#Miguel or even Julia would be far more popular picks

[habbohoteldotdk]

it kills me how back in 2018 everyone pretended they wanted Lei back in Tekken 7. he wound up having the lowest pick rate out of all characters in the game... now we are supposed to believe people also want to play Bob again

[glitchrpgmain]

congratulations ADDY! you have been accepted into underworldfm. please welcome JULIA LAURY. HUNTER SCHAFER is now taken. please submit your blog within the next 24 hours & be sure to follow the guidelines outlined in our checklist.

IC

occupation. dance student at nyu tisch & barista @ coffee grinds, a small coffee shop located close to washington square park species. lycan

faction. neutral

name. julia felicity laury

age. 22 years old

gender & pronouns. trans woman | she/her 

faceclaim. hunter schafer

BIO.

delicate satin threads braided through platinum locks & glossed pink lips glittering with sparkles – you have always been the picture of angelic charm. as the youngest of three, your life had begun with the promise of being doted upon, adored & revered by two loving parents who wanted nothing more than to nurture their youngest. your oldest brother had nearly emerged into young adulthood by the time your birth had blessed the unit & your sister – the unfortunate recipient of the much-loathed title of ‘middle child’ – had petulantly declared she wanted you returned to the hospital post-haste. you had cried & cried & cried – much like an infant should upon being brought into the world kicking & screaming – and though she looked down at your squishy , pink face with disdain, your mother and father chuckled in earnest. they’ll learn to get along – your father would say this with a shake of his head & a quiet sigh. after all, how could anyone feel anything but adoration when they gazed into your wide, watery blue eyes?

you slowly grew from pampered infant into a toddler who became the object of her sister’s irritation. your small hands searched for the dolls & princess toys that your sister claimed to be hers, not yours – but oh, how young and innocent you were. you cried & cried again & your parents would return with a look of stern reproach. ‘you know better than to not share. be nice, you can share your dollies, can’t you amber?’ your father reprimanded gently while you wiped your tears & sniffled petulantly. you could feel her gaze, pointed & unappeased as a child could manage. when she relented, it was reluctant at best. she didn’t understand why you wanted her dolls in the first place–but that didn’t matter to you. or to your parents. you smiled & you cooed happily.

you two continued bicker; when words became easier to form & your parents began to relax their watchful protection upon you, you found yourself skittering through your sister’s belongings. you took her pretty plastic heels, her frilly dresses, her nail polish or her lip gloss – and though terrifying tantrums ensued with both of you crying and screeching… something shifted. you’re six years old when amber finds you fiddling with the pretty pink polish nestled atop her desk – and you freeze, like a baby doe caught in the harsh glare of headlights. but rather than picking a fight, your sister pauses–and more than that, she smiles. ‘want me to paint your nails?’ you didn’t know how to respond at first. you looked shy, sheepish. you mumbled a sound as close to ‘yes’ as you could manage–and before you could finish the syllable, amber’s hand was in yours and she was tugging you to sit on her bed. she held your hand carefully , keeping your fingers spread as she paid earnest attention to your nails. she began speaking idly–about what, you’re not quite sure–and you listened with rapt attention.

you began to look to your elder sister, the one who had spent so long wanting you out of her hair, as a source of comfort rather than fear. she was only four years your senior, after all, and by the time you blossomed into your highschool years, you turned to amber for advice at every turn, every corner. your freshman year was a daunting experience–after all, numerous nights spent on end analyzing the holy grail of coming-of-age movies, mean girls, had done nothing but instill a palpating fear within you. your vanity had manifested young–and though your mother, your father, your brother, and your sister had spent so long holding you beneath their wings, you knew that the dog-eat-dog world of highschool girls would be a beast you’d have to face on your own. the unfortunate matter of your sister, your best friend, graduating the year you began your tumultuous journey into young adulthood had left you shaking in your pair of suede boots. (they were a gift from your mother; you had been eyeing them all summer, calculating your highschool debut in the fall with a careful eye.)

