#i frankensteined two drafts for this

[fraudulent-cheese]

I think im actually going to change who wins in my team escope tdwt au?

Originally Noah was going to win and alenoah was gonna be the final 2, but it felt both like a disservice to Heather's character who does have development over the course of the season and it wasn't super compelling to me (she's way more invested in the competition than Noah is + my personal agenda of making Alejandro loose the competition in every single AU i write) + Noah winning just not making for a satisfying ending

Heather in this AU would end up in a similar "previous antagonist becomes antihero due to a bigger vilain popping up" position as she does in canon, but it's combined with her making a genuine friend on the show in Harold; she's shown in the best light she's ever been shown on the show and while a good chunk of the audience is supporting Noah for the finale, she still has a decent crowd of supporters.

It's also my personnal mission to make Alejandro loose in every Total Drama AU i write apparently, and him loosing the tie-breaker is perfect for angst. Also i've seen my fair share of tdwt alenoah rewrites and none of them have included both in the final 3 tie-breaker so it would be fun to explore, with Noah only standing a chance against Alejandro thanks to his dodging ability and wanting to put an end to their endless pining...

It could go two ways - either Noah wins the Tie-Breaker or Alejandro wins the tie-breaker.

Noah at this point in the competition is sure of three things:

Alejandro's a very competitive guy, with a flare for the dramatics

Him and Noah have had been semi-friendly semi-fighting all competition, with it dipping more into a rivalry as of late (the thing keeping him trying after Eva's elimination)

And based on both of these facts:

Alejandro's most likely looking for a dramatic victory over him. Noah's not willing to give him that.

So, mid-spar, Noah's trying to solve this conflict once and for all - Not his brightest idea, but he's joined Total Drama so he's made worse decisions - and opts to be genuine while dodging Alejandro's hits. His earnestness does break through eventually, and confesses to him. They're both standing near the edge of the fighting platform, and are both tired as hell from the previous challenge.

That is the only reason Noah considers as the one behind Alejandro leaning in and kissing him.

After this is where the ending would diverge depending on who ends up in the final two: Alejandro would win by Noah falling into the water right afterwards on his own accord, and Noah would win by tricking Alejandro into falling into the shark infested water.

either making it to the final 2 doesn't change the outcome of Heather winning in the end, but it would change the banter and Helpers; Heather would pick Sierra (who got over Heather booting her back in Paris because she's "a sucker for redemption arcs") and Leshawna (who's friendly with her in this AU) while the boys would pick a combination of the third placer + one of their closest friendship on the show (Courtney and Noah for Alejandro, Alejandro and Izzy for Noah). Heather still ends up in the cage trap and is genuinly pissed at this, but Harold and Leshawna (through the power of friendship) snap her out of it with a similar line as in canon (that she's a better person now and either 1. more deserving of the win for them if she's against Noah or 2. the 'good guy' if she's going against Alejandro) and manages to climb up the volcano.

If Heather's against Noah, she catches up to him due to his garbage athletisism and if it's Alejandro, it's the cast catching onto his distaste of the "Al" nickname and using it against him (probably Owen and Izzy, the latter joining in for shits and giggles). If it's against Noah it'll be a roundabout way of having a friendship finale, it's just the good guy with friends vs the less good guy who's gotten better thanks to friendship and self reflection, and if it's Alejandro and Heather it's just bad guy vs good guy, more like in canon :p they could have a stupid dramatic swordfight with the dummies that Alejandro looses like an idiot and it gets him slipping to the volcano's base (because it would be a funny visual).

The volcano still explodes at the end, but i don't know if i want the "alejandro gets partially burnt" ending or "everyone (but the million dollars) is fine" ending yet. idk

[starry-bi-sky]

I'm in A Mood™ (stressed) so im going back to my roots of melting two character together into one person. So bruce wayne!danny fenton. Danny Fenton who, for eight years, grew up in a beautiful gothic manor with his mom and dad under the name "Bruce Wayne". Playing piano with his mother, running around the manor with his father.

Then when he's eight it's ripped away from him. There's blood on his hands and pearls pooling at his feet, and both his parents are dead in front of him.

And he gets shipped off to distant relatives "the Fentons" shortly after, Alfred close on his heels because someone needs to take care of him, someone that knows him. Bruce goes to the Fentons for the safety of anonymity. Gotham's press wants to sink its teeth into him.

