#and the least fleshed out internal life if that makes sense like what is going on in his head i have no idea!

[thefabelmans2022]

the stranger things writers hinting at very interesting elements of dustin's life and background and psyche (like the fact that he's not originally from hawkins and he was the last member of the party to join the group (before el and max) and he has no father and a slightly codependent and dysfunctional relationship with his mother and he has low self-esteem that eventually somehow morphs into other people perceiving him as having an inflated ego) and then just. refusing to elaborate.

[hellsgreatestbrainrot]

Cannibal!Vees (x Reader)

Big thanks to @valentinoappreciator for her Cannibal!Val work, Una Hermosa Noche, and gave life to the Cannibal!Val HCs here. Her fic literally got me thinking, "What if the Vees were Cannibals too?"

Trigger warnings: Cannibalism, Vees being freaks, at the end implied Cannibal!Reader too, talks about blood and flesh.

‌I personally think that out of the three of them, the one who kinda "starts" it all is Valentino. ‌

He's the type of demon that's cannibalistic for a few possible reasons: his want for someone, sense of possession, and sadism

Because, really, what better way for someone to stay with him forever than to take a bite out of them? To have them in you in ways that no one else can ever have them.

And truly, carving into flesh and branding them with his teeth and claws? It feeds so much into his possessiveness. ‌To see those marks last longer due to how severe it is? Priceless.

For the sinner to remember how he made them feel during that moment? The fear? The pain and suffering? He can moan about it.

Valentino's a wild card, and a freak. Remember how he threatened someone with a do mey show? I wouldn't put it past him to have the other V's "try" it, maybe even encourage it.‌

Velvette? She's eating her models. Specifically, she's eating past models and workers, those that have failed her and those that didn't meet the cutthroat standards she sets. ‌

Think about how she discovered this side of her during the worst fit she ever had in all her hellish life. Everything's wrong and fucked. Everyone's getting on her fucking nerves. ‌

She hurts anyone that gets in her way. Unfortunately that's how that new intern of hers, the one that can't tell her shades of red from one another, met her fate that day.‌

Imagine Velvette just staring at her blood-soaked hands and being curious? The shade of red is so, so pretty. Finally, her stupid fucking intern did something right! ‌

Surely nothing would happen if she did a little taste? No one would have to know.

‌Velvette's killing and eating the prettier models she has too, after she used them for her runway or whatever.

‌They're competition - they're too pretty, they have to go. ‌If she ate them then she can be the the prettiest one in the room, she makes sure of it.

‌Last but certainly not the least, our dear Vox, a few reasons that I see for him to be a cannibal is for power, control, and dominance.

‌The talk about him being a cannibal becomes a rumor, and he absolutely thrives in the mystery it gives him. It gives another reason for people to fear him.

‌Vox uses it as a weapon too, as a threat even. Because who the fuck's gonna mess with him now? Not only is he an Overlord, a powerful one too, and a tech demon that controls social media, he also kills and eats demons too.

‌He utilizes his cannibalism to gain power through fear. No one truly knows if it's true or not, but who's insane enough to test it? He makes sure that there's doubt to it, even when it's true. It leaves everyone wary of him.

‌And with that, he controls others and establishes dominance via killing competition and taking over whatever space they left. The more he takes out, the more space there is for him to grow.

‌Hypnotizing victims? Abso-fucking-lutely. He also makes damn sure there's no witnesses to his crimes. If there was, well, was it really that what they saw?

‌Who knows? Maybe that's even something that Vox bonded with Alastor back then? Cannibal Buddies before the Thing happened.

And with that, I present you a little blurb:

Imagine being the 4th Vee. They like you! They think you're fun to be around with, and they like hanging out with you! That's an achievement in it's own right!

But what you don't know is how much they struggle from taking a bite out of you. They smell you, you know? They just know that you'll taste divine.

You fuck them so well too, how can they not like you? So they resist the urge. But they fantasize about it.

Fantasize about the way you ask them to bite you while fuck them. Think about you forcing their mouths to your shoulder, and bite.

They often wonder how you'll feel when they accidentally bite you? Would you get mad? Would you punish them? Please say you'll do.

They want you to want it. They want you to be the first to ask. They can see it too. They can sense it. Maybe, you're just like them too.

Please say you are. They'll offer themselves too. Let either of them be your first. Let them be the first to taste you. Let them be your first taste of blood.

Let them be one with you.

----------

If you want more of Cannibal!Vees x Reader thing, feel free to send an ask, yeah?

Next post: Overlord!Reader x Sinner!Vees

Thank you for reading!

[nho-jungle]

giving gillion a tail: bug's thoughts on triton anatomy

yeah im writing a full thing about this okay let me autism lazerbeam in peace.

so the thing with triton anatomy is that one would assume theyre just human anatomy with some extra bits like gills n stuff. and tails, but we'll go into that in a moment. the problem with this is bone structure. not all fish have bones. sharks don't have bones. instead the support structure of their bodies is made of cartilage. which isnt too different, considering parts of human anatomy are made up of cartilage, but it poses some interesting questions. im no scientist, but i am autistic as hell. so im going to pose a couple of options that are fun to rotate.

the most common depiction of tailed tritons (which i myself have drawn) is some variety of fish or shark. this is aesthetically fun bc of the variety within fish and sharks, in terms of colour and shape, that allows you to get funky with it. anatomically speaking, this would probably be achieved via the tailbone being there, like a monkey, but with the muscle and flesh around it being shark or fish-like. this would all lend to a tail that moves side to side, which would lead to an interesting swimming style that probably wouldnt involve much movement of the legs.

the second thought i had for tailed tritons was seals. seals have very short tails, but as mammals they have the same bone structure as humans. due to this, my initial thought was a second set of hips, so the triton bone structure would look like it had four legs, but the second set of legs would be the tail formation. this would lend itself to a tail that moves up and down, which could probably be utilised in tandem with the legs to create a very efficient swimming style.

however, neither of these ideas take into account one very important thing about tritons:

they're amphibious.

oh but bug, they can have human lungs and fish gills with nothing to do with the tail- silence voice i made up purely to disagree! we are not here to do arts and crafts! we are not gluing random creature aspects together with whimsy and magic! this is real science!

so amphibians. frogs and newts and salamanders and the like.

the amphibian life cycle, in most cases, involves eggs being laid in water and larvae being adapted to an aquatic lifestyle. frogs, toads, and salamanders all hatch with external gills, and develops lungs to breathe air as they grow up. amphibians are very adaptable to their environment, and there are many possible variations among individual species purely caused by outside influence and the area they grow up in.

but what does this have to do with tritons and their tails?

tadpoles

unlike most amphibians, frog tadpoles dont look like the adults. frog tadpoles start out fully aquatic, with external gills. as they grow and develop, they get gill pouches to make their gills internal. they have cartilaginous skeletons (which later develop into bone), lateral line systems (found in fish, used to detect movement, vibration, and pressure under water), and large tails. their lungs develop early. their front legs develop first, and then their back legs soon after.

(oh what about axolotls- axolotls dont have lungs. they are functionally the same as salamander larvae but they never get past that developmental stage. theyre amphibians that arent amphibious.)

im running out of steam for this post but basically what im trying to say is that triton are froglets. this would also make sense for the fact that triton have webbed hands and feet. frogs do too so it would be implemented into the swimming style. bone structure is a whole nother things, especially since both 'mordenkainen presents: monsters of the multiverse' and 'volos guide to monsters' are cowards whos triton designs are just blue people. but working from 'mythic odysseys of theros' designs, who have at least a little bit of flare, i think it's safe to assume that their bones are a little funky. some fun mix of bone and cartilage to have those interesting shapes.

all that being said, i am a big supporter of doing whatever you want forever. i am also just a massive nerd and like to think way too hard about these things.

(shoutout to my dad for assistance with bouncing ideas around, and for being the one to suggest the tadpole thing.)

[blood-grove]

unnatural bleeding

merfolk au!

previous <- part 4 -> next

parings: gaz x reader

chars: gaz, price , soap , ghost

tws: blood, injuries, violence, past abuse, language, slow burn, rude reader.

a/n: THERE MEETING THERE MEETING :3

tags; @chickennn-soupp @cassiecasluciluce @sans-chara @lethargicluv 

Waking up again you were once again heavily confused shivering as you took a breath inhaling that familiar chemical scent.

Chemicals.

Chemicals?

It wasn't as strong as you remembered it the more you woke and regained feeling in your body you saw a fucking pool.

You were just nearby laying on a plastic hangover on the edge of it your tail hanging off the edge into the water.

Oh god.

Oh no.

Fuck

You pushed yourself up and pushed yourself into the pool before resurfacing your breathing picking up as you looked around the all to familar blank walls the one way glass mirror that didn't hide the feeling of eyes on you.

What?

No

No

No

-

Gaz winced as he watched the Mer panic, It was common for mer's who came from the ocean were usually not at all receptive to human intervention and or help.

The natural built in generational fear of humans made sense due the unsavory practices of the past due to myths stirred up way back then that there flesh brought youth back into you, that there fins were important ingredients for medicinal cures or just for high life luxury, and that they were just used as luxury pets.

He tried to not let his mind wonder any father as he glanced down to his notes biting his lip as he sighed just jotting down the usual panicked behavior internally hoping they'd still be tired from the sedative which they very much were as there panicked had died down to swimming around the barren pool.

Gaz huffed as he left the observation room and onto the observation deck a decent height above the pool his presence didn't go unnoticed as the mer's eye flicked over to him a deathly glare being sent at him.

Avoiding a splash sent up at him Gaz was unphased mostly jotting down notes now as the Mer calmed eventually now just watching him which he didn't at all mind gave him a better view of all of there body and tail jotting down specific markers and scars along the skin.

Looking back at his other Orca mer notes they had no features genetically similar to any of the other Orca's they've rehabbed at least in this area of the country and since they found them all alone he was to assume they either left there close familial group or was very much lost which was likely due to there injuries.

There's just no way there pod would have left them in such a state but at the same time after reviewing there injuries Gaz was unsure to say the least.

There injuries were way to aggressive to be a simple fight or struggle between prey and predator, Not specific enough for them to be from blades of a boat motor, And were also not specific enough for them to be a survivor of a failed poaching attempt.

Gaz sighed as he shifted on his feet glancing up from his notes and to the Mer which still stared at him.

"God's what happen to you.." He mumbled as he leaned against the railing the Mer had retreated back underwater seemingly bored with him now.

-

This was weird—

No this was wrong.

This human had been just watching you?

And doing whatever it was doing.

Should you stare back?

Maybe you'll freak it out.

You did not in fact freak it out and it was still doing something with that board.

This place didn't seem all too bad.

You couldn't smell the remnants of blood from past creatures like you could back there they never cleaned your holding pool enough to make that scent fade away sometimes it was strong enough that you could have sworn the corpses were just floating right next to you.

There has been cases when they tried to even partner you up with a another Mer for a chance at calming you.

You only had one incident for them to know you should be left isolated.

You didn't want to be alone.

But a noise brought you out of your mind.

"Hey? I uh..brought you food."

It was that human again from the dock now that you got a better look at him.

Weirdo.

You surfaced as you looked over at him.

He was in grabbing range.

But you rather not get punished.

Does this place do punishments?

It's not the old place.

Hm.

You eventually decided not to drown him and instead waiting as he got closer cautious with a bucket of Fish that didn't smell like it was decaying for one still fresh possibly been frozen as he pushed over the bucket allowing you to get closer to the edge of the pool as he backed up out of reach.

To say you were hungry was a understatement as you ate till you were full enough pushing the bucket back towards him squinting at him as he chuckled.

"You must of been starving huh?..I know this must be confusing but were all here to help."

Lies.

"I'll be back to feed you later in a couple of hours.."

Don't come back.

"..Alright see you later Scarface."

What?

That name confused you greatly but you chose to ignore it you've been called worse.

Oh god what if they start calling you that?

"[Name]"

The human stopped dead in his tracks as he looked back at you.

"[Name]?"

You nodded as he hummed.

"Mines Gaz or..Well Kyle."

"Stupid names."

He was bewildered for a moment before chuckling once more.

"Alright Scarface"

"Kyle"

[eluxcastar]

H hello yes I have shown up once again at your doorstep dragging a Pantlone scenario with me.

Number 24 of your prompts list is DOING several things to my psyche when I line up my lil Loverboy with it.

It's like the universe is aligning with Me. What a post to bless my evening.

"You are very good at what you do."

And then we mix that in with the above mentioned post. What do we get?

Loverboy's first kill in his line of work. Definitely messy and lacking in class,, but atleast made up for with a certain animalistic efficiency to get the job done.

Bbg's first step towards the downward spiral by getting the first disgusting taste of blood under his fingernails,,, which is further turned into an internal dilemma Cocktail with delicious words of praise and affirmation <3

Loverboy got left in the microwave

── ୨୧：pantalone x reader

୨୧﹑synopsis :: loverboy's first kill as a fatuu which may have scarred him but at least he had a hot guy to tell him what a great job he did

୨୧﹑genre :: angst

୨୧﹑content :: masc reader, pantalone might be ooc, they're not in a relationship yet (unfortunately), descriptions of blood, not proofread AND I wrote this on the train so more opportunity for mistakes

୨୧﹑words :: 2.1k

"You are very good at what you do."

ok so I know that what I said was coming next was loverboy's extended origins but I was riffling through my inbox for something short to write and found this so guess what we're having for dinner

it's entirely non-descript when this takes place and tbh doesn't entirely make sense but we're being SILLY today so we're going to pretend that his lore has a spot where this fits perfectly

You didn't know the human body could bleed so much or that they'd go out with such a fight. People die quickly on paper and in the stories your seniors told you. Your allies can be there one second and gone the next, fragile and human. 

