𝑨𝑵𝑫 grey rag dipped into salted water, and then wiped gingerly at the small wound on the other's leg. Typically the herbalist would not have gotten involved in anything medical, but his herbal delivery to the staff had been slow to be accepted, and there were a few cuts and bruises hanging out, waiting to get treated. He certainly was no doctor, but herbal medicine had practically become his third career. If someone would have told him twenty years ago that he'd wind up growing rosemary for a living, he would have laughed at them. From behind his tactical military uniform, even the dead roaming the earth was more plausible than him becoming some full-time gardener. And, yet, here the man was, squatted down and dabbing some potent tincture of homegrown rosemary, oregano, and garlic onto their wound. It smelled more like a steak seasoning than medicine, but it would get the job done.

"You know, in my day, we got told to rub some dirt into cuts like these," he murmured playfully, though he did not crack much of a smile. Despite his intensity, he was quite gentle in his movements, and adjusted his pressure in harmony with their grimaces. "I know it stinks, but this'll help decolonize the bacteria. I don't know how to do stitches so... you'll just have to deal with it. Wash it every day, twice a day, preferably with saltwater if you can get your hands on it." He paused, wrapping a clean rag around their wound. "All jokes aside... keep dirt out of it. Maybe you'll live." Reuven's shoulder lifted in a shrug, and then he rose back to his full height with a grunt. "If it starts leaking green and, or, you start puking, you should probably come back. And, uh... Yeah. I think that's all." Another pause, as he wiped his hands. "How'd you get that anyway? Pretty nasty gash."    

[salvcticns]

her breath nearly gets stuck in her throat, almost forgetting to breath for a moment, when she hears his voice. the familiarity of it all makes her want to cry. it's a reminder of home, of the place she longs for but cannot go back to. how long has it been? she's lost count. only fragments of memories exist, but even then all her happy memories are tainted with the reminder of what was to come. she can't block it out even if she tried. it's like an ink blot, slowly spreading and seeping through the layers even though she tries to clean it up but all it does is make things worse and before she knows it, everything is stained. the closest she's had are the traces from when she's roaming the sanctuary, actively trying to avoid reuven, quickly darting the other way when she hears the familiar voice grow louder in her direction.

maybe part of it was her fault, being far too stubborn to admit defeat and breaking the ice first. bite marks are on her tongue and crescent moons imprinted on the inside of her palms from holding back from what she wanted to say every time she had the chance to make things right again. she was her mother's daughter after all, the first born daughter of all things. holding her tongue was one of the things she had perfected by now for she had been an expert at it from a young age.

she's grateful that one of them doesn't have her mother's ability to withhold the silent treatment for what seems like eternity. it's maybe not how she would have planned it (though anu's not sure what she expected, perhaps an apology, if she could ever form the words to speak them into existence), but it's a start. "you know you don't have to," she paused, "pass through, i mean. i can't stop you from staying. that is if you want to."

it feels like they're in an uncharted territory, neither of them knowing how to navigate this chapter of their relationship. being someone that anu once knew so intimately to virtually a stranger again. she couldn't just pretend there wasn't history there, that he was a stranger whose laugh she could recognise anywhere. "i'm fine, good actually" her answer is curt, tone unnaturally too upbeat even for anu like she's trying to convince herself that everything's fine. out of all the people she could fool though, reuven was not one of them and even before he could get a word in, she sighed, nervous laugher following shortly after.

"i don't know why i just lied. it's almost like a natural instinct. i guess i'm fine physically but i don't know. there's nothing wrong, not really, and god, i feel so stupid even complaining because i know things could be so much worse and they have been before. but i'm just so tired sometimes. i miss home, i miss being able to go outside for a run without looking over my shoulder every 30 seconds, i miss not flinching or getting ready to attack every time i hear a suspicious noise." she's not sure where it came from or what triggered it but once she's started she can't stop. it's word vomit and god, she feels so much better now that it's all out. "i'm an awful, selfish person, i know. there's real problems out there and i'm complaining like some spoilt brat. you can tell me the truth, it's nothing that i've not thought of before." she's grown thicker skin since last time, she thinks she's more prepared to hear the harsh truth than she was before. the years that she'd spent trying to survive by herself had shown her things that she had been shielded away from, things that she had lied to herself about. anu's seen the worst thing she could imagine, there's very little that can hurt her now.