Danny misses his city even if it took everything from him. There are shadows in his eyes and he's pale as a sheet even beside his distant cousins, and they change his name to "Danny Fenton' because nobody should know that their newest child was illustrious orphan Bruce Wayne.

They call him Bruce behind closed doors. Danny prefers it that way, he clings onto the name -- the one his parents gave him -- like a lifeline. He makes friends with Sam and Tucker. Tucker takes one look at the willowy, morbid little boy standing in the corner like a shade, ghosts in his eyes, and drags him out into the sunlight, and takes him over to Sam.

When Danny is twelve, he's still not over it -- and he's a little obsessed with the Fentons' research, with the morbid. He has books upon books on death, murder, detective work. Anything he can get his hands on. And stars. He loves stars.

Alfred owns the apartment next to them and comes over regularly. Danny clings to him.

When Danny is twelve, he's still quiet, meek, a shy little thing prone to being bullied. Freaky little Fenton with the night in his eyes and too-cold skin even before he put one foot in the grave. in a sleepover in his room with Sam and Tucker, he tells them the truth. They're his friends, he trusts them.

"My name is Bruce." he murmurs, voice quiet as the breeze, always quiet. he's staring at his star-covered sheets.

"Like Bruce Wayne?" Tucker asks, a joking tone in his voice.

Danny smiles a little, lamb-like with insecurity. "I am Bruce Wayne." And he takes them down to the lab, disrupting Maddie and Jack, to prove it. Sam tells them of her own wealth then shortly after. They start calling Danny "Bruce" in private too -- its trust. Thats what it is. It's trust.

Sam goes to media functions and comes back with aching feet and complaints on her tongue -- and Danny soaks it up all like a sponge, splayed across a beanbag chair with Tucker in her room. He's not envious of her, he used to go to events with his parents and they kept him safe from the ugly of Gotham's Elite. For the most part. He's had comments made at him, he doesn't miss them.

Alfred returns to the manor semi-regularly, Danny goes with him. he wanders the hallways and helps Alfred clean, the last thing either of them want is for their home to fall into disrepair. He brings Jazz with him next time, then Tucker, then Sam. They all help him clean, and he shows them his room. The one across from his parents', it feels strange.

When Danny dies when he's fourteen, the first adult he tells is Alfred. He and Jazz go over to his house more often than they stay in the Fentonworks building. At least at Alfred's, the food doesn't come to life. Alfred sits at the kitchen table and weeps when Danny tells him, Jazz is upstairs, and its just the two of them.

Danny's ghost form wears pearls around his wrist and the gloves look stained with some kind of black substance. He looks like a child who died in a lab accident, but he also looks like a child who has shadows dripping off his shoulders, curling at his feet, hanging from his eyes.

because amorphous blob batman has my heart always and danny/bruce will not escape it even in death even if that IS the only reason im giving him Mild BatBlob Vibes...so far

when they go to the manor, alfred helps danny make a pile of stones between Martha and Thomas' graves, nobody but the two of them (and sam and tucker) will know what it means. (not even bruce's children later down the line, not for a long, long time)

danny dives into ghost fighting on shaky feet and not half as witty as he once was in one world. he's skittish, skittering between blasts from shadow to shadow and clumsily making his way through each battle. but helping people lights a fire in him. he still has shadows dripping off his feet but there's a purpose in his eyes.

and god help him, he's going to help people.

[rivilu]

Wait. Logistically speaking. Would Elluin even know how to read.

[shortnspidey]

SILENT RIFT

jj maybank x fem!cameron!reader || WC: 4.5K

SUMMARY: The Pogues finally find the gold they've been searching for after countless obstacles. However, when it comes to actually succeeding, the universe has other plans. Held at gunpoint in the middle of nowhere, a spontaneous decision changes everything. In the heat of the moment, words are said that reveal hidden feelings. Emotions run high, leading them to confront not only their enemies, but also their own emotions.

WARNINGS: established relationship, cursing, mild angst, talks of drugs, typical OBX level violence, suggestive towards the end but no smut!

A/N: Happy OBX 4 release day! This one shot is one of my old Wattpad drafts from when I was writing a JJ story. Enjoy this drabble as I try to publish another chapter of broken record or collateral hearts soon! This ended up being a long one, enjoy! Divider by @marvelstoriesepic

➩ main masterlist

➩ obx masterlist

"Hell of a job melting it down, Dr. Frankenstein," JJ scoffed, narrowing his eyes at Kiara as he stepped out of the Twinkie. He clutched the melted piece of gold tightly in his hand, its weight a tangible reminder of what everyone was expecting him to do. As the group arrived outside a shabby pawn shop on the outskirts of the Outer Banks, the rundown aspect and the graffiti on the walls made your skin crawl. The shops window's were smeared with grime, making it impossible to see inside, and the peeling paint revealed patches of weathered wood.

