BEA.
10+ Years Experience.
Chem Multiship, Bi. ( Heavy female lean.)
Serious + Crack.
TL + DM roleplay.
Selective.
New to verse + character.
If any NSFW RP occurs, I will do it in DMs ONLY.
(Sometimes I might have cracky dick joke banter RPs on the TL, though.)
I'm a busy college student, so please don't pressure me for replies! I will get to it when I have free time. Sometimes, it's just easier for me to banter than to do full blown RPs.
DMs are always open, so feel free to send me one if you have any questions!
Name: Bea
Age: 18
Gender: Female ( She / Her )
Personality:
A life of tough training has made her an expert in martial arts and fighting Pokemon, though she struggles to find happiness and truly enjoy herself.
Bea is kind inside, with a love of sweets and cute things. Her rigorous training and need to seem stoic make her want to hide her "vices," though her fans feel like it just makes her all the more endearing.
She's a tough nut to crack, but her true smile shines brilliantly... Definitely not something people forget often.
My Bea is based on a LOT of headcanons. It's EXTREMELY recommended to read my headcanons page if you plan to interact seriously with her!
Here are my Bea headcanons. These hold a lot of weight in her serious interactions, and are a recommended read.
( Fair warning, there are mentions of child neglect within my headcanons. )
---
Bea's parents are world famous martial artists, and were prodigies in their youths. They are serious people, show little emotion, and think that emotion is a weakness that hinders progress.
Of course, when Bea was born, they knew that she would 100% follow in their footsteps.
From the moment she could, Bea's parents trained her, both physically and mentally.
They pushed her to her limit. It was a lot, especially for someone so young as her. She would run until she would pass out even at the age of six. She would punch training dummies until her knuckles bled. Her parents still pushed her, not realizing that how they treated their daughter was stunting her emotionally.
Everything was training.
Training was everything.
They not only trained her, but they also trained her to be a fantastic Pokemon trainer. Her Pokemon are her best friends, were her only friends during this time in her life. They saw how her parents pushed her, how it weighed on her. They were there when she was 10, breaking down crying after practice, after her parents turned around.
She became a Gym Leader at the age of 14. Young, but not the youngest to ever hold a seat.
Now, along with school and training, she was expected to be a Gym Leader. It was a lot. It was almost too much to get accustomed to. But she powered through it.
She turned 18. She moved out of her parents' place, and into her own apartment. She goes to college. Her major is undecided. Her parents still hold so much power over her, that she doesn't even know what she's majoring in. She takes classes that they choose, without knowing why.
She longs to be a normal person.
Someone who laughs, and cries without fear.
But it's hard, when it's ingrained in you to never show these things, to never show weakness.
She has her own little happy moments.
A nice meal, a hug from a friend, but her smile feels fake. Even her genuinely happy one, it still feels unnatural to move her face.
She wants it to feel natural.
She wants to make friends, to help her know what it's like to smile without repercussions.
She's learning, and that's all she can really do in this situation.
---
( You can also read my drabbles down below, which give more of a fiction-based idea of how her past is! )
hi, i'm maddy!
i'm EXTREMELY chill. don't worry about bothering me all too much.
i'm 21, use they/them pronouns, and i'm a lesbian!
flygon is my favorite pokemon.
my other accounts in order of activity are:
hyssopearl (pearl, steven universe)lmverybad (susie, deltarune)pocketsparkle (glimmer, she-ra and the princesses of power)
The First Laps.
When Bea was younger, her parents knew she had potential.
They were prodigies themselves, of course. So she definitely had what they had. She had to.
If she didn’t, they would push her until she did.
One of Bea’s most memorable childhood events happened when she was six. Her parents had placed her at the starting point of a track, wearing a plain jumpsuit and beat-up sneakers. The ones she always used. They were worn, but that meant she didn’t get blisters from them anymore.
“Run as long as you possibly can,” her dad said.
“Push yourself to your limits. If you feel like you have to stop, don’t stop,” her mum said.
They retreated to the side of the track.
One, twice, she kicked the dirt, mentally getting ready.
She stretches, rolls her neck, does whatever she can to get herself amped up.
A jump, a tiny one, and then…
She’s off.
She can feel the dirt kicking up behind her as she runs down the track.
She does a lap. Her muscles strain with the effort, and she can feel the burning even before she’s out of breath.
A second lap. She can hear her heart thudding in her ears, her brain felt like it’s about to explode.
A third. She stumbles.
She almost skids to a stop, almost falls to her knees, but she looks up. Her parents are there, across the track, watching her, watching her with those eyes. They aren’t looking away from her. She can feel them looking at her like they’re looking at her body, her brain, her heart.
She hates it.
She feels sick.
She grits her teeth, hitting the pavement hard with her foot, and she keeps running.
She does so many more laps, she loses count. Her body is screaming, her brain is screaming, and she feels like screaming, but she knows if she opened her mouth nothing would come out but a parched gargle.