What they did not tell you was that your enemies don't die like your allies. The people who fight with you die quietly, but the death of an enemy is visceral and raw. They die fighting and choking on their own blood, going out with a bang after leaving harsh scratches clawed into your skin, and it takes longer. You can't say how long. It feels like it should've taken longer to run a knife through their stomach, but everything blurs together into an endless struggle before you lay beneath a wheezing body on its last legs, with blood staining your uniform and coating your skin in an uncomfortable warmth.

Your hands are red. It's the first thing you realise when you push that person off of you, and they collapse beside you in a lifeless heap of flesh and bone.

Your hands are red, and so is your uniform, and the snow beneath you, and your arm, bleeding from jagged scratches—

"You're very good at what you do."

What?

Before you realise what you're doing, you turn up to look at who's there, half expecting another enemy as you grip the bloodied knife still lodged in the body beside you. 

Your eyes follow from the shoes up to the face of Pantalone, and you breathe a cautious breath, your hand drifting away from the knife, hoping he wouldn't notice you were on the verge of stabbing him a moment ago. 

It sounded like his attempt to comfort or assure you, but all you feel toward him is anger. The reasoning is lost on you, as all reasoning is right now. Your mind is scattered, fighting the urge to empty your stomach and trying to ease your trembling. 

How can he treat human life so flippantly? Does this entertain him?

Pantalone steps around the body, eyes trained on you. It seems the sight fails to bother Pantalone as he crushes their hand beneath his shoe without mercy, the sickening crack of bones doing nothing to help the rising bile in your throat. You watch him, unable to form words and desperate to keep yourself from crying in front of a Harbinger.

Instead, Pantalone looks unfazed by it all, stopping as he reaches the other side of you, free of most of the blood. He greets you with a knowing smile as he usually does. His hand disappears into his overcoat, and when it reappears, he's holding something— a handkerchief, you think. 

"I knew making you a banker was a good idea," he says. Pantalone lowers himself to the ground, knee resting in the snow as his free hand catches your chin between his fingers, thumb brushing across your bottom lip slicked with blood. His eyes hold an unreadable look, perhaps of admiration, but maybe that's your imagination as you stare him down with a forced, queasy smile.

He chuckles lightly at the display. "Who knew you had so many other talents," he remarks, perhaps teasing you, but you're not sure. You doubt he is.

Murder is not the duty of a banker, not any regular banker, at least. Then again, Fatui bankers were never regular bankers. People say the Northland bank's true currencies are blood and tears for a reason, and you scold yourself for not realising that sooner. You should've figured out from the moment he asked you to accompany him that this was some kind of test, not the rudimentary trip to your homeland you thought it was.

Now, he's admiring you like the most precious jewel of his expansive collection, eyes alight with approval and only exemplified by the evident confidence in himself.

He raises the handkerchief to your cheek, and you instinctively pull away, stopped only by his finger raising to warn you, like telling off a misbehaving child. 

"Ah ah," he says, a harshness seeping into even just that sound. "Stay." 

You stay put, not eager to anger him. The next thing you feel is pain— stinging pain— as he presses the fabric over your skin with a delicate touch. The action is unusually gentle coming from someone as cutthroat as the Regrator and certainly not what you expected. You're not sure what you expected, just that it wasn't this. You expected him to toss it at you or let you rot in your misery, covered in blood.

"Lord Harbinger," you try to say, wincing as a shot of pain pulses through your head. You must've been injured at some point and not realised.

"You are much like your father." He doesn't wait for you to finish whatever you are going to say, instead simply reassuring you of yourself.

"I am not like him," you retort before you can catch yourself.

He responds with a chuckle, pulling the handkerchief away for a moment before pressing it back against your forehead. "I think you are," he says softly. "You are more alike than you think. Of course, I hope that courage doesn't rob you of your wits as it did to him."

You wince again, scolding yourself, and you mumble a quiet, "It won't."

"Good," he responds. 

Overwhelming, you feel like a dog—a well-regarded dog—but no less a dog. You are a fluffy little dog that fits nicely into Pantalone's purse to be admired and used as an accessory, nothing more. Everyone went ahead and told you as much a long time ago. To him, people are numbers; names are for the lucky among his upper echelons.

Yet he remembers your father. You eye him with scrutiny, trying—and inevitably failing—to read the look in his eyes to gauge why he would say that.

Nobody reads the Regrator among his ranks, especially not when they're as wet behind the ears as you are.

Despite your nerves, you swallow the lump in your throat. "Why did you bring me here?" you finally manage to ask, meek and afraid to upset Pantalone after watching how carelessly he treated that body.

"Whatever do you mean?" He's playing dumb; even you can tell that from just hearing the coyness in his voice.

"Never mind," you quickly say, ready to drop the matter like that.

Pantalone's hand that rests on your chin moves. He squeezes your cheeks between his fingers, digging the gloved ends of his nails into the plush of your skin until your lips pucker. His ring is cold. "No, you asked a question, as did I." His smile doesn't falter. "Speak up. When we want things, we ask for them directly. Do I make myself clear?" You hastily nod as best you can. "Now, try again. Dear banker, whatever do you mean?" 

The repetition of his question tells you this is your first warning.

"Is this a test?" you manage, words muffled by the way he squishes your face like putty beneath his fingers. Your heart pounds in your chest, threatening to jump out and run away if it means escaping Pantalone's scrutiny.

"Would it please you to know that you would have passed?" he questions, pausing for you to answer with a hesitant nod of your head. "I brought you with me to see if you were worth keeping around," he explains. "I received advice from an anonymous source that you may be better suited to work under another Harbinger's watch. I see now that perhaps such advice came from a…sentimental point of view."

That would explain how he knows of your father; someone must've tried to get you out of this unit, and you know who, regardless of how 'anonymous' that source may have been in his words.

Pantalone releases you to take your hand from your side, and he guides it to hold his handkerchief over your wound. "Hold this," he adds, an unnervingly tender instruction for the way he was just behaving. 

He removes his hands from you, robbing you of his touch. It feels strange for the warmth of his hands to have disappeared entirely, your only distraction from the blood itching beneath your clothes gone just like that. You should have guessed it would be 

"What was the point?" you ask, eyes following Pantalone as he stands back to his usual height and straightens his overcoat. 

His smile fades, eyes wandering from where you continue to sit, looking probably about as pathetic as you think you do. "Whether it is to collect on debts or complete an objective in the field, having such unrefined hands unused to killing will leave you on the receiving end of what you just did. People may believe it's just numbers and accounting, but the Northland Bank deals largely in debt collection as well. You're only an assistant with the resilience of a baby bird, but soon..." He seems to ponder those words for a moment before continuing. "In time, you could do great things at the Northland Bank. Who knows?"

Nobody believes that about the bank. You don't bother to tell him the obvious, however, as you're sure he also knows that.

You don't like that thought. In fact, frankly speaking, it terrifies you beyond belief to even begin to think that could be you. That's precisely what you've been avoiding facing this whole time and what made you sick when you had no choice but to face it. At that moment, there existed no escape but one, the inevitable end of one of you dying, whether because Pantalone stepped in or someone won the upper hand.

The only reason you're not dead is because you were lucky enough for it to be you who won the upper hand.

Your life is so terribly fragile. 

It isn't only this that makes you realise such a thing. You knew it before, but until a few minutes ago, the taking of a life was someone else's story. It was something you heard from one of your seniors, a story you hear after a long night of tedious work as if telling scary stories around a campfire like children do. It wasn't something you carried around like a scar. 

Watching as the life leaves someone's eyes, knowing you are the reason it's happening, never quite made the cut when describing the excitement, and you understand why. 

It is the monster under the bed that makes you curl up in your blankets and convince yourself that it'll stay hidden if it can't see you, but it'll always be there, waiting for you to acknowledge it. Someday, you might have to, but you try to push it to the back of your mind and focus your eyes on Pantalone as if there's not a dead body right behind you. You have never felt so much blood seep through your clothes before, and you hope you never do again. The thought of your uniform sticking to you this way ever again makes you nauseous.

"Once we return, you can change clothes," Pantalone says, perhaps sensing your disgust at yourself. "Oh, and—" he smiles down at you, almost mocking if you didn't know better— "next time someone approaches you from behind, don't wait to stab them. Don't reach for your wet knife with your wet hands, either. Both of those things will get you killed."

Your face feels red from the nerves creeping up from your neck. You imagine Pantalone is looking down at a beet-red banker fumbling to respond. You entirely miss him describing it as if you had water on your hands and nearly lost your grip. "I will— or won't," you quickly assure him, embarrassed that he noticed after all. You managed to kid nobody but yourself into thinking he wouldn't catch you.

There's an amusement in the smirk playing on his lips as he turns back to you. "What did I say about speaking clearly? Repeat yourself, I can't hear you mumbling from down there."

"I won't, sir!" you repeat, much louder than your shame wants to allow, as you force yourself to 'speak up' as he put it, to avoid having to say it a third time. "I won't hesitate next time."

"Good." He turns away, prepared to leave you behind if you can't keep up. "Come now. You want to go home and back to Liyue, don't you? I'm tired of this cold." The moment you realise he won't be waiting around for you to collect yourself, you are already scrambling to get back on your feet and rush after him.

CROSSPOSTED ON AO3

[ghostboneswrites2]

From the Devil Himself

New account! @ghostbones was banned! Transferring all my work here slowly!

Summary: After literally every job in Alexandria turned out to be no match for you, you get stuck on a run with Daryl. To say the least, he doesn't enjoy your company.

18+ MDNI || WARNINGS: profanity, Daryl hates you

        You were driving faster than you ever had before and it was plain terrifying. Driving already wasn't your strong suit, having been so young at the wake of the apocalypse. You had to learn, though, in order to travel long distances.        

        You'd love to say you were driving away from a massive horde of the undead or an army of looters, but somehow you just pissed off a crazy redneck that had lived in seclusion since long before the dead rose. You didn't know it was his land, you thought the place was abandoned. You just needed a place to crash for a few days, but as soon as you stepped for on his porch, the psycho burst through the door with a hatchet -- a fucking hatchet -- and chased you down. You had never run so fast in your life. You dove straight into the car and sped away, but of course this man had his own truck. It was so old it could have been fossilized, but of course, because you were so lucky, the piece of shit still worked, and he was hot on your tail. How did that truck even go so fast? Didn't the older models only go like 40mph? 

        You should have known not to fuck around in the Appalachian mountains. Your great grandma always told you why she ran away from there as a teenager and why she'd never go back. There are just some people in the mountains you don't fuck with, and you were lucky enough to cross one. 

        You were so focused on your own internal monologue that you didn't even see the big ass bear in the road that was sure to total your car if you hit it. You instinctively swerved and rolled the car over. You weren't really all there when you opened your eyes. The ringing in your ears, the muffled screech of tires, the distant sounds of the flesh eating corpses. When your double vision steadied you quickly realized you were upside down. You looked around, noticing blood dripping from your head onto the ceiling of the car. You reached to unbuckle the seatbelt and braced your head for the impact when you dropped from the seat. You managed to crawl out of the shattered window, scraping yourself pretty good on the way out, but that didn't matter. You had bigger fish to fry, as they say.

        The sunlight blinded you as you pushed yourself off the ground and leaned against the flipped car behind you. You almost didn't notice the truck that was parked just a few yards away. The crazy hatchet wielding hillbilly stepped out of the driver's side and started yelling at you, his thick accent so strong that you couldn't quite make it out. A cold hand grabbed your arm and you quickly pulled the knife from your belt and stabbed the rotten thing through the skull. When you looked back toward the man, he had the small axe raised, now jogging toward you.

        As if some guardian angel was watching over you, an engine hummed in the distance, distracting you both for the moment. A white SUV screeched to a halt right beside his truck. Two men stepped out of the vehicle, both approaching the scene with raised guns. You immediately put your hands up, but the crazy old man ran at them instead.

        "Stop!" One of the men shouted, the one who was driving. When the old man showed no signs of stopping he fired his gun and the old geezer thumped down on the pavement. The two men turned their guns to you.

        "What happened here?" The driver asked.

        "You with that crazy old loon?" The passenger asked.

        You were still pretty disoriented. Stabbing the walker was sheer instinct at this point, but not all of their words made total sense.

        "No." You said, after you took some time to process the second question. The driver began to walk toward you. 

        "I asked you what happened here." He repeated. He was menacingly calm, his voice low and calm, but it dared you to try anything stupid.

        "He-- He was chasing me. I crashed." You stuttered. It felt funny to talk, like you had to strain your core muscles to project your voice, and still it sounded like someone else was talking to you through a thick window. 

        "Why?" He cocked his head sideways.

        "I didn't know it was his house." Was all you could say before everything faded away and you fell into a dark oblivion.

----

        When you finally woke, you were in the back seat of a car that you could tell was moving. You sat up quick, looking around frantically. You were with the two men that had showed up after your crash and shot the old man.

        "You're okay. You're safe." The driver spoke, looking at you in his rearview mirror.

        "Yeah, for now." You retorted. "Did you kidnap me?" 

        "Nah. We saved your ass back there." The passenger rasped. 