[ofherbalisms]

    𝑺𝑶𝑴𝑬𝑾𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑬, 𝑯𝑰𝑮𝑯 𝑨𝑩𝑶𝑽𝑬 𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑴, and far into the thicket of forestry, there is an owl hooting at the moon. Perhaps for its lover, or to feel the breath in its lungs and the force of its voice, or perhaps the owl sings out of pure necessity: I am alive and therefore I must speak. Reuven gazes down at Anu softened down to his core for her, and he wonders if he were an owl, that perhaps this might be easier; simpler. Might he call out into the moonlight for her, lungs full of this winter wind. Might he call out for her to come back to him; to please come back, I miss you so much. The man was trying not to stare, at those chocolate doe-eyes, the perfect slope of her nose, the way her hair pillowed out over her shoulders. Features he once had been so enamored with he would take a moment to compose himself before glancing her way, even when he was just the guy who's kids she watched a for a few hundred dollars. Funny, how both she and money had disappeared, slowly and then all at once. Now, she felt like some dream, standing here in front of him. Some lost relic come back to fruition. They both had been disappearing at the end. He was certain of that now—the grief had been too insurmountable; the circumstances too tumultuous. Like trashing against your lifeguard against the water that threatens to consume you, Reuven had thrashed against Anu until she let him sink back into the ocean. He had had no one to blame but himself for it all, and yet, she tells him he can stay.

    It feels like an invitation, in her roundabout way. Or, perhaps, because he wants it to be an invitation. Either way, he does not move, and instead his heart begins to pound sickeningly against his sternum. His abdomen floods with feathery surprise. He thanks all the stars in the sky for his military training, because he calls on it now to not burst into nervous laughter and rosy cheeks himself. Inside, he feels so strange — like a youth again, learning that his crush wants to sit with him at the lunch table.

    Reuven does not care that Anu is rambling, because the sound of her voice in more than one, or two, or if he was lucky—three, syllables is like the most intoxicating of melodies. He could melt into her. He could listen to her complain all night. In fact, he wants to. He shakes his head in protest at her self depreciation, and murmurs, "No," in tone baritone and certain; quiet and gentle. "No, you're not spoiled for wanting to go home." He pauses, and gaze finds hers, and he hesitates before untethering from this horrid, wretched apprehension. "I miss laying on the couch and watching 24," he offers, and then remembers he should smile. Smiling has felt so foreign to him these past few years. He had gone almost a decade without doing so. Lips tug up and over a defined canine, in some sad but genuine half-grin. "I miss grading papers, and... getting bitched at by my Corporal. Hell, I even miss eating that really shitty hummus you and the kids made." It's a joke that falls from his lips with soft humor, and when his smile relaxes, it leaves the imprint of something happier in his dark and saddened eyes.

    He reaches out to trail a gentle touch around the silhouette of her shoulder, down to her elbow. Like offering fingertips to moistened nose, asking for permission to fall into her orbit; to encroach upon her personal space; to become her personal space, and drown her in his embrace if only to feel that she is alive, too. To know it for certain, that she has not been some hallucination all this time. "You're not awful," he murmurs, and when she does not back away, reaches out to tug her, gently, closer, into his arms, where he can properly hold her. The moment his arms secure around her, his chest floods with an involuntary sigh, as if finally feeling relief after ages of agony. His face falls into a nestle into her hair. His heart pounds in his abdomen now, and he murmurs into her dark mane. "I'm so sorry."

    It happens before he can even register that he's crying. Suddenly, he is sobbing—sobbing twelve-years' worth of pain and anger and yearning and regret, into her hair, holding her like he'll never let go again. "I'm so sorry," he says again, louder, more desperately. His voice breaks in its croak, but its stronger; purposeful. Reuven can't look at her yet. His tall form is all but consuming her—one arm secured about her shoulders; the other beckoning her in at the torso. He's terrified that when he pulls away, she will be rejecting. That she will finally confirm for him,. after all these years, just how much she truly does despise him. Can he face that now? Is he ready for that stone hard punch to the gut? It's going to kill him when he sees the disdain he expects on her features, as though he was not prepared. Had he not enough time to ready himself for this? Over a years' worth? Now, here it all was, coming to a pinnacle. The man waits for her to push back against him; to push him away, to go storming off and never speak to him again, because he knows that is what he deserves.