All of the water in her body is pouring out of her in sweat.
Tears.
She stumbles again.
She trips, her body crashing to the dirt, her face slamming into the ground.
She can’t move.
She’s stopped.
Tears stream down her face, and she quickly covers her face and wipes them away.
She feels like wailing, like sobbing, like crying out in pain. From her body and her heart.
She curls, there, on the dirt, her knees to her chest.
She can hear her parents jogging to her from across the field.
She sniffles, blinks a couple times.
“Bea? Are you alright?” Her parents ask, leaning over her.
She slowly sits up, her face blank, expressionless.
She blearily looks up at her dad, her mum.
“I’m fine,” she croaks.
A Formal Party.
The Leaders host many things throughout the year: parades, full scale parties, things like that. It’s simply how things are done. They’re celebrities, powerful figures, people that other people look up to.
Most of the parties now are small and informal, just the Leaders (who can make it) gather and eat food, play games, relax. They’re coworkers, but they’re also friends. Some consider each other family. It wasn’t always that way.
The parties had started out as a formality.
The first year Bea had become a Leader, she had been incredibly nervous about it. Her mother had combed her hair, put her in a nice dress-- a dress!-- and watched fondly as her only daughter left. Bea, at this point in time, is only 14. She doesn’t feel like she has any power. She doesn’t deserve a pedestal. She’s simply a girl who tries too hard.
Bea is a wreck the entire time, but her face doesn’t show it. It’s in her eyes if you look too closely, but she isn’t looking at anyone. She’s looking at the floor, her feet squished into dress shoes, her legs sticking out awkwardly from a nice pleated dress. Her hands are clutching the hem of her dress, trying not to shake.
It’s Opal who grabs them.
“Bea, dear,” she says, her voice as crinkly as her face. Bea glances up under her bangs, looking up at the older woman. Opal had apparently been a great beauty in her younger age, but now she was as wrinkled as the dress Bea had been grasping. Bea thought she was beautiful, at least, even through her wrinkles.
Bea doesn’t answer. Her words are in her throat and she can’t speak. She’s scared.
Opal doesn't press the point. She's looking down at Bea’s hands. Opal’s fingers are wrinkly but soft, and her thumbs circle over the palms of her hands, feeling for calluses. She turns them over. Her knuckles were scabby and gross, the evidence of her training.
(She remembers that night. She had punched her dummy until her knuckles bled, tears in her eyes as she held back screams of despair.)
Opal’s soft thumbs rub over Bea’s scabbed, scarred hands. The older Leader sighs.
“You shouldn’t push yourself too hard,” she whispers. “You’re only a child. You have so much to live for. A life to lead.”
Bea watches Opal rub her destroyed hands, surprised when her vision gets watery. Beads of tears drip over her lashes, dripping down her cheeks, but she makes no sound. She isn’t sobbing, or even sniffling.
“There, there,” Opal says in a hushed tone, wrapping a bony arm around Bea’s back and pulling her in for a hug. Bea hasn’t hugged anyone in a long time. Her arms shake as they wrap around Opal, grasping at her dress like a terrified child. Maybe she was.
They stand there for a few moments, Opal rubbing her back with the palm of her hand. Bea can hear the party in the other room, other people laughing boisterously. Some of them were only a year or two older than her.
Opal pulls back, her hands wrapping around Bea’s shoulders with a warmth Bea hadn't felt before.
“Let’s get back to the party, okay?”
Calloused But Raw.
Bea’s fingers ache.
She sits in class, watching her professor lecture on economics. Her classmates around her write diligently, taking notes for their exam in not but a week’s time.
Bea stares down at her paper, empty, blank, and wonders why she hasn’t written anything, yet.
Truly, she feels like she should be writing, taking notes. She knows she should. She lifts her pencil up in between her fingers, but it stings. It feels like paper cuts, like fire, like a thumping of veins she’s acutely aware of.
The pencil clatters onto her desk.
Her classmate to the right of her looks at her, but then, they look away.
Bea isn’t looking up. She stares down at the pencil, it’s lead broken, and she places her hands palm down onto her notebook.
They’re calloused, yes, but still very raw. They’re torn and red and, at one time, bloody. She didn’t have time to wrap them in gauze this morning. She woke up late.
She had gone to sleep far too late. She had stayed awake, working feverishly on homework, because she hadn’t gotten back to her apartment until midnight because of classes and training and working at the Gym.
She was tired.
Her eyes are bleary, and she knows that if she were any more exhausted, they would be dry. They’re not. She can feel tears welling up in them, staring down at the scabs on her knuckles.
Why couldn’t she just pick up a pencil?
Was everything so difficult that
she couldn’t even do that, now?
How useless can she be?
How much more of a
disappointment could she be?
She stands up.
She hurriedly packs her notebook into her backpack, her pencil into her pocket, and she exits the classroom as fast and politely as she possibly can.
No one bats an eye.