        "You got banged up pretty bad in that accident." The driver added. "We're gonna take you to our community, let the doctor check you out, then maybe you can stay or be sent on your way. We'll see."         "So you expect me to believe to grown ass men threw me in their car and have nothing but the best intentions for me?" You scoffed.

        They both looked at each other and shrugged. "Yup." They said in unison. You shook your head.

        "You don't have to worry." The driver emphasized. "You're safe. Nobody's gonna hurt you."

        "Heard that one before." You mumbled.

        "My name's Rick," said the driver. He nodded over to the passenger. "This is Daryl."

        "(Y/n)." You told them.

----

        "C'mon, she's like a pretty version of you." Carol smiled, urging Daryl to take you with him on one of his solo runs. You had been at Alexandria for maybe three weeks, and since you didn't like working with others much, most of your job assignments didn't work out.

        "I don't need no help." He argued, waving her off.

        "But you do. This place if the farthest we've gone. Going alone is stupid." She chided.

        "We don't even know her, we can't trust her. Damn sure ain't trustin' that little girl to watch my ass out there."

        "She's in her late twenties." Carol corrected. "She just looks young."

        "You been talkin' to her?"

        "Well, yeah. She helped out at the pantry before she called Mrs. Neudermeyer a tedious old bitch when she wouldn't shut up about that stupid pasta maker." Carol chuckled. 

        "Nah. She ain't goin'." Daryl stood firm on his stance.

        "Well, it's kinda not up to you. Deanna put her on the job. Don't be such a baby. You guys would get along."

        "What're you, fuckin' cupid?" He shot back. She sighed and shook her head, still smiling at her best friend's stubbornness. 

----

        "So you just like... don't talk?" You asked, after literally two hours of silence on the car ride.

        "Nothin' to talk about." He grunted. You huffed a big, annoyed sigh.

        "At least I don't have to hear about that stupid fucking pasta maker anymore." You reasoned. You looked down at the small screen on the radio. It said 'Track 3' which meant there was a CD in there. You reached to turn the volume on but he quickly slapped your hand away. You yanked your hand to your chest, rubbing where the slap stung. You stared at him in disbelief for a moment, before narrowing your eyes. Challenge accepted.

        You reached for the volume again, and he slapped your hand again. You calculated for a moment, and decided to reach back for the little knob. When he went to slap your hand, clearly growing incredibly annoyed, you pulled your hand up swiftly and slapped him first. He slammed on the breaks and shot you a blood chilling glare.

        "Quit." He demanded.

        "You quit." You insisted.

        "Ain't got nohtin' to quit! Leave the damn music off!"

        You couldn't possibly know this, but Rick always drove him insane with those horrible CDs. You rolled your eyes and leaned your elbow on the window, staring out of it, ignoring him. As soon as he started driving the car again, you had to dig your teeth into your gums to prevent the mischievous grin from forming. When the car was rolling at a decent pace, you shot your hand over to the knob quickly and gave it a good spin. The speakers started blaring some admittedly awful music.

        He slammed the breaks again and ejected the CD, taking it and tossing it out the window. You stared at the empty CD slot for a moment. He said nothing as he pressed the gas again, knuckles turning white as he angrily gripped the steering wheel. 

        After some silence; "Guess you're not a music guy."

        He sucked in a deep breath, calling upon the forces of nature to hold him back. All he wanted was to tie you up, tape up your mouth, and stick you in the trunk so he could get this run over with in peace.

        "So.. No talking, no music. Any other rules I should know about?"

        "Yeah, the stop pissing me off rule."

        "Well if you weren't such a prude, maybe you wouldn't get so pissed off." You shrugged.

        "Man, do you wanna spend the rest of this trip in the damn trunk?"

----

        "Ooh, we should bring these back." You said, holding up some board games to show him.

        "Ain't on the list."

        "But we have plenty of room."

        "I said it ain't on the list!"

        "But, we have room.." You shrank back a little, but you didn't falter. Nobody told you what to do.

        "I swear we shoulda left you asleep on the pavement that day." He grumbled.

        "Probably." You agreed. "But, ya didn't."

        "Yeah, well, when I tell 'em you ain't fit for makin' runs, and you ain't got no other job options left, then what? They're gonna kick your smartass out and you'll be on your own." 

        "Good. I don't like any of you, anyways." You said.

        "Then just go now! Make it easy on the rest of us."

        "And give you an easy way out?" You smirked. "Don't think so, redneck."

        "Maybe," he growled, storming toward you and towering over you. "I'm givin' you the easy way out. 'Cause I swear you got one more snarky ass comment and your ass is walker bait."

        "Hm." You hummed with a nod, considering his words. You held your hands up to mock a libra scale, moving one hand up and one hand down, as if quite literally weighing the options. "Another three hour car ride with you.. Walker bait.. Another three hour ride with you.. Walkers.." 

        "God!" He exclaimed. "You're like my own personal punishment from the devil himself. Well, I repent! Ya hear me, God? I repent. Just get rid of her."

        "Mm. Sorry. Don't think he's listening." You said.

        "Yeah, clearly. If he was you'd be dead 'n' gone by now."

        "Who's to say I'm not?" You suggested. "Who's to say we aren't all dead, in our own personal circle of hell?"

        "Cut me a break with the philosophy." He waved you off.

        "I would cut you a break, but you wouldn't let me play music. And, you hit me. So, no."

        "I'm gon' do a lot worse than hit you if you don't shut the hell up."

        "Oh yeah, like what? Kill me? Put me out of my misery? A welcome service, my friend. How do they say? Dont threaten me with a good time?"

        He slapped his hand around your throat, gripping it tightly, but not so that you couldn't breathe. His nostrils flared as he glared down at you. Now that he had his hand around your throat, and you were silent, he realized you were kinda pretty, just like Carol said. His eyes flickered over your face. You were calm as you stared up at him. You didn't glare, didn't even struggle. You wanted to be mad, but you weren't. It was kinda hot.         His hand finally released you and he turned his back to you, running his hands down his face. He'd never felt so stressed in his life, and that said a lot. You were an absolute menace.

        "Well, you're a tease." You sighed, nonchalantly throwing your bag over your shoulder, leaning your weight onto one leg more than the other. "I got my half of the list. You?"

        He threw his head back with frustration. How could you just act like nothing was wrong? He huffed and picked up his duffle bag.         

        "Yeah. Let's go."

        "Okay." You chirped, picking up the stack of board games again as you headed for the door. He looked down at them.

        "I told you those weren't on the list." He grumbled.

        You sighed. "I know."

        "So leave 'em."

        "What's the problem? We have roo--"

        He smacked the boxes out of your hand, some falling open and littering the small pieces all over the floor of the dim store. You stared down at them as he walked out of the exit.

[weministertomonsters]

The Wedded Knight - 1

➤ Wordcount 1.7k

Dain Azulan walked into the gaping room and immediately wanted to stalk out as the offensively cloying scent of perfume attacked his sense of smell, causing him to give one big shudder. Like a dog shaking water out of its coat, except no one but him would see it that way. He was grateful for his mask, which helped hide his expressions and had often saved him from sneering in people's faces.

Mistake, the animal side of him growled. Too much flesh. Back out now.

Why didn't anyone tell me about the fucking banquet that I am apparently holding?! The human side shouted.

"Quiet," Dain said, and regretted it immediately when Whitlock leaned in and said,

"Pardon, Command? Yes, sir?"

"Never mind," Dain replied, nodding for the old butler's benefit.

Whitlock had worked for him for forty years now. Dain had tried pretty hard to scare him off, but the human had clung to his job like a burr on a shoe. Dain respected that. Decades later, they had finally come to a polite understanding of each other.

Whitlock learned to do his job quietly, stay out of the way, and keep questions like "Where did all that blood come from" and "That's enough meat to feed an army" to himself. Dain had learned to make some noise when approaching and to clean up to the best of his ability after a hunt.

Whitlock had all but broken down in tears when he discovered bloody prints stamped on the white carpet one morning. The poor fellow.

Before Dain could finish his internal war of conflict Baron Eastwood looked up from his cluster of bootlickers and noticed him.

"If it isn't the man of the hour!" He boomed, raising his glass.

The whole room went silent for a few moments, long enough for Dain's fingers to start curling into fists and his breathing to turn into more of a pant.

Stop looking at me, is what he wanted to shout, but thankfully all that came out of his mouth was, "Good evening."

Someone started clapping, and soon the room was giving him dutiful applause. He wanted to snarl at all the noise but forced himself to remember that he was in polite company. He settled for giving the collar of his shirt an absent-minded tug and walking into the room.

"If not for you, I'm fairly certain we would have never won the war," Baron Eastwood said, closing in on him.

"It was nothing. I'm honored to have been able to fight for this Kingdom," he said, which was a lie if he had ever told one.

Really, he just liked getting his hands wet with blood, but the room would clear out in minutes if he said that.

Polite company.

Baron Eastwood dragged him around the room and inserted him into conversations he had no interest in, but Dain was good about it. He had learned well, and those who didn't admire him were at least lulled into a state of false security.

Subconscious assurance that he was safe and level-headed. He wasn't going to gut anyone and wear their entrails like medallions, no.

Dain couldn't help but notice that no amount of charm would bring any of the ladies within five feet of him. As a person, he was intimidating enough, but his reputation and appearance- though most of the latter was hidden under clothing- made it so that no woman would even look twice at him. The best he would get were the working women, the ones desperate enough to do almost anything for some money and food.

That was fine by him. For once, he could help, even if it was just a pretense. Payment for pleasure. Enough money to give them a good life for their children.

He extracted himself from a group of elderly men and wandered to the side table. Most of them smoked cigars and the acrid smoke stung his nose, but not as much as the sour smell of curdling disease many of them carried. Dain had learned to keep his mouth shut about that too. No one wanted to know when they were going to die. He was a monster already, no need to give them further ammunition.

He downed two glasses of liquor and ignored the two whispering women who huddled on a chaise a few feet away.

"I wonder why he always wears that mask," one said.

"Perhaps his face is as monstrous as the rumors say it is," the other murmured.

"Is all of him so large?" The first wondered. "Even below the belt?"

They dissolved into furtive giggles. When Dain cast his eyes in their direction, they sat up so quickly that one of them dropped her fan, and it slid to the floor. Dain licked his teeth and perked up when he caught the scent of food. Just then, Whitlock announced the dinner and the guests flocked into the massive dining room. The table seemed to go on forever, and it was quite depressing to eat there alone.

Tonight every chair was filled, and Dain found himself half enjoying the scene; Crystal goblets dancing with wine, towers of roast potatoes and steamed vegetables, baskets of dinner rolls, and swan-shaped gravy boats. At the very least, no one could accuse him of being a bad host. Of course, he would be without Whitlock, who decided on everything from the dinner to the decor.

Dain took his seat at the head of the table and gave perfunctory answers until those seated near him stopped asking him questions, leaving him free to eat and let the conversations flow around him. Eastwood kept throwing him gleeful looks from across the table. Dain was not close with him- he wasn't close with anyone- but they had a good relationship with each other. Dain had learned how that kind of look on Eastwood often meant he had gone and done something Dain wouldn't approve of.

The dinner ended well. Dain stood at the front door and thanked everyone for coming, the rich food heavy in his stomach and his clothes feeling a little too tight on him. When the last person was out the door he all but tore his shirt off, growling a little as the tight collar dug into his neck. He yanked at it and a button came loose, bouncing to the floor.

"Hello hello," Eastwood said, popping out of the drawing room.

Dain froze with his shirt in his hands.

Thank the gods that you didn't remove your mask, the human side of him said cynically. Otherwise, Eastwood would be unconscious on the floor from the shock of it.

"Oh," Eastwood said, his eyebrows hiking up as he followed the vicious, carving trails of scars on Dain's torso.

Anyone with a bit of brain would know that this meant Dain was a man of battle. Or that someone had tried to do him in at several points. The truth was that it was both, and then some.

"Well," Eastwood cleared his throat and blinked, recovering fairly quickly. "I got you a gift. Consider it as thanks for winning the war and for coming home."

"A gift?" Dain echoed.

He bunched the shirt in his hands and the muscles in his arms flexed. Eastwood didn't seem able to look away from the imposing horror of him, a man who looked better covered in blood than not. A made killer.

"Ah, yes. According to Whitlock, it's in the kitchen now," Eastwood said, finally looking away from when the clock gave its midnight toll. "Christ, is the hour that late already? I must be getting home."

He started to the door, accepting his coat from Whitlock.

"Enjoy," he called, before ducking out into the night.

"What did he get me, a fucking pound of beef?" Dain muttered.

"Not quite," Whitlock said and grimaced.

Eyeing him, Dain marched to the kitchen. He had to take two different hallways before he found the place and he realized he had never been in it. The air smelled sugary and mild, like the lingering scent of baked goods long after an oven has cooled. He found it mouth-watering, even though sweet things never sat well with him.

"What did you make in here?" Dain asked because he knew there hadn't been anything of that sort after dinner. "Cake?"

"No," Whitlock said quietly behind him.

Dain prowled into the kitchen but his search did not take long at all, for he found Eastwood's gift immediately. A person sat sprawled at the kitchen table, head cradled in the crook of their arm, a half-eaten roll dangling from limp fingers. Dain took in their curly hair and pretty, layered dress and shouted,

"A woman?!"

The woman in question stirred slightly, and Dain found himself lowering his voice as he hissed,

"Eastwood has gifted me a woman?"