[ofherbalisms]

            𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒,

a 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒚𝒔𝒊𝒔 of 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒗𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔, articulated from the 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 prompt by mimble. the following character analysis is inspired by the melody of 25.22 by allan rayman, and contains explicit and potentially triggering content, such as: violence, gore, grief, homicide, child death, religious trauma and brief mentions of internalized religious homophobia. proceeding with caution is strongly advised.

𝐈. 𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐒 - 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐂, 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄.

Is your OC romantic in the traditional sense? Do they enjoy giving or receiving gifts of flowers or confectionary? Or are there other courtship traditions from their culture of origin that are important to them?

Reuven is extremely romantic in the traditional sense. Since he was raised in the 70s, his parents introduced the concept of courting and love with poise, modesty and intimacy. If he wanted to show someone he was interested in him, he was taught to be kind and generous and complimenting towards them. If he wanted to create a lasting love, he was taught to court another through romantic gestures like gift-giving and event planning. Presently, he still enjoys giving gifts of flowers, and likes to grow flowers to gift to the people he cares about.

Having been raised in a Jewish family, he was taught that dating was not a game and becoming romantically involved with someone was serious, for both himself, his partner, and their families. As a boy, he had not been allowed to entertain his natural inclinations towards romance, since he was not allowed to be alone in a private area with a girl he was interested in, and was taught that his attraction towards other boys was a sin, and therefore held these reservations until he joined the military. Once he was an adult and had free will, he decided to start pushing the boundaries of the rules he'd been taught about romance. One of the largest cultural traditions he did follow throughout his life (until the apocalypse began) was to fraternize only with other Jews. The first non-Jewish person he had ever become romantically emotionally intimate with had been his babysitter, of whom he'd gone on to throw caution to the wind and even cuddle up with during their joint survivalism.

How important is sex to them in a relationship? Do they see it as something essential to their happiness? Would they be able to remain in a monogamous relationship with someone they loved without sex?

Reuven finds his sexual needs to rank fairly high in importance to maintaining a relationship. One of the biggest catalysts to his marriage reaching near-divorce was that he and his wife had stopped being intimate, which made him feel emotionally distanced from her the longer they stayed physically distanced as well.

He does find it essential to his happiness while in a relationship, but not in general. Especially as he's gotten older, sex has become of less general importance to him than so many other things that he doesn't often feel aroused baselessly, and his sexuality has evolved to be closer to demi-sexual. He would not be able to remain in a monogamous relationship without having sex, even if he and his partner were cultivating love in other ways. The physical closeness and intimacy is extremely important to him.

How do they feel about public displays of romantic affection? Does it make them uncomfortable? How do they feel if a romantic partner kisses them in public?

When he was younger, he found public displays of affection to be highly uncomfortable. As time grew on, he became alright with holding hands, hugging, and kissing in public, so long as it was in a more private area of the public. For instance, he would not be comfortable being kissed on a bench in front of a busy park, but he would be comfortable being kissed behind a tree in that same park. Since he has gone without romantic touch in over a decade now, he is currently unsure of his feelings towards PDA and whether being kissed in public would still bother him or if it would bother him even more. Overall, he values the privacy of intimacy and doesn't think his intimacy with another person is necessary to show off.

Do they believe in love at first sight? Have they ever developed a crush or romantic (or erotic) fixation upon a stranger based on their appearance alone?

He does not believe in love at first sight. He does believe you can become infatuated at first sight, but that after awhile that infatuation dies down. He made the mistake of confusing infatuation with love with his ex-wife and they ultimately were nearing divorce before she passed away.

How closely is their opinion of their own beauty (or lack thereof) linked to their confidence? Do they see themselves as more or less worthy of love or sex based on how attractive they feel?