and it was then that you realized that being coddled by your loved ones had left you ill-equipped for the monstrosity of teenagehood. you never really fit in; you tried too hard, smiled too widely, laughed too loudly–and when you tried to befriend the it girls, they pursed their lips & wondered how the best way to put you down gently would be. you felt like an outsider–and though you found a few friends here & there, the lurking sensation of inadequacy continued to linger deep in your bones. you tried to smooth out your skirt & hold your head high, tried not to make it too obvious you ate your lunch in the bathroom stall or that you had spent third period trying to keep your eyes from puffing because you cried like a baby for the third time that day. how you had aimed to be the regina george but hardly even qualified as the janis ian was beyond you.

oh, but you had a passion. one that kept you hanging on with ambition–dance. your history with ballet is a long-winded one, a graceful sport that had left you with bloodied & bruised feet since you were still a little girl. your parents had been kind enough to indulge the hobby in your youth–and as your dedication grew, their marked interest pressed on. your sister’s support only pushed you forward–and though you cried on the phone and over videochats often to tell her how horrendous the girls at school made you feel, she continued to soothe you and remind you that you had bigger, better things to do. your sister was away for college and soon, you would be, too. you knew that your passion for the arts would take you places, after all–and with amber wiping your tears over the phone, you held your resolved and persevered.

how you managed to luck out with a scholarship & position with nyu tisch’s dance program is lost on you–but anyone who had watched over your life would tell you with swift approval that your passion, your drive, and your love for ballet had brought you here. you came to manhattan with starry eyes & pink lips lifted in a wide grin. and oh–how you found a home. you made friends quickly with a boy named miguel and together, you networked with other pretty things just like the two of you. getting black out drunk at frat parties & kissing cute boys that spared you with even the slightest bit of attention–it became your newest form of self-validation. suddenly, you were no longer the weird girl who tried too hard to be fashionable, or the one who laughed too loud to impress the populars. you were julia, that cute quirky ballerina, the one who looks really fucking cute in pink. you were julia, the girl from nyu with the trendy insta feed & a neat insta-highlight reel with the best vegan lattes in the city. you were julia, julia, julia–and oh, how you began to feed into the sensation. you bat your lashes & giggle & buy the hottest fashions. you throw yourself into the arms of any boy who makes you feel alive, makes you feel seen.

it is as if you have finally grown into yourself–and with your best friend at your side, you feel untouchable. you and miguel move in together & it’s the most fun you’ve ever had in your short life. you decorate, you giggle, you spend nights drinking wine and talking about boys and over-analyzing instagram feeds of people neither of you like. then one day, after a bottle of pink moscato has been downed, miguel tells you something; he slurs a bit, a mishmash of incoherency coloring his voice. you don’t believe it, not entirely–but he says he’s not human. says he is half wolf, half man–and you’re stunned into silence. you say nothing–and then you laugh & laugh & laugh. you poke his shoulder. ‘what, like jacob black form twilight?’ but he doesn’t giggle with you. he nods, far more earnest than you had anticipated.

and it changes your life forever.

you insist to see, insist to learn–and he tells you that he was born as one of the pups of a pack serving a cause far greater than she can begin to fathom. that he had a brother–that he had been a leecher. that he had died on the frontlines, sacrificed as a casualty in a war they didn’t have any stake in. he cries & you weep with him. you hold him close & though he says his family keeps a distance from the war waged by the liberation, you promise to be there for him, no matter what. and oh, what a silly girl you are–but your loyalty to those who love you is infallible. it always has been. you ask miguel to turn you–and he does upon the next moon. the change hurts you, but it is a welcome one. you become one of his own–and together, you are your own two-person pack. the liberation doesn’t know of your inception, not yet at the very least. miguel doesn’t want them, so why should you? you have no intentions of instigating a war against the undead. you simply want to live your life–an eternity with your best friend. you want to surround yourself with the kindness, the happiness that has kept you going for so long.

you are not a fighter; you are an angel bathed in delicate threads of gossamer with a halo balanced atop your head. you are a lover, a friend–and above all, you’re just a girl. you’re just julia.

always have been.

always will be.