"Paid in full," Whitlock said in a thin, informational voice, and Dain was outraged.

"A slave, then. Where is the contract? Why didn't you turn her away?"

"She would have nowhere else to go, but back to the auction. To return so soon after purchase would drive her price down, I'm afraid," Whitlock said and added, "Besides, she was hungry."

"Gods," Dain said, fighting the urge to yank his mask off and run into the woods to blow off some steam. "What is Eastwood trying to aim for here?"

"Perhaps he thought the mansion was a little lonesome?" Whitlock commented, and Dain choked on a snarl.

"I am perfectly fine on my own!"

"What's happening?" A husky, sleepy voice uttered, and Dain felt his soul shrivel into a ball.

How often is it that you have women here? At a minimum, you should try not to frighten her. First impressions are important, the human droned.

Flesh! The beast exclaimed gleefully. Decadent, soft, fuckable flesh!

Dain opted to flee. He nearly ripped the back door off its hinges in his haste, stumbling as he yanked on his shoes. The mask joined the footwear by the fence along the property, left for Whitlock to take inside later. He wasn't quick enough for the pants, and the material burst around the expanding muscles in his legs. Another minute and he was changed, free to snuffle in the forest and hunt deer like the monster he was, excused from human worries for a few hours.

When he came back, he would figure out what to do with the woman.

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

Anyone remember the story I wrote under the same title? I've had this idea lingering vaguely in my head for over a year, and it finally made it into writing!

[licncourt]

Do you think Louis is "good with emotions"? What I mean is is he consciously aware of how he feels about what's happening around him, does he have a handle on emotions or does he have.. Issues with translating what he's feeling, therefore he is oblivious to his own emotions. Does he fine tune emotions in a conscious funnel that gives the reader an impression that he's quite adept at being a person you can go to with your problems. Does this make sense? I guess what I'm asking is would he be the best friend you can count on to have a deep talk with or is Louis so repressed he needs to write out his thoughts in a journal before he can give advice. Does he give terrible advice. Would he make a good therapist? I think he's a bit too mentally lost himself to be the person to depend on for advice even though compared to Lestat he's more emotionally mature, but (I'm sorry this is so winded) is Louis aware of his emotions enough to make good life choices, and is Louis able to distinguish emotions or does he struggle with them enough to be that person everyone goes to for advice (hypothetically). I hope I'm making sense.. I'm not too keen on the side of fandom that leans on Louis being the "sane" one while Lestat is the "insane" one, but in my short time in this fandom, that's been my experience 🤷🏻‍♀️ Everyone wants to lean on Louis, and they want him to be the family friendly one. It doesn't give room for him to flesh himself out. Why does Lestat get all the fun stuff. Louis started the shenanigans and he is obviously very unhinged. I don't think it's fair is all. But please give me your thoughts on this very long ask.

Oh God that's a hard question, but my answer is no, he isn't really. He's emotional but I wouldn't say he's good with those emotions or those of others (especially not those actually). In general he reminds me of when you meet a guy who sucks but they call themselves an empath.

Even Lestat says in one of the books that Louis is oblivious to the suffering of others in a lot of ways and I think that's true. He sees human misery when it supports his internal beliefs because he's actively looking for it, but he's not in tune with people in general, especially not when other people's feelings contradict his world view (ie owning slaves while acting like he's some kind of hero for the downtrodden because he eats rats).

I think the fact that he feels his own emotions so intensely is part of what makes him so selfish. He's incredibly caught up in what HE'S feeling, so the inner world of someone else is not really being considered, nor would it occur to him to consider it. That happens a lot in IWTV where, at least the way Louis portrays it, the only explanations he can come up with for Lestat's behavior are that he's stupid or he just has a bad personality.

There's always the implication that their relationship was deeper than Louis made it seem, but I also don't think he was interested in exploring Lestat's deeper motives for his behavior. He got his feelings hurt and therefore whatever Lestat had going on was irrelevant to him. There was no effort to understand and empathize when it was hard and he faced resistantance.

At the very least, be seems to be hellbent on strong-arming his own emotions to suit his will. He's very externally adamant about his chosen narrative, but he spends enough time just Having Feelings that at least deep down, he knows for himself what the truth is most of the time when it comes to his inner thoughts unless he's in true denial. He just chooses to be stubborn and force his way through life ignoring those feelings if he thinks they shouldn't be that way.

His thoughtfulness and how carefully he chooses his words does give the impression of some kind of emotional intelligence, but I think a lot of that is artificial, like when he's talking in IWTV about how his objections to killing are about the principle and the aesthetics. There's a lot of convoluted thinking and justifications, but not much consistent or reasonable logic to suggest that he's tapped into something grounded and honest within himself or the world.

Another indicator of whatever emotional imbalance he has is the way he cycles between being so rigidly repressed and then snapping. That's not the hallmark of someone who's processed or is capable of coping with any hard feelings, much like an addict who never gets treatment but manages to white knuckle their way through stretches of time before losing control again.

I suppose he is more emotionally mature than Lestat in his ability to exercise restraint and be calculated (in good and bad ways), but that doesn't always translate to an emotionally intelligent mindset that influences larger choices or patterns. No matter how good he is at it, his semi-frequent, massive lapses in judgement and self control kind of negate how helpful those skills can be.

This comes across in subtler ways too. He was more the family man than Lestat, but rather than responsibly parent Claudia through her adult challenges, he allowed and fostered an emotionally incestuous dynamic that was incredibly toxic for both of them. Other times he played calm and collected in the face of Lestat's outbursts, but he didn't actually work to resolve anything, just to keep the upper hand through his performative apathy. It's all very surface level and hardly ever productive.

The one credit I'll genuinely give to him was his willingness to let Lestat get whatever all that was out of his system in the 90s and 00s. He was very patient and honest about his feelings and finally had enough softness and genuine care for Lestat that he was able to see objectively the pain, confusion, and trauma those behaviors were born from. It's definitely growth on Louis' end compared to IWTV so golf clap for that.

I will say though that I definitely think he's too self-absorbed and judgmental to make a great listener unless he REALLY cares about the person talking to him. If he thinks he could've handled whatever the problem is better, it's going to show it accidentally even if he's being polite. The truth is he would not have handled it better most likely. Differently maybe, but not better. You had a freakout? Well. He simply would have repressed those feelings and then acted like a bitch later over nothing.

[lionessesluvr]

Chapter 1: Collision 💥

Warnings: Nothing major just a bit of swearing 🤡

Word count: 1.1K

AN: this is my first time ever writing any sort of fan fic. Constructive criticism is MORE than welcome here, just don't be a hater towards it ( *cough cough* those anons). Enjoy the fic 💋

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15 April 2023 - Match day 🔴⚪️

The air is filled with an intense atmosphere.

I step up to take the penalty, energy and adrenaline surging through my veins. We were drawn 0 - 0 with our title contenders, Wolfsburg, this penalty could guarantee those desperately needed 3 points.

The ref blows her whistle and I take a deep breath, allowing the air to flow all the way down to my toes. I do a shuffle towards the left and run towards the ball, like I've practiced, and slot the ball in the bottom right corner. The keeper dove in the wrong direction giving me the glory of such an important goal. I celebrate with my teammates before looking at the camera and doing Jamal’s ‘M’ celebration.

(I'll add a picture of the celebration at the end for those of you who don't know what it looks like)

The final whistle blows and we walk away with those 3 points. Straus comes up to me and gives me an encouraging pat on the back.

‘Good game, kid. That penalty was very well placed. I bet you’re impressing Sarina with every game you play.’ He said.

I awkwardly laugh at his comment, the topic of my nationality making me uncomfortable.

‘Anyways, Sky Germany wants to do an interview with you. Best behaviour kid and NO swearing’ he says with a small smile

‘ Yes sir ‘ I laugh as I walk towards the interviewing area.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Y/N L/N, incredible performance out there, must’ve had so much pressure on your back considering the situation as well as your need to impress.”

Here we go again, talking about my international status.

“Yeah, um what can I say? The girls really showed heart out there and I think the result speaks for itself. As for international duty, I still am a bit torn but I know that I have to make a decision before it’s too late.”

“Well considering England’s 3Lions' reaction to your goal I am sure you’ve impressed at least one of your options.” She laughs with a bright and encouraging smile.

However her statement made me slightly confused, why would the 3Lions be watching this match?

She senses my confusion as she begins to speak up again.

“Weren’t you aware? The England team are here to watch a game since they are playing Germany tomorrow for a friendly.”

I freeze, my smile drops. They. Are. Here. Right now. In the flesh.

“Oh that's wonderful” I let out a laugh with a hint of embarrassment in it.

‘Well I don’t want to keep you here for any longer, I’m sure you want to bid your goodbyes to the travelling fans’ She smiles a sweet, innocent smile

I smile back “Yeah I do want to go say my thanks, it’s not easy to travel for an away game especially whilst in the cold.”

I say my goodbyes and head towards the away side, clapping as I walk along.

After I finish thanking the fans I head towards the tunnel, that’s when I hear a voice coming from behind me.

“Y/N wait up!”

I turn around to see a bubbly Georgia heading my way. I smile at her and wave.

“Hey Georgia,” I greet with a small smile. Georgia has been my ‘mentor’ at Bayern. She’s been making sure that I am ok and comfortable with this new life.

“I was just about to head up to the boxes to greet the Boy’s team… You should join me.” She says with a cheeky grin.

Georgia has been pushing me to try and get to know the English players. She thinks it will sway my decision but honestly, it’s just making me a lot more stressed out.

I let out a nervous breath, “G, i don’t think that’s a good idea. There’s so many media teams around. I don’t want them to get the wrong idea. Sorry, maybe next time.”

“That’s alright Y/N, I don’t want you to feel pressured into it.” She says as she rubs my back in a comforting manner. “You should come to the friendly game tomorrow though, at least you know you’ll have Jamal there?” She offers a small smile.

I nod my head, “Yeah, I already told Jamal that I would be there. Maybe I’ll wear a Germany kit.” I say with a wink. She laughs whilst shaking her head.

‘Yeah, yeah alright. I’m surprised no dating rumours have come out between the two of you. Normally when the media sees a starboy and stargirl together they go into a frenzy.’ She laughs out.

‘Yeah it is weird, but I don’t want to jinx it. Maybe they've seen how often we fight with one another that they think we're like siblings.’ I say, joining her in laughter.

- 20 minutes later -

I’ve just finished showering and I start making my way towards the bus. Georgia had left sometime ago to say hi to the boys, so I was by myself. I had my headphones on and I wasn’t really paying attention to my surroundings, that’s when I bump into what felt like a flipping brick wall but what turned out to be a person.

‘Oh, sorry’ I said as I tried to keep my head down to continue walking.

‘Woahh, you seem to be in a rush, Miss Stargirl.’

I look up and I’m greeted by none other than Jude Bellingham. Great.

Oh how I wish I was paying attention to my surroundings.

‘Yeah, sorry. I, um, have a team bus to catch. It was nice to meet you in person.’ I say in an awkward but nice manner, trying to dismiss the situation as quickly as possible. I was just to tired and out of it to speak to anyone right now.

‘Oh I get it, all this fame has gotten into your head huh? You don’t have time for a civil conversation now? You weren’t this egotistical in your DMs.’ He shot back quickly.

What. The. Fuck?

‘Excuse me?’ I scoff turning around to finally meet his eyes.

He’s so much more good looking in person, It’s a shame he’s an asshole.

‘You heard me but I suppose you better be moving along, don’t wanna miss that bus now, ey?’ he said, smirking at me, as if he had just won this little interaction.

My eyebrows furrowed in confusion but I turn around and continue walking towards the bus, not wanting to cause any trouble.

I sat on the bus and contemplated everything that happened today. The sweet feeling of victory over Wolfsburg felt diminutive against the sour feeling of Bellignham’s words. Maybe it’s a good thing that interaction happened, it might make my choice easier.

I guess Jude Bellingham isn’t a gentleman like he claims after all.

Who would’ve guessed it huh?

_________________________________________

Thank you for reading!!

I know this was kind of boring but I think it's a good base to build up Y/N and Jude's relationship on.

I also want to thank you guys for the support on the preview, I really really appreciate every single one of you! 💗

Chapter 2 will be out in a few days, probably sunday. I will try and stay as consistent as possible 💕

Stay safe 💋🌷

- A

[y-rhywbeth2]

I think it would've been funny if instead of being a dragonborn by default, the Dark Urge was literally an actual white dragon.

For shenanigans.

[Disclaimer that this idea is ridiculous and I don't care.]

The bhaalspawn plot twist is largely obvious to players of BG1+2 and those who've already completed the game. Who'd see the twist that you've forgotten that you're dragon in disguise coming? If you play another origin they'd make a good excuse to add a brainstealer dragon boss battle. Alternatively, if you take the ceremorphosis ending, you play as one.

Plus white dragons instinctually lean towards being brutal, vengeful little bastards in a manner Bhaal would probably approve of and due to their slow development would be very easy to corrupt from a young age… but my motivation is still mostly for shenanigans.

Living most of their life in a city, I imagine they're used to being in humanoid form. They had a sibling rivalry with Abazigail, as the only other dragon they know ("White dragons are weaker and inferior to Blues." - "I'm sorry, I'm too stupid to remember something, can you remind me? Of the two of us, who's a dead failure who disappointed Father?").