Reuven does not think of himself as being very attractive. As a young boy he was always very quiet and considered the "weird" kid, and then managed to rebrand himself once he reached high school, but he never attributed that to being particularly good looking. His confidence used to be much higher, in which he was pleased with his appearance, in his twenties and early thirties. He had come into the knowledge that others were attracted to him but didn't consider himself some above average looking guy. Once he reached his mid-thirties and left his full-time work in the military for the Reserves, both the quick change in his fitness level and his wife's degrading little comments about his diminishing looks served to slowly but surely chip away at his self esteem. Now, he does not feel very concerned with the way he looks, as in his appearance is not something at the forefront of his mind. However, when he does think about it or when he looks in the mirror, he only really sees his flaws, his greying hair and beard, scars and aging features. As such, he does not regard himself as someone in the compound that's particularly lusted after for looks.

𝐈𝐈. 𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀 - 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐄, 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐂 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄.

Does your OC have a Best Friend? If they do then how long have they known each other and how did they meet? If they don't then do they have a close group of friends they love equally? Or are they more of a loner?

He has been very careful to not develop extremely close friendships since the infection began, but even if he refuses to admit it to himself, he does have people he's highly attached to. He would not label them his best friends, but Jack and his former babysitter get pretty damn close. Otherwise, he is a loner through and through.

Does your OC find it easy to make friends? Or are there barriers to them doing so? If so then are these due to issues of inclination, communication, or something else entirely?

He finds it frustratingly difficult to make friends. Even when he'd managed to get in with the popular crowd in high school, he still found it challenging to make new friends and has relied on forced situations to bring him friendships throughout his whole life. Once he joined the Navy, all of his friends were sailors. Once he became a student, his friends were other students and professors. Once he became a professor, his friends were faculty and coworkers. Once the world ended, he forwent friends altogether and has never found a way to find good, solid friendships again. Because even if he is in a situation again where he has forced proximity with others, there is now something fundamentally broken within him that makes it difficult to get platonically close.

What qualities does your OC most value in a friend? Loyalty? Shared sense of humour? Or something else?

In friends, he values transparency and honesty. Throughout his life, he has relied on the friends he's made to keep him in check and tell him how it is. To him, a good friend is one that's not afraid to hold him accountable and push him to be a better person, as he will do for them.

Is your OC able to build close friendships with people very different from themselves? Perhaps in terms of culture, age or personality?

He finds it difficult to build close friendships with anyone, but generally is an equal opportunity buddy.

What is their most fervent wish for their best friend(s)? How far would they go to make it happen?

He wishes for their inner peace. He would be willing to kill for them if need be.

𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄 - 𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋, 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄.

Did your OC's parents love them unconditionally? If so then has this helped them feel confident as an adult? If not then how has this affected them? What were the conditions their family attached to their relationship?

Reuven's parents loved him in their own way, and in a way he did not understand. Deep down, they loved him unconditionally, but would treat him with such strictness that he believed their love was conditional. For instance, he was always to terrified to come out to them as having been interested in other guys, because he was certain they would have renounced him as their son. While they would have been furious and appalled and likely punished him, which was deeply unfair and emotionally abusive, they still loved him unconditionally enough that he could have killed someone and they would have stayed by him, albeit unhappily.

Because his parents were always so emotionally charged, yelling and arguing all the time, he believed they did not love him. From their point of view, they loved him more than he could have imagined. There was a lot of miscommunication and overall bad communication in his childhood, which resulted in a lot of scenarios that reflected this. Having internalized this dynamic, Reuven eventually reverted to a sort of "I don't need anyone but myself" mindset, and took their sudden disappearance as a sign that they never wanted him around in the first place, despite never finding out that they had left because they had to, not because they wanted to.

Does your OC have children? If so then how fiercely do they love them? If they have more than one then do they love them all equally? If they do not have children then is this part of their future plans?

Reuven had three children of whom he loved so fiercely he would and did kill for them. He loved all of his babies equally, and misses them all desperately today.

How far does parental approval (imagined or expressed) impact upon their current sense of self-worth? What might they sacrifice or attempt to achieve in order to ensure the approval of their parents?

This is not relevant to his characterization. He does not seek the approval of parental figures.

