You're going to get a billion of these, I bet, but James Flint! You write him with such a careful hand but every shade of his character is just perfect, so I'm curious what you keep in mind when getting him down on paper!
OH BOY thank you so much! i don’t even know if i’m doing this meme right. i knew this was coming and @reluming also asked for this and now i feel unbelievable pressure hahaha. i hope i’m doing my boy right :|
– He had a very mild religious upbringing. They celebrated holidays just to appease the neighbors, rarely went to church, and he had only read parts of the Bible, mostly in later life. Flint is self-aware enough that, given his history and his personality, this is probably for the best. The last thing he needs is Eternal Judgement.
– As a boy, he’d been helping his grandfather load his fishing boat when a Navy vessel had stopped at the Padstow docks for an emergency resupply. An officer had approached Flint, all of 13, to ask for directions, and had walked away, likely thinking Flint a simpleton with the way he’d answered (or more specifically, hadn’t). He couldn’t help it. The man had large, bright brown eyes and a straight, important nose, and stubble coating a sharp jaw and prominent Adam’s apple. His perfect Navy hat had sat atop long blond hair, tied neatly back even after days at sea. His broad shoulders had only been emphasized by his starched blue uniform, the brass buttons shining all the way down his chest, and he’d walked down the dock with a proud sailor swagger that kept Flint watching even as he disappeared into the town. Flint’s newfound teenage lust had mixed with his understandable ignorance, and so, as he’d continued to think of the officer days later, he had found himself overcome with the fierce desire to join His Majesty’s Royal Navy.
– The first time he’d killed a man, he’d only lit a fuse on a cannon, sending one ball after another rocking into an enemy ship. All he’d felt at the time was fear for his own life. The first kill that he’d ever felt guilty over was Gates. The first kill he’d ever felt real pleasure over was Thomas’s father. Every other death and injury had been just another means to an end, that rarely, if ever, gave him pause.
– A part of him is always waiting to die. It’s a part of him that wants to. But an equally greater part of himself wants to outlive the whole damn world, to be the last one left alive in this fucking ungrateful place. He wants to live a long and miserable life just because civilization itself doesn’t deem him worthy of it. Society sees him as a creature, undeserving to breath air, to taste food, to walk upright on his own two feet. To them, he will and should be put down by his own evilness, by his own deeds, and he wants nothing more to prove to them that one can live because of these deeds. One can thrive. He knows one of these impulses will win out in the end, but he honestly has no idea which one.
– The first time he’d seen Silver – properly saw him, stood before him in daylight – the thought had flittered through his mind that his mouth would look great around his cock. The thought had flashed through his mind like lightning, so quickly he wasn’t even sure it had happened, and mostly he was about to forget about it. As long as he could drown out the roll of thunder he heard in his heart and his stomach and lower still, whenever he looked at Silver’s lips.
– He sometimes idly thinks how much better his life would be if he could love women the way he loved men. Not because he felt shame any longer in who he was, but because every woman he knew was so much better than every man. Better than himself. Granted, he knew more men than women, but on average, men were violent, hateful, stupid people, responsible for all the suffering he had ever endured. Miranda, Eleanor, Madi – all had carried themselves with unwavering strength and intelligence, had elevated themselves in some fashion by will alone, and had maintained as much rationality as possible. He envied them, and he had loved them easily. While the love he felt for Thomas, for Silver, was hard, in every sense of the word, and Flint is a hard man, for all of his immeasurable softness.