They got shanked by Orin in humanoid form and just woke up with brain trauma and assumed they were whatever humanoid they appear to be. Sure they have some ancestral draconic memory and speak draconic, but that's just a sign of having a dragon ancestor. It's not that weird! It might also seem strange when they start growling at the Githyanki dragon steeds, but going by some dialogue Durge growls at people anyway so it won't even stand out that much. At least the "human flesh smells tasty" thing makes sense now?

Lacking any memories of past enemies to plot against, dragon Durge simply adds their new friends' enemies to their list of grudges.

Those of us who play by looting everything in sight and refusing to share it with the party members have a valid reason; dragon hoard. Yes I do need to break my back carrying all of the money, enchanted weapons and six thousand books I'll never read; no, we're not selling any of it, fuck off.

We get to act 3 and the party gets the Bhaalspawn reveal possibly followed up by "also I'm a dragon." ("what the Actual Fuck.") Gale has already formed a hypothesis about Durge's true species, but we should also get to play Sharks Are Smooth over it. You get the standard -30 disapproval from Gale, but if Astarion is there he'll also want to play and you get 30 approval from him and Gale's disapproval doubles to -60.

Lae'zel as our resident horse dragon girl would rather travel with a red, but perhaps a mere white dragon will do for a steed in the meantime. It's training for her future, you understand.

I want to pick up Mizora with teeth and shake her like a dog with a chewtoy when she invades my camp to torment Wyll and refuses to leave. Maybe throw her around like an orca with a seal…

Romanced Wyll, Shadowheart or Gale introducing them to their parent/s (+Tara, in Gale's case) would be fun to watch.

Duke Ravenguard has hopefully learnt his lesson about not jumping to conclusions and hearing Wyll out and showing some tolerance for what appears to be an evil alliance, but a chromatic dragon sired by the god of murder who's also a reformed serial killer might be putting some tension on that... Maybe leave some details out.

The Hallowleaves are remembering the tolerance their Selûnite faith espouses and that they too are a loving couple involving one person who is technically a monster but I feel like Arnell is still on some level internally going; whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck.

I think Ms Dekarios will be mostly unphased. She's a wizard herself and Gale's been bringing weird shit into her life since he was born. Her son came home with a dragon for a fiancé/e. Sure. Must be Tuesday.

[stranger-fanfiction-n-things]

CHAPTER 6: THE MONSTER

This is an Original Character fanfiction. All Stranger Things characters and content are owned by Netflix and The Duffer Brothers.

a/n: Thank you for your patience! I know it's been almost a month since I last updated. Life has been busy for me lately and I wrote this with a sinus infection :( This part is very much internal dialogue and Diana trying to make sense of everything and figure out what's going on.

Warnings: Panic attacks. Blood.

Word Count: 2449

Masterlist

PART I || PART II || PART III ||

Saturday, November 12, 1983 - THE WOODS

The drive back was quiet. Nancy and I held hands the entire way. I stared out the window but couldn’t make out what I was seeing. The houses, trees and cars all morphed into one big blur. My mind races thinking about the other place? I don’t know. The woods looked exactly like the one I crawled out of, but felt…cold and…dead. As if nothing else lived there apart from that thing. No wonder it snatched the deer from our side to eat. I know one thing for certain; I will not be eating meat for a long time after that experience. I cringe thinking about the sound of its teeth tearing into warm flesh, rivulets of blood pouring down its body onto the dead grass below. The way it twisted its body around opening its mouth like petals of a blooming flower. All its sharp teeth lined its mouth spiralling to the centre. I inhale feeling the same pressure in my chest build and expand. I squeeze my eyes shut feeling my tears fall down my cheeks. 

Breathe, Diana. Breathe. It’s going to be okay. You’re okay. 

Nancy squeezes my hand and I look at her. She blinks, blue eyes filled with worry. The balloon in my chest deflates little by little. I don’t notice I am trembling until I stop. I sniff, leaning my head on her shoulder squeezing her hand back. From the rear-view mirror, I notice Jonathan looking at us to make sure we are okay. I look back at him in silence thanks. The argument in the woods is far behind us; it doesn’t matter anymore after what happened. The reality is Nancy and I almost died. I was close to being trapped inside that weird place with that thing. The thought unsettles me to say the least and my mind thinks of all the worse-case scenarios all ending in my death and never being found. I think about Barb and Will. How are they surviving? 

SINCLAIR RESIDENCE

“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay, Diana?” 

I don’t know when I asked Jonathan to drive me home or if I even did. I feel mechanic stepping outside the car, closing the door behind me. My body doesn’t feel like mine anymore. 

“Yes.” I mumble. My voice sounds unfamiliar to my own ears. I walk toward my house feeling like I am a puppet being controlled by a ventriloquist. 

I feel a hand on my shoulder and whip my body around, arms flailing as I stumble onto my front lawn. The hand grabs me, pulling me back roughly and I collide into something hard. I immediately close my eyes, feeling fresh tears fall down my cheeks. My body trembles violently as the high-pitched screeching sound of the monster echoes in my ears. 

“Diana!” I hear a voice say, it sounds distant yet close. “It’s just me, Jonathan. It’s just me.” I blink my eyes open staring into his dark brown eyes. They are wide, darting back and forth with worry. “Breathe. It’s going to be okay. You’re okay.” 

Jonathan breathes in and out nodding his head, urging me to follow. I breathe in and out feeling the balloon in my chest slowly deflate. When my body stops trembling, Jonathan eases his grip on my arms. 

“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?” 

I lick my dry lips, nodding my head. I want to be alone even though I don’t want to be alone. But I just needed to be alone. Jonathan squeezes my arms when I pull away, still unsure and worried about me. The corners of my lips pull up as I force myself to smile. 

“I’m fine—I’ll be fine.” I correct myself, though I’m not so sure. 

Jonathan stares at me. I can tell he’s debating on leaving me alone or not. Finally, he releases my arms. “I’ll walk you to your door, okay.” 

I don’t respond walking toward my front door. I fidget for my keys surprised to find they are still in my denim jacket pocket. Taking them out to put in the keyhole, my hands begin to tremble and I pause breathing in and out. Jonathan takes the keys out my hand and pushes it through the keyhole, opening my front door. 

I take a step inside feeling an overwhelming urge. I quickly turn around, reaching up to wrap my arms around Jonathan’s neck. The force of my action causes him to stumble back, but he immediately embraces me. 

“Thank you.” I whimper, feeling a knot form in my throat. If Jonathan didn’t pull me out the tree, I’d be stuck on the other side. He saved me from my death and I’ll forever be grateful. Jonathan doesn’t say anything. Only squeezes me tighter. We both pull away and I wipe my tears with the back of my hand. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Jonathan nods his head before turning back to his car. I don’t close the door until he is safe inside with Nancy. I am thankful my house is dark and quiet. I’d hate to have to walk past anyone in my family in this state and succumb to all the questions and concerns they’ll have. I take off my shoes in the mud room holding them in my hands and shuffle down the foyer, past the living room to the kitchen grabbing a garbage bag from the cupboard. 

I creep up the stairs, bolting straight to the bathroom. I am about to close the door when I hear my name. I freeze, clenching my eyes shut. Shoot. 

“Diana?” Mom says. 

I flick on the light, pulling the elastic out my hair and shake my head letting it fall down my shoulders before peering around the door careful not to expose the state of unrest I’m in. 

“Yes, mom?” I blink innocently at her. 

“Where have you been?” she frowns, fixing her bathrobe. 

“I was out with Nancy and Jonathan.” 

Mom's frown deepens as she gives me a once over. With my hair down and the door covering my body she can’t see how filthy I am. Though sometimes I think her stare can see through anything. 

“Doing what? Do you know what time it is?” 

“Nancy and I were at the Byers house, keeping Jonathan company. I completely lost track of time.” I surprise myself with how easy the lies flow from my lips. I can’t very well tell her what I’ve been up to and what I’ve seen. Mom wouldn’t believe me or worse, she would and then what?

Mom’s stare almost penetrates my wall of lies. Almost. The lines between her eyebrows smoothen and I try not to visibly relax in case she grows suspicious. 

“That’s so kind of you, Diana. I worry about him a lot. It’s nice to know he has you and Nancy around.” I agree, nodding my head. Mom tilts her head to the side touching the door. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” I press my hand firmly against the door. 

“Yes, I’m fine!” I respond quickly. “Tired is all. It’s been a very emotionally challenging day.” 

“Yes, it has. I worry about your brother—I worry about all of you kids.” Sadness lingers in her eyes. Mom sighs gathering herself together. “I’ll leave you to it. Next time please leave a note so I know where you’re going. There are too many people disappearing in Hawkins.” 

“I will. I promise.” I try my best to smile without it looking forced. It’s enough to pacify my Mom as she smiles back before walking back to her room. 

I close the door behind me, leaning heavily against it, using it as a crutch to support my fatigued body. My muscles ache with a deep persistent soreness, every fibre protesting against the demand of continued exertion. My mind is clouded with fog and it’s thick and heavy. I shiver feeling a chill take over my body. Fluffy spores fall silently like snow upon the decaying forest. I hear a sickening crunch followed by aggressive chewing and turn around to see the monster eating the deer. It stops, perking up from its spot hunched over the animal. Suddenly it snaps around opening its petal-like mouth wide in bloom and lets out a bone-chilling screech lunging forward toward me. 

I gasp clinging to the counter for support. My eyes snap open and I am startled by my reflection in the mirror. I look as terrible as I feel. My hair is matted with dry slime and goop. My clothes are filthy and covered in the same slime with the addition of dirt and mud. Underneath my eyes are puffy and swollen from crying. My skin  looks dry and my lips are chapped. 

I immediately take off my backpack and clothes shoving the soiled clothing in the trash bag. I don’t know if the residue on my clothes are infectious or not or if the scent of the other dimension will attract the monster, so in order to not put myself and my family in danger, everything is going in the trash. If I could burn them, I would. Anything to erase what happened. 

My skin feels raw as I scrub my body for the third time. Anytime I think I’m done in the shower I see another speck of spore or slime and I am back to scrubbing my body and washing my hair. Flashes of my time in the other dimension, penetrate my mind. I felt the way the vines moved under me and wince, squeezing my eyes shut. Breathe, Diana. Breathe. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay. I’m safe at home in my shower. Nothing can get me here. How could you be so sure? The voice in my head asks. I shiver, scrubbing my body harder. I’m not sure at all. 

The makeshift towel turban concealing my damp hair loosens dropping onto my shoulders as I cautiously approach my room. I flick on my bedroom light, my eyes darting around every corner for anything out of the ordinary. It’s comical how uneasy I feel in the safest place. Shoving the trash bag at the farthest corner of my room, along with my backpack, I pad across my plushy carpet toward my window to lock it, triple checking the lock for peace in mind and draw my curtains. 

I feel jittery pacing back and forth in my room. I am hyper aware of my surroundings. The lights are too bright, but I refuse to be in the dark. My pyjamas brush against my skin and I feel like I’m chafing, but I know it’s because I scrubbed my skin raw. The silence is too loud, but I can’t put on music or else I won’t be able to hear any suspicious activity. 

I fight against a wave of drowsiness that threatens to engulf me, my eyelids fluttering in a constant battle to stay awake. I can’t sleep knowing that the monster, that thing, is out there. The way it grabbed the wounded deer from the other side to eat. I wring out my hands as nausea begins to creep up my throat at the thought of the monster tearing into the deer’s flesh. It was so easy for the monster to grab the deer from the other side. Hawkins is a small town outside Indianapolis surrounded by forests and many people walk in and out it. Mom said too many people have been disappearing…how many people have been reported missing in the past week excluding Will and Barb?

After my near-death experience, I can firmly deduce the monster took Barb and Will and in Will’s case he was on his way home, but for Barb…she was at Steve’s house. I shiver. We all were. Running my fingers through my hair, I sit down on my bed frowning. There has to be a common denominator. I know the attacks are in close radius of each other: the Byers and the Harringtons. Over the train tracks the area is mostly dense forests. Will was on his way home riding through the shortcut Lucas called…what did he call it? Mirkwood! Where Cornwallis and Kerley meet. Steve also lives on Cornwallis and Kerley. 

But why would the monster attack Barb? 

In the photos Jonathan took, Barb was sitting on the diving board by herself. I think back to last year in biology class when I learned about Predation. Predators form a foraging cycle when pursuing prey: Search. Assess. Capture. Handling. There are different ways predators can capture a prey, by ambushing, pursuit and ballistic interception. In the photo Jonathan developed back at school, the monster was standing behind Barb…assessing. 

I rub my temples tiredly. Something had to draw the monster to Barb. I look at my hands, examining my nails to assess if I missed any dirt or slime under them and it came at me all at once. Blood. Barb’s finger was bleeding. The deer in the forest was bleeding out. 

I perk up rushing to my closet. On the top shelf I kept all my old school papers and notes in a filing bin. After a few minutes of struggle, the bin is down on my carpet and I am shuffling through files. The monster must have a strong sense of smell for blood and it would explain how easy it was for it to grab the deer. It would also explain how Barb vanished into thin air. 

I squeal in excitement when I find what I’m looking for. My notes on Predation. I wrote, animals forage in solidarity or in groups. When resources are abundant, animals may choose to forage on their own. This can occur when the habitat is rich or number of foragers are few. I skim down further and read the following: 

To understand Solitary Foraging scientists use the theory called: Optimal Foraging Theory. The theory was proposed in 1966. It argues that because an individual’s survival is determined by success of foraging, one can predict foraging behaviour by using decision theory to determine the behaviour that an “optimal forager” would exhibit. 