Does your OC have any siblings? If so then did their parents have a favourite growing up? Has their relationship with their sibling changed in adulthood? If they don't have any siblings then do they perhaps feel they have missed out on an important relationship? Do they have any especially close friends who go some way towards filling that role?

Reuven was an only child. He had many military buddies who became like brothers to him, so he felt that he had missed out on the opportunity as a child but ultimately had that feeling resolve in his twenties.

Is your OC able to love without necessarily needing or expecting reciprocation or reward? Or are all their relationships to some extent transactional? Have they ever loved another person unconditionally, whether a child or another adult?

He is able to love without transaction. He finds unrequited love to be of the highest agony, but is still capable nonetheless. He has loved his children unconditionally, and had love for their mother despite their incompatibilities, even when asking for a divorce because he knew that she did not love him any longer. He has also (unadmittedly) loved his former babysitter, in a strange sort of way.

𝐈𝐕. 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐏𝐄 - 𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒, 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐀𝐋 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄.

Does your OC wish to make the world a better place? How far do they see that as being their responsibility? What lengths would they go to in order to help achieve this?

He used to have the desire to make the world a better place when he was young and unaffected by the world's ugliness. Today, after having allowed that ugliness to nestle and fester inside of himself, and having allowed himself to become the evil that he swore to hate so much about the world, he'd consider himself a hypocrite to want to make the world a better place. No, instead he just wishes to try to make himself a better man than what he has been. He has accepted that the world is, has always been and always will, be a terrible place.

Does your OC feel a spiritual connection to the world around them? Do they have a particular love for nature or living things?

He does! He has an intensely spiritual relationship with his relativity to the world, though he is not religious. He has always had a deep affinity for nature. His spiritual beliefs align closer to Buddhism, Taoism, and Hinduism, but he no longer puts a label to his beliefs. His practice of his spirituality is in aligning his body with the world. Reuven likes to do this through swimming, especially, and it was through the commencement of his relationship with the ocean through the Navy that he realized his spiritual aspect of himself. It was also this spirituality that prompted him to study and then ultimately teach marine archaeology, because he finds it fascinating that centuries of life have existed before him and have left their imprint on the world as proof of their existence, and to experience that existence all he had to do was search for it in the sea.

To what extent does your OC believe in the value (or even existence) of true altruism? Do they see an unselfish concern for the welfare of others as being naïve or foolish? Or as a moral quality to which people should aspire?

He would like to believe in true altruism, but ultimately believes that humans are animals as much as every other creature on this planet, and that true altruism does not exist. He believes that if it did, there would be no infected running around killing babies. And that there would be no survivors stealing from and looting other survivors. In his opinion, it is immature to be wholly selfless, because one needs to be selfish to protect themselves.

Does your OC have a religious faith which emphasises the importance of a love for all people? If so then do they try to follow these teachings authentically? Or do they just pay lip-service to them? If not then do they follow a more martial or mercantile faith? Or none at all?

Growing up, he practiced Judaism which emphasizes the importance of love for all people. He stopped believing in theistic religion as a boy but continued to approach life with the core lessons learned from the religion. Some of the life choices he made impeded this however, such as going into infantry in the Navy, becoming a Navy SEAL, and ultimately murdering others in cold blood after the apocalypse began. He presently tries to approach everyone with the lesson of love thy neighbor where possible and reasonable.

Does your OC find it easy to empathise with their enemies? Or do they see it as important to dehumanise them in order to combat them with sufficient determination?

He finds it important and necessary even to dehumanize an enemy in order to commit atrocities against them. For instance, while surviving on his own in the wild, several years into the apocalypse, he reached a point where anyone and everyone had the opportunity to become his enemy simply by their demise being worth it to him. He held a reputation for eviscerating people and then hanging their intestines, sometimes along with the rest of their bodies, sometimes even still alive, on the branches of trees in a strategic fashion to keep the infected occupied and therefore, keep him safe. He would not target innocent people, but there were very minor offenses against him that might wind someone up as dangling meat on a stick, so to speak. In order to do this, Reuven had to convince himself to hate that person for being such a monster that they would try to steal from him, or hurt him. In the same moment, he would give himself the humanity that he'd revoked from his enemies, as a way to justify what he was doing.