Kiara shot JJ a glare, her frustration evident in the tight set of her jaw and the clenching of her fists. "Like you could have done any better." She retorted, her voice dripping with sarcasm. JJ stepped closer, standing toe to toe with her, not backing down from her challenging gaze. "I could have done much better. I took a welding class," He sassed, a smirk playing on his lips. "Woah, woah, hey!" John B chastised, stepping in between his two friends.

His presence seemed to diffuse some of the tension, his calm demeanor acting as a buffer between the two. You followed his lead, grabbing JJ by his arm and rubbing comforting circles with your thumb on his forearm knowing that he was anxious. You could feel the taut muscles in JJ's arm slowly beginning to relax under your touch, the rhythmic motion of your thumb providing a small measure of comfort.

"Chill out, okay?" John B coaxed, his voice gentle but firm. You watched as Kiara's eyes softened slightly, her earlier anger giving way to a mix of concern and frustration. She took a step back, her shoulders sagging as she exhaled deeply. "It's easy for you to say that," JJ scoffed, his voice tinged with bitterness. "You're not the one that has to pawn off this piece of shit." He emphasized his point by holding up the gold bars that were now melted in a unrecognizable shape, the once gleaming metal was now a twisted, misshapen lump.

"How did I get this job anyway?" JJ muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Cause you're the best liar." Pope replied nonchalantly, his tone matter-of-fact. Letting out a sigh JJ turned to you, his cerulean blue eyes locking with yours. His eyes were a stormy sea, filled with a mix of frustration and determination. He turned his head, tapping his cheek. "Kiss, for you know, good luck." He grinned, his usual mischievous spark returning momentarily. You rolled your eyes at your boyfriends antics yet leaned in to kiss him nonetheless.

Just as your lips were about to collide with his cheek, he turned his head at the last second, smashing his lips with your in a kiss that was way too passionate for it to be in front of your friends. The warmth of his lips, the sudden intensity, made your heart race. You could have sworn you heard your sister mutter an "aww" while everyone else fake gagged, their exaggerated sounds filling the air. Pulling yourself away from the kiss, much to JJ's dismay, you smiled, leaning up and pressing one more chaste kiss to his pouting lips.

The brief contact left a lingering warmth, a promise of more to come. "You got this," You reassured him, squeezing his bicep in emphasis, feeling the tension in his muscles. "Showtime," He mumbled to himself, mentally preparing. Straightening his shoulders, he took a deep breath, and gave you one last look before stepping forward. Behind you, Sarah reached out and squeezed your hand, her grip offering a silent message of solidarity and support. The warmth of her touch was comforting, grounding you in the moment.

Everyone followed JJ into the empty shop, the jingle of the bell on the door announcing your arrival. The sound seemed to echo in the quiet space, a stark contrast to the tension that hung in the air. "Afternoon, ma'am." JJ greeted, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of anxiety. The shop was dimly lit, with dust particles dancing in the beams of barely there sunlight that filtered through the windows. Shelves lined the walls, filled with various trinkets and curiosities, each one telling its own story. “Afternoon.” The pawnbroker, an elderly woman with a stern face and piercing eyes, looked up from behind the counter.

Her gaze swept over your group as you spaced yourselves around the room, lingering on JJ for a moment longer. JJ stepped forward, trying to maintain his composure under her scrutinizing gaze. "I see you buy gold," He emphasized, his voice steady but with a hint of nervousness. "That's what the sign says, don't it?" She retorted, her lips curling into a sneer. She glanced at the sign hanging in the window, its letters faded and worn. "Well, I sure hope you buy a lot of it, because I am about to blow your mind." JJ carefully opened his bag, revealing the items inside. The pawnbroker's eyes never left his hands, watching his every move with a hawk-like intensity.

"I ain't got much mind left to blow, so have at it," She challenged, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Her eyes gleamed with a mix of defiance and curiosity. "How about them gold apples," JJ replied, his voice steady as he placed the melted gold onto the counter with a thump that echoed throughout the shop. The sound seemed to reverberate off the walls, adding a weighty finality to his action. The pawnbroker chuckled cynically, shaking her head. "That ain't real," She declared, her voice filled with disbelief and a hint of mockery. Her eyes flicked to the gold, then back to JJ, as if daring him to prove her wrong.