I sit with this information for a moment. I don’t know how many people have been reported missing but it’s fair to guess it’s more than five people including Will and Barb. Which means the monster has been successful in its hunt and will hunt again. It’s a question of when it will hunt...and how can we make it hunt us. 

Blood. 

The predator will become the prey. Jonathan, Nancy and I will need to lure the monster to us, trap it and then we’ll kill it once and for all. 

NEXT -> PART III

Taglist 🤍: @tinydramatist

[annaizscribbling]

Ch 2.

Wordcount: 3504

Content warnings: Hallucinations. Paranoia. Blood More horror.

He is draped over the couch as Virgil walks in through the front door. His every limb seems to have been carefully arranged, with crossed legs artfully angled, hands pretending to have been thrown haphazardly in his lap, like the wind could have blown them into that careless position.

But Virgil knew better. The air of faux casualness, the way his half-lidded eyes may appear to be lazy but are watching with the intensity of a predator watching its prey. There’s a coolness to a lion resting high above its territory, sunbathing on a rock. It lays with its throat exposed as if vulnerable, but all the creatures on God’s green earth know better.

Internally, Virgil paces the walls of his mind like a prisoner in a too small cage. He’s running so fast without going anywhere, like sprinting in a hamster wheel. 

Virgil didn’t leave the waters in time, that thing was happening again. The cave sharpens Virgil’s senses. It makes the world known to him, in all of its uncovered, unjust glory. The armored shell that is protective deception, Virgil feels as if he has pried his fingers below the edge and pulled up, out, tearing it from the vulnerable, pale flesh hiding below. Truth. Sight. Wisdom.

The cave is sight.

And at the head of the harbor is a slender-leaved olive and near by it a lovely and murky cave. 

It takes time to dull those sharpened senses again. It is like adjusting to being in the dark again, his mind reels as he slowly loses that extra instinct. So for now, Virgil is cursed with eyes. True eyes. Eyes that peer past the thin deceptive membrane that usually veils his blunt judgment. Like a breath of life being pushed into dead lungs, Virgil’s tired, dirty eyes are touched by the benevolent hand of the water.

And now he can see.

What a blessing and a curse it is to truly see.

Eyes that stay unclouded. Eyes that no man may restrain and veil. Eyes that do not fall for the folly of hell and its relentless attempt to deceive him. He will not be deceived.

At least not by him.

His yellow gloved hands are laying over top one another. The base of one palm sits over the end of his wrist. Black dress pants don’t quite conceal black socks that run beneath his leather dress shoes. The shoes are polished to perfection, shined enough to see a warped reflection of oneself if peered into long enough.

Virgil’s churning hatred grows. His black shirt is perfectly pressed, save the slight crease where the third button from the top is strained. It’s subtle. He liked his shirts just a touch too tight there. When the capelet is gone, one’s gaze is naturally drawn to his lean chest instead of the watching eyes shifting in his sockets. The vain bastard.

Mismatched eyes roll to the side, looking him over with that ever-present smugness. Virgil watches as the eyes swivel down, then up, taking in every flaw he has. He feels raw, like his skin has been torn up from his flesh, pulling his protection from his fat like pulling on a loose thread to unravel a worn out sweater.

“Evening, Virgil,” he says. The way his name rolls off that forked tongue, like he’s playing with it. Playing with his meal before he ends it all. Swishing it around like one does at a wine tasting before spitting it into a bucket.

Virgil doesn’t answer, he just glares. There’s a bitter resentment brewing in his chest and he wills it into bleeding through his eyes. Tears can be of sorrow but Virgil’s are so often hot with fury.

“We’ve missed you,” he continues, the slightest tilt of his head accompanying the movement. His thin lips point down in a small frown. The lower eyelid on his good eye comes up in an analytical squint, but only barely. The twitch is so slight. He’s feigning that lopsided concern again, but it’s a cover. Careful deductions are being made rapidly, coming as natural as breathing. He has been fashioned from nothing but the underhanded and unseen sly deliberations of a sinner.

Not to fall for it, Virgil hardens his heart, or perhaps it has been hardened for him. “Don’t speak for them,” his mouth is laced with iron like a property gate, sharpened at the top and too tall to climb.

There’s a pause designed to shame him. He exhales slowly, eyes lightly closing for a second as if in pained patience. It's a trap, even closed eyes can be watching. With the weary good naturedness of the wise and kind, he smiles bitterly. Lies. Lies. Lies.

“Fine, Virgil. Then maybe I missed you. How’s that, hmm?” His voice drips like honey out his mouth down his lips, running to his chin and clinging to the soft tissue of his exposed neck.

Virgil runs his tongue across the back of his teeth, they feel sharper in his mouth, like he could cut his own gums just by biting down. He glares unyieldingly.

“Is that really so hard to believe?” He presses, as if he’s caught Virgil in a web. That damned smug smile plays and toys on his lips like a top spinning along the edge of a table. His yellow eye seems brighter, like he’s caught a piece of the sun for his own. “I just care,” he says as he uncrosses his legs and adjusts the cuff of his dress pants. Perfectly elegant.

“Liar,” Virgil spat out, angrily thrusting his hands in his pockets. It was a lie. He doesn’t ‘just’ do anything. He’s a two-faced conniving snake.

Just like the cave reveals to him.

There’s a weighty pause, as he seems to spin Virgil in his mind, looking for a new angle. Virgil can see the way his eyes scan him, those perceptive pupils prick him.

“We’re concerned,” he tells him gently. It’s not quite a delicate voice, but the type one uses when breaking bad news to a child. Virgil isn’t focused on the tone though. No. His blood boils.

‘We’re.’

As in ‘me and Patton.’ As in ‘remember how he betrayed you?’ As in ‘we are against you together.’ As in ‘who’s on the outside now, Virgil?’

Virgil felt water begin to drip down his face, falling from the imaginary heavens. Not tears. No. Too cold for that. The water is more than cold, it’s icy water like an ocean wave crashing against a shore in the dead of a winter night. Refreshing but startling as it sprays his pale skin. The temperature is so low it seems to burn him before the cold starts to set in. The frigidness sends a shiver across his body, goosebumps rise up as the shock takes him off guard.

Water. Water. Why is he getting drenched in the middle of the living room?

Why?

Why would it–

The cave wants to help.

The rush of unbearable dizziness nearly knocks Virgil off his feet as he is hit with it. The room spins and he stumbles before catching himself.

Blink.

There is no sense but the gift of sight. If the nerves within his body still function, they do not do him the decency of cooperating. He is no physical being, not even the crudely shaped pretense of a body he usually resembles. His is simply an understanding detached from any form, and the aftertaste of adrenaline hovering above the ground in a cloud. He isn’t a body.

Yet he can see.

In the center of a faded pink desert there is a yellow sun. The sand pale like blood that has been watered down and left to dry. The sand is parched and desperate to take where it can, be it greed or simple animalistic desperation one may not say. It sucks the lifeforce of whatever wander’s legs are unlucky enough to find themselves trekking across its rolling hills and sloping mountains. 

In the center of a sickly sky there is a yellow sun suspended in a cruel expanse.

The sun is watching, always, it is watching. For there is no night and no moon. No respite from the fiery beam of light. There is no world of stars to look upon in the dead of night. It is eternal. The black slit down the center of the yellow sun is an unyielding shade of darkness, with no discernable end to the inky void. The yellow sun turns and rolls in its paper dry residence in the sky, unwaveringly following any poor fool of a traveler unlucky enough to have caught its piercing attention. 

The yellow sun never missed a thing, for all things resided below, uncovered.

What goes on below the inch of flesh that covers one’s corporeal form is not hidden from all eyes. What sounds does one’s body make that even the owner does not get the privilege of listening to? What shapes do one’s mouth form while they lie? 

The yellow eye doesn’t have to wonder. It knows.

When it blinks, if it ever does, that will be the opportunity to weep. To stare into the face of its eye and sob is to tear one’s own chest in half, displaying a beating heart slowly cooking under the heat. Don’t let it win in the last ways it has yet to conquer you. Do not falter.

Don’t do it.

Don’t do it, Virgil.

He won’t. He won’t let him win.

“Virgil?”

He forgot about the fangs. Oh god.

How could he forget the fangs?

Sweet smelling breath like syrupy antifreeze coats the inside of a raw pink maw. A trail of saliva runs from the side of the mouth to a canine. Teeth sharp as daggers glint in the warm low light. Maybe they pierce, puncture, then drain the blood from an unsuspecting neck. Maybe they just tear you to shreds. Maybe in a passionate bout of heat, lips are slipping and sliding across one another, and in a shocking turn of unforeseen terror, the fangs are locked around your mouth, ripping, pulling. There may be passion, but there is no love in such things.

The forked tongue reaches out like a finger hooking your chin. Your face is jerked upward.

Your eyes meet and you are lost to the vast sky.

Still, there are no stars.

Blink.

A yellow man is standing by a stark white hospital bed in a dim room.

The sickly colored light cast shadows in the little corners of the large room. The man’s shadow is warped and too long, twisting along the waxed floor.

There’s a frail child nestled into the cold white sheets. He’s so much smaller than the bed, so much smaller than the gray world he has been brought into. His gaunt face is nearly as sickly pale as the bedding. Doe eyes like melted chocolate, robbed of what warmth they may have once held. Shaky smiles that smell like weakness, taste like vulnerability.

The yellow man holds the child’s tiny hand. He is somber. His gentle touch is a lifeline more so than anything the hospital may provide. He slowly brings up a soft glove to delicately rest over the child’s eyes, blocking the little boy’s vision.

“Don’t look.” The yellow man whispers, a small, reassuring smile on his thin lips that the boy cannot see, but can manage to hear. That’s what matters.

And the boy obeys. There is apprehension in his weary little face, but trust doesn’t always thrive in absolute security. Fear of the outside, the below, and the above often fosters a stronger faith than any peace ever could. With no one else’s hand to hold, any hold could be considered warm.

There is a burden, a weight unlike he’d previously known upon the man’s shoulders, like large hands are slowly pressing him into the ground, holding his shoulders and pushing. Pushing and pushing in the hopes he will finally lay down and accept his defeat.

But the child anchors him to this world. Nothing matters more than the sickly boy on the too large bed, whose eyes he hides from the stark cold room they’re residing in. His precious eyes need not be subjected to its hopelessness.

The medical equipment begins to grow angry, frustrated, uneasy, like spooked animals in a herd. It furiously beeps and blares, urgent noises filling the sterile little room. Panicked footsteps thunder down the echoey linoleum halls outside. The boy stiffens and tries to gently pull the man’s wrist down, to see what is going on. What will become of him? What is coming?

The yellow man whispers a sweet reassurance, keeping his hand over the boy’s eyes. He knows that it is not time for the boy to see. Only the yellow man’s eyes are strong enough to know, and he will carefully ensure that it stays that way for now.

As if a professional, the man reaches over the boy’s head with his free hand, carefully retrieving one of two small clear masks attached to a variety of things the boy doesn’t understand. Sometimes the boy is frustrated by how little he understands about his own little room. Gently, the yellow man slides it over the boy’s mouth, securing it safely.

The boy blinks slowly beneath the man’s hand. He doesn’t fight it as he feels his body lull, going to sleep. The yellow man’s face is impassive, but he is not infallible. The back of one of his gloves tenderly traces the side of the boy’s sleeping face, and there is a tangible shake in his fingers. It is painful. It is real. He may not be infallible, but he is strong. The boy is asleep, deeply once again. 

Such a peaceful expression.

He enjoys the moment for barely longer than the span of a breath.

The man knows he is a hypocrite at times, such things come with the job, he supposes. He adjusts his gloves, slowly walking away from the side of the bed. He then walks to the door and opens it, staring out into the vast expanse in the form of the sea.

He lowers his eyes.

Blink.

Virgil stares at him. He feels strange now, finding himself back in the living room he’s so comfortable in yet so agitated by all at once. It doesn’t look right, though. Because the carpet is gone. There is no real floor, even.

Oh, and he is frozen still. Like a statue, he doesn’t so much as breathe. He has one foot barely touching the ground, like he was stuck in a photograph, one catching him just beginning to run forward. Strange, so very strange.

The ground is a few inches covered in water, and it’s beautiful, like a mirror it is so still. The living room is reflected in the darkness. The water gently ripples around his legs, gentle, so very gentle. Virgil’s grungy tennis shoes and the cuffs of his skinny jeans are soaked. It’s cold.

The water does not touch him. It skirts around him, lapping at an invisible border. It angers the water to not be able to lick his dress shoes, wet his skin, engulf his ankles. The air is damp and heavy, but his skin is still dry, almost flaky. A shed is approaching. Virgil used to care.

He looks tense, his scales glimmer coldly in the light. His jaw is tightened in some amount of restrained distress. One hand concealed in a glove is outstretched as if to catch something.

Virgil is on edge, he’s awkward and uncomfortable. When is he not? No, he knows the answer to that. When he’s angry, he is sure of himself, but it’s a fleeting feeling before the doubt creeps back in to haunt him. But at least the water is there. The water is a comfort, even if it isn’t enough to fully soothe him. The water around his ankles laps at him in a gentle, rocking rhythm. It’s tender, like a melody not meant to be heard but felt, sensations on his skin approaching and receding like a chorus that swells but never dwells long in any one way.