When fighting with someone who was hellbent on killing him, then the dehumanization was not needed.

Now, of course, he is horrified with himself for all of this.

𝐕. 𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐔𝐒 - 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐅𝐔𝐋, 𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄.

Does your OC have any particular favourite chat up lines? If not for themselves then perhaps ones they have suggested to a friend? How effective do these tend to be?

Reuven is a very intense, serious man, and as such is terrible at flirting. He has no pickup lines, and his way of verbally showing interest is usually very mild and comes in the form of compliments and offers to help with things.

Is your OC particularly skilled at flirting? Have they had to practice this or does it just happen naturally?

He is not skilled at flirting and never has been. He's always been sort of awkward but as a teenager, that ironically became the thing that drew girls to him. He is still very awkward when he has a crush on someone, and can't flirt to save his life.

How does your OC feel about one night stands? Have they ever enjoyed a night of passionate romance with a stranger? Is this something they are quite keen on recreationally? Or only something they might engage in under specific circumstances (such as the eve of a battle or after a difficult breakup)?

In his twenties, he was interested by them, and engaged in a few. Once he married Avigal, they were of course completely off the table. Currently, he would be willing to have one in the heat of the moment with someone he is highly compatible with.

Who was your OC's first crush? How do they feel about it now?

His first crush was another boy in grade school named Boaz. They both liked the same book and then got paired up for a project and Reuven had told Boaz he liked his eyes. Ultimately Boaz's family wound up moving away and it was Reuven's first heartbreak. His parents were under the assumption that Boaz was just his best friend. Reuven does not remember this memory anymore.

What seduction techniques are most likely to be effective when it comes to your OC? Are there some things guaranteed to get them going? Or are they immune to such things?

Reuven is a very slow-burn man. He needs time to warm up to someone to even begin to want them physically with any seriousness. Typically things such as giving him permission to touch them, asking him to do so (such as, "Kiss me."), or generally revealing their sexual interest in him first will prompt him to stop fighting his own, and give in to the tension. He finds eye contact very seductive, and the small but telling gestures will seduce him significantly more than being forthcoming will. In fact, when someone is too forthcoming, he finds it to be a turn off.

𝐕𝐈. 𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐌𝐀 - 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐃, 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄.

Is your OC in a committed long-term relationship (or relationships)? If so then what has contributed to this relationship lasting so well? If they are not in such a relationship, then is this something that saddens them or which they regret?

Reuven is currently single and not in a committed long term relationship, however about a year prior to the beginning of the apocalypse, he became a widower. He and his ex-wife had been together for the better part of nearly two decades and their marriage was beginning to fail, despite his efforts to keep it alive. He believes the marriage lasted as long as it did out of obligation. He and his wife were not very compatible, especially as they grew, and eventually wanted different things from life. He is unsure if he is capable of being in another long term committed relationship. His attachment style is a mix of dismissive and fearful avoidance.

What is the biggest challenge that your OC has had to overcome in a long-term relationship or friendship? What helped them get through this?

The biggest challenge was being cheated on relentlessly. A few years prior to becoming a widower, his wife began to cheat on him. Initially it was devastating and he argued with her a lot, until he grew a resentment towards her and then ultimately an acceptance that their life together was over, because he values himself too much to allow her to cheat on him. He first attempted to figure out what it was that he was doing or not doing that drove her into the bed of another man. Then he accepted that her cheating was not his fault, and that he had the right for her to respond to his efforts with love, communication and empathy and she was not doing so.

Are your OC's parents still together? To what degree do they look to their own parents as a model for their own ideal relationship?

He has not been in contact with his parents since he was a teenager and does not know where they are. He presumes they are dead. His parents were the exact opposite of what he wanted his own relationship to be like, but what his own relationship ultimately became.

After the initial fires of passion cool to some degree, what would keep your OC engaged in a relationship? Shared goals? Similar values? Or contented companionship?

Emotional maturity and compatibility in communication, values and priorities is the foundation of a long-lasting relationship for him.