Virgil comes a little closer to the frozen snake, his calloused fingers worrying his left hoodie string. It’s a habit that has left the strings ratty and worn. He probably noticed the habit. Of course he did. He sees too much. The water detests him. He has his own eyes, his own sick perceptions. The water hates him. He is shrouded in a dry haze of stupid deception. The water hates him. Virgil hates him. He thinks he hates him. It’s hard.

The silent sound of the water is beginning to get to him. Like when he’s down in the cave, but he’s not in his cave. Ah, but his mind longs to return. It’s where he belongs, isn’t it? Maybe his mind never truly left the cave. Maybe he never should have left at all.

Oh. Oh, he’s getting so dizzy. The water is beckoning.

Virgil slowly sinks to the floor, onto his haunches, then about to half fall into a sitting position. The water is soaking through his pants. That’s okay. It’s alright with him. The water may go where it pleases.

From where he’s so low on the ground Virgil notices that it looks almost as if his hand is reaching for him now. Like a desperate attempt to snatch him away.

Blink.

The world goes back to normal so quickly that the air feels ripped out of Virgil’s lungs. Like he’s been thrown against the ground and had the wind knocked out of him. The water is gone like it never existed. Like as if the tide could recede, taking the dampness of the sand with it.

“Virgil!”

Virgil looks up as the gloves hand grasps his shoulder as Virgil finds himself hitting the ground. Did he fall? He sure doesn’t remember falling.

“Let go, Janus,” Virgil finds himself snapping. He harshly shoves the gloves off him.

“You collapsed. Calm down, take it easy. Here,” Janus extends a hand to help him back up to his feet. Worry swims in his eyes like tadpoles in a pond of tears. No.

He doesn’t accept the help, instead sending a glare brimming with hatred. Janus doesn’t know what Virgil saw, what he still sees. He knows better than to trust a snake. “Get off me.”

Janus sighs again. He does that often. It makes his blood boil hotter. “I’m not the reason you fell, there’s no need to be upset with me, now come on. Up you come,” he reached out again.

“Just shut up, and move your hands before you lose them,” Virgil growls.

What’s gotten into you?” Janus shakes his head like a tired parent, the conniving, infuriating, slimy bastard. “Stay put then, I’ll call Patton, since you’d likely throw a tantrum if I dared look you over.”

“You’re not calling anyone, you bitch. Leave me alone. You shouldn’t be up here anyway, you don’t belong here,” Virgil says through his teeth. He feels like a caged animal, biting and growling through a chain-link fence. He feels like his blood has been replaced with an aimless vitriol.

Janus raises an eyebrow, not nearly as offended as Virgil craved him to be. No. He’s seeing again. He knows. Virgil feels sick. He knows. He knows. He knows.

“… you’ve been going again, haven’t you?” he realizes, and it’s hardly a real question, because he knows, they both do. “Or did you ever really stop?” he murmurs, more to himself.

Panic, dread, fury, it all comes together in a horrible concoction that burns red in his belly. Virgil feels his hackles rise, his spine hardening and his teeth begging to be uncovered by his lips. “That isn’t any of your fucking business.”

There is a graveness in Janus’ disgusting, poisonous, yellow-colored eye. “You know what it does to you. Why do you keep letting it—”

“Shut up! I am not falling for this,” Virgil hisses, clumsily yet aggressively getting to his feet. “I hate you. I hate you and I know what you’re doing. To me. To Patton. To Thomas. I know. I can see. So don’t you dare try me again because I swear that I will tear you to shreds with my teeth.”

Janus does not get angry. Nor does he look afraid. Instead, he looks more sad than Virgil can recall seeing him in a very long, long time. A soft expression of a bittersweet fondness lines his face like faded smile lines. His shoulders slump in a disappointed tiredness. There’s a tiny shake of his head.

“Oh, Virgil,” he says softly, “what has it done to you?”

Virgil flees. He runs. He sprints off to his room without looking back. Up the stairs, his sneakers thundering loudly against the carpet. He can’t stand to look at that snake any longer.

The water flows unceasingly.

Ch 2. Ch 3.

[shadowen]

I've been thinking a lot about the intersections between gender envy, gender dysphoria, and body dysmorphia and feeling very stuck.

I'm non-binary and AFAB. I use the term genderqueer, because my internal sense of gender is very much shrug emoji. As far as specific terms, the closest is probably genderfluid or agender. In a perfect magical world, I'd be able to change my shape or temporarily swap out body parts at will. We don't live in a perfect magical world, obviously. I wear a binder sometimes, but I don't feel like it makes much of a difference. (Yes I have a good quality binder. Yes it's correctly fitted. I have large breasts and mostly wear sports bras, so there's just not a noticeable change.) I feel a lot of the "but am I non-binary enough?" impostor syndrome, for a lot of reasons.

This is all personal stuff, not meant to comment or reflect on the experience of anyone other than myself, and is probably WAY more information about me than you ever want to know. Just thought writing it out might help organize my thoughts. Maybe it did?

I'm fat. That's not meant to be disparaging, just a statement of fact. There's been some variation in my size over my adult life, but I've always been fat. There was a time when I could say I was hot AND fat, but that's long past. The only times I've ever lost a significant amount of weight, I was (a) still fat and (b) living in a way that was deeply unhealthy (replacing meals with coffee and cigarettes, walking so much I was in pain, not sleeping, etc.). I've tried medications and diets. I'm not unhealthy. I'm just fat, and I'm always going to be fat.

I feel like the entire front of my body is just in the way. My breasts and stomach are just this big lump of flesh that keeps me from ever being comfortable. Sitting, standing, moving, walking, sleeping, everything is harder because of this mass that feels like it's pasted onto my body. Clothes that otherwise fit fine don't fit right on my breasts or don't sit right on my waist or just won't go over my stomach. This has always been a problem, no matter what size I am. I used to say that I love my tits, but I don't. The only good thing I can say about them is that they're big enough to occasionally balance out my lower belly, so I at least sort of look like a shape instead of just a blob. One big fear I have with getting rid of them is that I will just look like a blob.

My physical appearance causes me severe psychological distress, but I genuinely have no idea what the underlying cause is. I feel so alienated from my physical self. I hate my body. It feels like a trap that I'm stuck in. I want to cut myself out of it, and I know that's not healthy. The big question is: Do I hate my body because it's fat or because it has breasts? Both? Neither? A secret other thing? This feels like an academic distinction, but gender dysphoria and body dysmorphia are separate medical diagnoses with dramatically different approaches to treatment. In the most simplistic terms, gender dysphoria says, "Your appearance doesn't reflect who you are, and there's things you can do to change that." Body dysmorphia says, "You're convinced there's something wrong with your appearance, and you need therapy to convince yourself there's not."

Neither of them is exactly right. Getting misgendered is irritating, but it doesn't stop me from doing things. What stops me from doing things is feeling like I look ugly and ridiculous no matter what I do. Body dysmorphia is mostly focused on minor imperfections, not literally the entire body, and hinges on the assumption that the feeling is irrational. Is what I'm feeling irrational? I don't know. Is it tied to my sense of self? Yes, definitely. Is it tied to my gender specifically? Fuck if I know.

The thing is, I do know that my gender presentation doesn't match my gender identity. (It doesn't have to, obviously. Non-binary people don't have to look non-binary, but I, personally, want to.) If I wear a dress, I look like a girl in a dress. If I wear a suit, I look like a girl in a suit. At least in a dress, I can look reasonably attractive. In masculine clothes, I just look like an ugly butch. (Butches in general are beautiful. I, in particular, am ugly.) Is there, theoretically, some combination of shapewear, clothing, make-up, etc. that could achieve the appearance I want? Yeah, maybe. Can I go through that routine every time I leave the house? Hell no. It takes most of my morning energy just to brush my teeth and put on a bra.

I know my body is not the right shape. (I think? Could be irrational. Who knows.) So what is the right shape? This is what I've been thinking about lately and why I've been thinking about the concept of gender envy.

Even after 20 years in fandom, I still feel self-conscious talking about things like this in terms of fictional characters, but characters, like gender, are artificial constructs that can have a material impact on our lives. So here we are.

Gender envy is one of those things that I've always understood in theory but never really related to. Recently, though, I encountered a character (as one does) who pinged my brain in a way I couldn't immediately figure out. Not necessarily attraction or identification, and not even really wanting to be like them, but wanting to give off the same vibe, the same impression, the same sense of existence. I didn't really think about what exactly I was feeling until I suddenly remembered that gender envy was, in fact, a thing. And... Yeah. That. So I'm looking at this character and thinking that this is what I want, and I'm looking at myself and wondering if it's possible. And I don't know. Because my body is the wrong shape, and I don't know if I can change it in a way that will make me feel... right.

(This is not about the owlbear. Yes, I generally want to be a beautiful, genderless, monster, but I'd still rather be human-shaped. I've genuinely put a lot of thought into whether I might be a furry and come to the conclusion that I really am just a monster fucker.)

I don't know. The best thing for me to do is probably talk to a therapist, but it's hard enough finding one in general, much less one who knows enough about all the intersecting issues to offer meaningful guidance. I have one non-binary friend who's also fat, but I think they struggle with a lot of the same questions I do. And of course, that imposter syndrome is constantly in the back of my head asking if I'm really non-binary or just sort of non-binary.

[ponett]

i've also been answering slarpg-related questions over on my retrospring account lately (which basically serves as a twitter ask box for me), so here are some of those! this includes factoids about the main cast, lore questions, and design and writing questions! (there are also some light spoilers for the game here - if you've played through act ii you're probably good)

Since Reverie is a world where magic can do all kinds of crazy things, how come trans people dont use some type of transformation magic in their transition? We see that Melody has to take her hormones so I'm assuming transition here works the same way as in reality. Is magical transformation unstable or dangerous in a similar way to getting too much magic too quickly is? Or in a more meta sense was this just a conscious choice to keep that aspect of the trans experience grounded in how it goes in real life?

it was the latter. a lot of details exist in the world to make the lives of the characters feel more grounded in reality and to play into the modern fantasy vibe. like, why do they just have regular cell phones and computers instead of some fantastical equivalent or just beaming messages to each other telepathically? because that's the brand of fantasy i'm going for. does transformation magic exist in the world? sure, but then you get less of that "wow she's just like me fr" factor

reverie also isn't supposed to be a utopian world where all of the problems we have on earth have been solved, even with the existence of magic. allison still has to pay rent, harmful ideologies still exist, and, yes, melody is still going through HRT instead of just casting the boob spell and being done with it

(but for the record, on reverie medicine IS made with magic, so it's quite possible it's more potent than what we have because of it)

Do you think more comics can be anticipated in the future?

i won't rule out the possibility but we also don't have plans for more right now

Hey whatever happened to "The Whacker"?

it had an internal mana reserve that was depleted when melody cast that big spell in the comic so now it's kinda useless

The Notice Board in Greenridge -- I'm curious, was it ever meant to be more than the couple quests it gives you? (Or, at least, I only ever say the couple, lest I missed something.) I'm mostly curious as it seemed like something that would update over time, but never did. Figured it was just one of those things that never got as fleshed out as perhaps initially envisioned, likely due to time constraints.

the notice board was something added between early alpha builds of act ii. i had recently added the quest log and wanted to do something with that to test it out, and i also wanted the friends who'd already playtested the amber woods to have something new to do in the area. i did, in fact, assume that there would be more small side quests via the notice board in act iv, as well as some similar side quests in the wasteland, but work on the main story and the major side quests took so long and the game was already so much bigger than i had originally expected that adding more small fetch quests was deprioritized. as it stands now it's effectively a tutorial for the fact that sometimes you'll have secondary objectives aside from the main story, and that you can track them in the quest log

i definitely would've liked to do more side quests in general, but act iv already has so much more content than people expect that it would probably only hurt the pacing of the game to add even more side quests before the final dungeon

i will also say that i considered removing the notice board and just letting you get the two quests from the NPCs since it does stand out that it isn't used more, but the gag with pepper's request only works if there's a notice and i didn't wanna cut that

is there any Javis backstory that you have but just never put into slarpg, or was he always just Some Weird Dude and that's that?

he doesn't have a fully fleshed out backstory or anything but i do have more info about his origins than what's conveyed in the game. i'm sitting on it for now

How good are the main four (plus any other NPCs you like) at drawing?

melody: not good, but it'll be recognizable

allison: not a professional by any stretch, but loved to doodle in her notebook in school

claire: comically bad

jodie: shockingly good due to her experience drawing blueprints and designing armor as a blacksmith, but it's not a skill she even consciously thinks about having. in her mind faith is the artist

bobby what happened with the room off to the west in mumford inn. why did it exist at all if it was just being renovated all the time lol

i put the door in the middle of the building on the exterior art but then didn't have anything to put off to the left side of the interior

So here's a worldbuilding question: How many gods does Reverie have? Is it a (relatively) small pantheon where each member has wide-reaching power or is more like Greek mythology where you have both the big guys and minor gods for every increasingly specific possible domain? If it's the former, who are those gods? What domains do they claim? If it's the latter, who are the major players?

reverie has a small number of gods who each represent a big concept. i'm currently avoiding specifying too much about them to allow myself creative freedom on future stories, rather than deciding on and sharing 100% of my worldbuilding up front and being beholden to that forever

So we know what Allison's preferred weapon is (SWORD), but what does kind(s) of weapon does her mother Amelia use when she gets into scuffles? This may or may not be important for a fanfiction which I am writing.

she also generally prefers swords but will use just about anything. i see her as a jack of all trades when it comes to both fighting and magic - kind of like a red mage

Since most of the cast’s family/past is brought up at least in passing… Is there a reason we never hear about Melody’s? Or am I missing something? All I recall hearing was that she was constantly bullied and Allison stood up for her.

it just wasn't really necessary for the story or her character arc in the way that other characters' families were relevant, so i didn't want to commit to anything about them and potentially write myself into a corner in the future. i'll probably figure out what her family is like someday (and why we haven't seen them), when it feels necessary to do so

part of me also worried that melody might be interpreted as younger than she actually is (or that the game might automatically get more of a "YA" vibe) if one of the first things you see in the game is that she still lives with her parents, even though, like... she's a 22-year-old with no job. she shouldn't be able to afford her own house. where'd she get the house? who knows! but i wanted it to be clear up front that she's an independent adult, so she lives on her own, away from her parents

beyond that, if her family's in greenridge, then her parents become characters whose status you'd have to worry about throughout the game as certain things happen in and around greenridge. they're additional pieces on the chess board. where are they at any given time? where do they live if not with melody? why did melody move out? how do they feel about what's going on? are they worried about melody's safety? are THEY safe? how are these relationships affected by what's happening? it's a lot of additional character work that needs to be done for the sake of supporting characters that just weren't important to the arc i wanted to give melody

I see in Allison's character bio on the SLARPG website that she likes Fighting games… Which ones does she play and who would she main?

allison like the really flashy stuff like mvc or arcsys games. she would main dante in umvc3, and i-no in guilty gear because she wishes she could fight with a guitar irl

what SLARPG character has motion smoothing turned on on their tv?

jodie did until the exact day claire moved in

[the-s1lly-corner]

I wish to hear about the knd oc

>:3c

Give us the lore Silly!!!!

Sososo sorry for taking so long to get to this! Admittedly I was putting this off simply because theres so much lore! I'll be adding a cut to this because with me summarizing stuff, it's still a lot! I'll try to break it up in sections, since there are different.. chapters... for lack of a better word.. this ocs entire life is plotted out! From early childhood to present day when the show takes place! That's a lot of lore considering the character is well into adulthood by the time the main series happens!

Apologies if it's all over the place and some points are.. whack.. this is my first time putting everything into writing! I'll also need to talk about other ocs so this main one can make sense, mostly it'll be talking about their sector, in regards to other ocs! Also its 3am at the time of writing this + my stomach is being MEAN

With all that said, let's hope this doesnt turn into a novel!

Also also** lore may contradict what's in canon, maybe.. I'm not sure! I'm still not done reading the comics and I havent touched anything GKND so I'm unsure if theres any extra info that in unaware of that would complicate things

Feel free to send any questions about the oc!! Lore stuff, interactions with canon characters, ect!

cws: mentions of controlling/toxic parents but i dont go too in depth about it but just know that this is a part of her story. mentions of sexism as well, obligatory its there because "admin uses his ocs to process his experience with his gender as well as being afab and other stuff" but i dont go toooooo deep into it

Name; Rose Wood

Pronouns; she/her

Age; obviously since we're sliding around all over her time line I'll let you know based in the section... but shes in the same age group as Benedict and Monty

Appearance, present day; short, rocking a chubby mom bod! Red hair that's a little faded with a prominent streak of grey. Green eyes. Very curly and fluffy hair! Not sold on a length, but currently it's just last her shoulders! Often wears cardigans or sweaters, though I'm yet to make an "official" outfit for her... her default outfit! Short :( she stopped growing in her early/mid teens height wise, about 5'5

Appearance, KND era; assuming this is in the later half of her time as a KND operative shes tall by kid standards (assuming like. 4'6 is the average for girls as google is telling me). Lanky!! Very long hair, hair is more vibrant but that's really just a design choice rather than an in universe thing. Hair changes length, it starts at mid back but she cuts it to her jaw a few months before shes decommissioned. No default outfit but she swaps between her school uniform and baseball uniform (sports kid before her dad made her stop!!)

Personality; very sweet and kind, patient.. however shes no nonsense, though that develops slowly over time and really roots and shows itself in her young adult years. Lots of internalized feelings, as a child and teen, she feels she had to suck it up and put on a happy face because to do anything else would be "unbecoming", at least according to her parents. As an adult shes oblivious to the whole child vs adult war and doesnt realize how serious it is, shes just vibing

Occupations, past and current; knd operative (decommissioned), teacher (current)

Family; she doesnt talk to her parents all that much however she keeps in touch with her grandfather (very old, think 80s, rose was an oops baby + so was her dad LMAO), and 2 younger sisters. She does have other family members however they're not very fleshed out currently. She does have a son who is a teen by the time the main series takes place! Maybe I'll make a short follow up post on him!

Former Sector teammates, numbers and names; Numbuh 246 (Rose Wood), Numbuh 165 (Jamie Robinson), Numbuh 162 (Kimberly "Kimmy" Wilson), Numbuh 527 ("Sammy" Jones), Numbuh 129 (Davis Peterson) (the leader of the sector)

i'll probably make a separate post for her teammates, this post is already pretty long LMAO

KND days;

she joined within the very early days of the KND, after monty started it. i would go further and say shes a "first generation" knd operative, being there when they fought and overthrew grandfather. she didnt actually join a sector until the last year or two of her time as an operative, working solo prior on missions and helping built up the operation. thanks to her experience, she was sent to go basically work and "pass off her knowledge" before shes decommissioned.

a actually wrote in parallels between her sector and sector v for thematic reasons but i wont get into that here; but if i had to make a comparison shes like the numbuh 5 of the group. fairly level headed and in tune with whats going on as well as being able to step up when it counts to push through on a mission

"if she was sent to basically pass her experience, why wasnt she made the leader?". tight schedule on her part, parents cared a lot about keeping up appearances and they worked rose like a horse by having her sign up to a bunch of extra curriculars + her having her share of chores as well as her parents being strict. she just did not have a lot of time to spare. a lot of her ark is her slowly becoming more and more independent as time passes, but as of now shes pulling herself between being this model student to appease her parents and fighting for the knd's cause. ironic given the whole fighting against adult tyranny thing

there was some friction in the beginning when she first joined the sector, shes the second newest member the newest being 527 (Sammy). a lot of coming from 165 (Jamie), actually throws her failures in her face if they ever fumble a mission because of her whole history. they do eventually become buddies though, but its a slow burn!

she does get what she was sent to do done before she turns 13, her decommissioning is your standard decommissioning albeit with some pizzazz; she was a first gen operative but she was one of the last remaining ones at that time so its like. a whole chapter ending in their history with only a handful of others remaining. she doesnt get to be a secret operative

Teenager;

probably the most underdeveloped part of her story, i mostly focused on her childhood as well as the present day.. so this section and early adulthood is a little under baked. a lot of the themes as before are still here, overbearing and controlling strict parents completely dominate her time so she doesnt have much time to just. be. she does end up reconnecting with some of her old teammates, but theyre all of course decommissioned at this point in time. the only one who is still an operative is sammy, but thats due to them being so young in comparison to the rest of the sector and even then theyre at the end of their time as an operative. due to the whole "operatives arent to mess with the lives of ex operatives" rule thats mentioned, sammy doesnt interact much with rose or the others unless they approach them first.

main thing to note is that rose and davis have a short fling that quickly burns out due to teens being dumb: short explanation davis was insecure and jealous and rose did not want to deal with that on top of everything else going on with her. good for her for looking out for her health

she was not an evil teen, though, far too deep in her studies to really do anything rebellious as well as being afraid of falling behind and disappointing her parents

around this time, not long after her and davis break up her and her family moves out of town

Young adult;

she went NC with her parents not long after she turned 18, moving out soon after. she does keep in touch with her younger siblings, though. the breaking point was really her parents confirming that theyre disappointed with her existence. literally all but saying they wish they had a son instead of a daughter as a first born, lots of old values/views there that finally pushes rose over the edge. noting now that rose did have some feelings about her gender but never really explored it due to feeling the need to conform + this takes place pre 2000s so... but moving forward she does start to embrace herself and slowly take the time to get to know herself now that shes got the time and space to do so. i do like the idea of her experimenting between now and present day, and while she does eventually lean more towards presenting feminine there are instances where shes presenting more masc/feels more masc

while at college she meets someone, obligatory "i havent given him a name yet", they get together. everythings good, they have a kid. they break up. im still cooking up a reasoning for why they split but for now its just "they changed because they got married young, and now theyre older"

Present day;

a few years before the events of the show she moves back to town, i was going to say she moves in during the current events but i decided to be nice and give her a chance to get accustomed to being back in her hometown. i havent decided how it happens but she ends up getting in with the villains but like. not in the way that shes a villain too, in the "shes like the nice lady from down the street who makes some killer brownies so we all vibe with her". kind of just started as a joke that i turned into the canon for her because i can... kind of see that happening... this leads to her meeting benedict, blah blah she vaguely remembers him, they catch up and it leads to them getting together

i actually didnt originally ship them because "ooooooooouuugh father kinda...." actually it was because "the delightfuls need a decent parent figure because GOD!! i love father and my take on him does soften him a bit with time but GOOD LORD" and then it mixed with that and the "ooooooough hes kinda..." LMAO

not much to say other than shes the cool mom at the PTA meetings and just gets along with everyone, probably thinks the delightfuls and sector v are friends. which drives both of them up the wall they HATE it LMAO

Post series finale;

Dead/j

Okay well, that's just a concept. Admittedly I dont know what to do with her after the series finale takes place. Logically one can assume she just continues on with her day to day because shes not really involved in the fight against children, shes quite literally. Vibing and staying in her own lane asides from when she gets dragged into things by the people around her; even then shes still.. oblivious.. not much different than how Monty reacts to the knd stuff, when hes not recommissioned. Simply thinking it's this elaborate game of sorts, ESPECIALLY if she were to get dragged in through the delightfuls (who are. You know, effectively her step children thanks to her relationship with father)

[grayintogreen]

I'm actually really excited after reading this interview! It hit a lot of good points !

Lucien hype Lucien Hype Lucien Hype!

“He’s not a good guy,” Roux said. “That was actually one of the best challenges of the book. How do you flesh this person out and how do you explain their life without excusing their behavior? How do you build in these steps where he has all these opportunities to do the right thing, change for the better, self-reflect in a way that might move him down a better path?

Showing that there were ways out and showing that it wasn’t just a foregone conclusion that he was going to be a villain, but always making it a choice that he’s making, to do the selfish thing or to do the easier thing,” Roux continued. “That was sort of my approach — we have to keep his sense of humor. We have to keep his sort of smugness. We have to keep these indelible things that make him a fun villain. You know, the monologuing and the sort of wickedness that he has. Those things have to remain. But always keep in mind, at the end of the day: I don’t want this to be an apology.”

OKAYOKAYOKAY SHE GETS IT. SHE GETS THE ANAKIN SKYWALKER OF IT ALL!! SHE EVEN MENTIONS THE MONOLOGUING.

“I don’t think you can do it correctly if you don’t take into account that this person is an amalgamation of these different souls that end up inhabiting this one body,” Roux said. “And what would that do to you, and does that mean that there’s crossover? You try slipping in juicy little hints here and there. Maybe they’re all meshed together in some sense — or maybe when the spell was cast they were broken apart.” She relied on Jaffe’s performance and Mercer’s improvisation and dialogue to nail down Lucien’s persona. One of the biggest throughlines she identified was Lucien’s reliance on theatricality.

OKAY OKAY OKAY. SHE IS REALLY GETTING IT.

“It’s just performance all the time,” she said, “and how exhausting that is and how draining that is, and how ultimately it’s kind of what leads to his isolation.”

BITING MY FIST. EXCELLENT. PERFECT. Oh my god if I get NOTHING ELSE AT LEAST MY CHARACTERIZATION IS VALIDATED. YOU GET ME MADELEINE. YOU UNDERSTAND THE ASSIGNMENT.

Getting to explore his story in a novel meant that Roux got to flesh out Lucien’s connection to the Somnovem and how he became the Nonagon, as well as the sinister impact that those changes have on his psyche and his body.

“What would it feel like, to stumble across something like this that has its own magical sway over you?” Roux said. It also meant reshaping the established understanding of other villainous NPCs, including the Tombtakers and Cree, the catfolk who Lucien seemed to be closest with in the actual play.

OHHH SHIT. YES PLS. GIMME THE CREECIEN.

“He didn’t come out of the womb monologuing,” she said. “I think what you’re trying to do is find little nuggets of surprise and revelation that you have along the way, so it doesn’t feel like a retread of what’s on screen. You can’t get away from it, but I wanted to stay away from [that] as much as possible because it’s not a book about the Mighty Nein. They are the antagonists of this book in a sense. Although I would argue that it’s mostly [Lucien] himself, it’s man versus man, man versus internal dialogue.

THIS IS ALL I WANTED OH MY GOD IM GOING TO SCREECH.

“But, you know the ending, right? You have to build in surprises,” Roux said. “And not just outside of this new biographical information, which is fun and good. I think what people want to see is: What makes this guy tick? And how did we get here? How did we get to this place? Let’s never lose sight of what people want out of this, and what’s interesting. But I think just [biographical] information is not necessarily compelling. I think we need the heart of him and the heart of his relationship with Cree — she’s the most steady presence in his life. And eventually the other Tombtakers as well.”

CREECIEN CREECIEN CREECIEN.

In conclusion: shaking, crying, throwing up.