What importance or value does your OC attach to marriage? Do they believe that it is important to make a public statement of commitment to another person (or persons)? Or are they more concerned about inheritance rights and security for their family? Or do they not see marriage as a necessary signifier of commitment and loyalty?

Marriage was more of a life obligation to him than anything. After getting married, he realized it was not all it was cracked up to be, and that he would be perfectly fine not getting married to someone that he adored. Still, he is a romantic at heart, so the ceremony holds sentimental value for him. He hopes that if he ever marries again, the ceremony will be for their own intimacy and memories and not some show for everyone else, like his first ceremony was.

𝐕𝐈𝐈. 𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐀 - 𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄.

Does your OC have a healthy sense of their own worth and value? Or do they see themselves as failing to live up to their original potential? Perhaps they are convinced of their own sinful or inadequate nature?

In some ways, yes. Reuven knows exactly what treatment he does and does not deserve from others. He will not allow others to mistreat him, however in the past ten years his concept of himself has become significantly more ashamed and negative. He believes he is some sort of monster deep down, and that no matter how much gentleness he cultivates, there will always be that part of him that he discovered during his lone survivalism, that scares even himself. He can't believe that he is capable of being someone so horrid, and holds the guilt of it all very near to his heart. He cannot find a way to forgive himself for the violence and murder.

Does your OC believe that it is important to love themselves in the first instance? Perhaps in order to be able to give and receive love authentically? Or because they believe first and foremost in "looking after number one"?

He knows that it is important to love himself in theory, but does not do it in practice. He will encourage others to love and forgive themselves, but he does not do it for himself.

Does your OC judge themselves by the same standards as they apply to others? Or are they sometimes hypocritical in condemning others for faults they also possess? Or perhaps they find it easier to forgive others for things that they cannot abide in themselves?

He is a very fair man and holds himself to the same standards as he holds others. Though he does not openly invite being called out, he's highly receptive to it when he is told he's not meeting the same standard he's placing on everyone else. His forgiveness of others' shortfalls is highly dependent on the seriousness of the situation.

Which of your OC's qualities makes them the most proud? Do they think more people should be like them in this regard? Or do they quite like being rare in possessing it?

He is proud of his resilience and perseverance. He has always been the type of person that doesn't back down no matter what, and will step up to the plate to go head first into danger. Even further, though, his perseverant nature allows him to experience intense amounts of pain and anguish and other hindering emotions, without being stopped by them.

Has your OC always had the same opinion of themselves or has this changed over time? Have they learned to love themselves - perhaps with the help of others - as their journey progressed? Or have the consequences of their actions only served to erode their sense of self-worth?

His opinion of himself has evolved significantly over his lifetime. As a boy, he had a very low sense of self worth, that then 180'd in his 20s. He held a high amount of dignity and self respect until he began to feel ashamed of his actions in the military, and ultimately now he only respects himself as having the right to be respected as another human being. Otherwise, he does not hold himself in high regards, as he believes himself to be an awful person, who has only just finally started admitting that to themselves.

              𝑭𝑰𝑵.

[kwistowee]

#thicc Beardthal Bash 2023 THE PUNISHER | 1.01

[th-vanity]

"I feel like everyone is being too dramatic about it. Like, it's not like I don't know that it's an important job." Vanity wasn't sure why she cared so much about it, either. So what if she wasn't in charge of the armory? She had never been the hard-working type. Perhaps having turnt thirty only a couple weeks ago made her reflect on 'having a purpose', and all that philosophical bullshit. "And the missing ammo incident, no one was ever able to trace that back to me, so I don't get why people keep blaming me for that one."

She turnt towards the other person, trying to figure out if what she was on the wrong. "I'm asking you honestly: Don't you think I would be capable enough to do it?"

[ofherbalisms]

     𝑪𝑳𝑶𝑻𝑯 𝑴𝑬𝑻 𝑷𝑶𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑯, polish met metal, and Reuven listened quietly to Vanity's vent. The man stood at a small work bench a few feet away, finally smoothing some affection into his carbine after tinkering with it for an hour. Having been in the Navy, and then growing a lifeline attachment to this hunk of metal after the end of the world, Reuven was highly particular about who he allowed to even touch his gun. He, of course, thought the woman was capable and well-studied and deserved the opportunity, but perhaps he was not the best person to ask for this very reason. Too quickly did his internal debate return to his own love affair with his M4A1. Would he have allowed her to tinker with it as he had just done? There was a moment of silence between her question and Reuven's answer, as he ruminated over that silent question posed to himself.

     The answer was no. But why? "Vanity," he sighed, as if about to go on some fatherly spiel about being disappointed by life and how sometimes missing an opportunity was important to opening up another. But he saved her the belittling. Palm met coarse, dark beard and smoothed it down in thought, before he spoke very carefully, so not to hurt her feelings. "I think you would be perfect for the position. I just think that... maybe you should get a little more experience beforehand. There's a lot of troubleshooting to be done with obscure firearms, that you might not learn about until you get some more dirt on your hands." Did that come out gentle? His dark gaze searched her face, lips pursing slightly, as he awaited her reaction. Then, he quickly followed: "But—that's just my opinion. I mean, I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong and you're ready now." A pause. "Why do you want to be gunsmith? What about it speaks to you more than the armory?" he questioned; perhaps a skillful deflection, as he dragged fingers through his hair in self-soothing, and then dabbed cloth into polish again.

[wiresandwiresandwires-deactivat]

The quiet of the dining hall made the scratch of each paper deafening, the sound echoing off of every table and chair. The emptiness of the hall would be eerie if the radio operator wasn’t so focused — or if he had been a person who was able to read the room. Jun sat in his cozy corner, just about through with this set of notes. He skimmed through them without much thought. Server duty had always made him feel lazy (the cause of which his friends had not-so-passively suggested was due to all of the snacks he indulged on). Sure, his shift had been over for almost an hour now, but he had long ago deemed his dorm too far for him to make the effort. Jun stretched, leaning back and almost knocking an elbow into the late night patron. The forgotten papers scattered across the floor when he recoiled in surprise and balled his hands into fists. “What the — !” A litany of swears died out when he realized the other wasn’t a specter. “Don’t sneak up on people like that.”

[ofherbalisms]

     𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑹𝑰𝑪𝑲𝑬𝑻𝑺 𝑯𝑨𝑫 long since started their nightly chorus, and brought the reign of nightfall in like drums to king. As winter had begun to hail over the continental US, the nights began to get more frigid. More unrelenting. More brutal.

     Reuven no longer buzzed in both body and mind for a danger that was not coming, but he did develop a new sort of anxiety around sleeping. In the winter the nightmares of distorted past realities seemed more vicious. Even if the cold reminded him of still Washington nights as a boy, huddled under the toastiness of a worn-and-true blanket passed down through Aronov generations, it didn't take long for his subconscious to ruin the relaxing lull it brought. He'd wake up in a trembling, confused sweat, even if he'd gone to sleep in boxers and had forgone the blanket. He'd wake up searching for his baby boy, gutturally and frantically croaking his son's name, until awareness came flooding back in with the memory that Ezra was dead, and so were his sisters, and so was his mother. And then Reuven would sit there, in that Winter's hymn, and hear the silence and feel the cold on his sleep-warmed skin, and decide that he did not need sleep after all. Getting up and roaming the campus was a much more tolerable alternative.

     That was how he found himself in the dining hall. Some lifetime ago, a decade's worth of grueling military training had refined his footsteps into near-silence. Today, he found himself apologizing for his sudden apparition more often than not. One moment there was nothing, and the next there would be this hulking figure that more often than not emanated intimidation and danger. He'd grown the appearance of a killer, because he had had to kill, and had had to do so ruthlessly and without hesitation. Reuven still carried that foreboding intensity in his mannerisms, though he was not really dangerous. At least not anymore... he hoped.

     The herbalist stared down at the radio operator for a moment, dark eyes uncommunicative of the awkwardness he felt. He stood there, feeling a bit out of place and unsure of what to say, before sliding into the chair opposite of Jun and setting his cup of tea down.

     He took a sip, cleared his throat, and then—as if to atone for scaring the other: "Do you want some help?" he gestured at the paperwork, not really sure what it was but definitely certain he'd figure it out should the offer be cashed in.