"That ain't real?" JJ scoffed, his eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. He leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a near whisper. "It can't be," The pawnbroker pressed, her voice faltering slightly as doubt began to creep in. She reached out a tentative hand, her fingers hovering just above the gold, as if afraid to touch it. "Feel how heavy it is," He countered, his voice firm and confident. He nudged the gold closer to her, the metal glinting under the dim light. The pawnbroker hesitated for a moment, her eyes locked on JJ's, searching for any sign of deceit. Finally, she picked up the gold, her fingers curling around it.

Her expression shifted from skepticism to surprise as she felt the weight of the metal in her hand. The shop fell silent, the only sound being the faint creak of the floorboards as she adjusted her stance, the gold weighing heavily in her grasp. "Mhm, here let's get some light on that." The group watched intently as she narrowed her eyes, but nevertheless picked up a nearby magnifying glass with a light, inspecting the chunk of gold closely. "Spray-painted tungsten." She concluded, her voice laced with doubt but still firm.

"Really, okay?" JJ rolled his eyes. "Why don't you see how soft it is." He suggested. "You mind?" The pawnbroker asked, holding up a small mallet, her eyes seeking permission. "No, go for it." JJ urged, his gaze unwavering as he watched her. She brought the mallet down gently, making a small dent in the gold, then pushed down on it for further inspection. "Wow. Would you look at that." JJ remarked sarcastically, a smirk playing on his lips. "Hold your horses, we ain't got the acid test yet." She shot back, her confidence wavering slightly. "Ooh, the acid test," He turned, his eyes locking onto yours, a mischievous glint in them.

"My favorite, baby." He added with a wink, grinning as he noticed how the simple action made you flush. You pretended to be distracted by a limited edition book on the shelf, your heart racing as you tried to avoid his piercing gaze. This was certainly not the place or time. Everyone held their breath as the woman dribbled a few drops of acid on top of the gold. The liquid sizzled slightly, emitting a faint, acrid smell that filled the small shop. "Well, it ain't plated, and it ain't painted," she assessed, her tone now more serious. "Ma'am, I'm telling ya, this is as real as the day is long," He insisted, growing tired of the back and forth, his patience wearing thin.

"It looks like someone tried to melt it down," she raised a brow, her eyes meeting JJ's in a challenging gaze. The air seemed to crackle with unspoken accusations. "My mom," You stepped in, linking your arm through JJ's as the pawnbroker eyed you both suspiciously. "She had all this jewelry laying around the house, and she thought it was best to melt it down to "consolidate" it." You tried to sound as convincing as possible, your voice steady despite the nervous flutter in your stomach. The lie felt heavy on your tongue, but you pushed through, hoping it would be enough to satisfy her.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Sarah bite her lip to stop the laugh that she almost let out at your evident lie. The pawnbrokers gaze flickered between you and JJ, her skepticism evident. The silence stretched, each second feeling like an eternity. Turning around with a sigh, she placed the gold into a small scale behind the counter, the scale creaked under the weight. "Seven pounds," Her eyes widened. "That's a lot of earrings." Her voice had a hint of disbelief, and you could almost see the wheels turning in her head as she tried to piece together your story.

"Okay, to be honest, ma'am," JJ spoke, clearing his throat and adopting a more somber tone. "It's really hard to see my fiancé's mom fall apart with Alzheimer's. Breaks my heart, truly." His voice wavered slightly, adding an authentic touch to the fabricated story. "Give me a minute." She tsked, walking towards a secluded office. JJ nodded solemnly, playing into the act of the heartbroken fiancé. "Take your time, ma'am." As soon as she was out of earshot, you turned to give JJ a look of disbelief. "Alzheimer's really?" You whispered, trying to keep your voice low. The absurdity of the situation was almost too much to handle, and you could feel a nervous giggle bubbling up inside you.

"So I talked to my boss, and this is what I can do." The pawnbroker returned, holding a piece of paper with a price written on it. Inspecting it, JJ raised his brows. "Fifty thousand?" He repeated, his voice tinged with incredulity. The offer was far lower than what you had hoped for, and you could see the frustration building in JJ's eyes. "You think I walked in here not knowin' the spot price?" JJ retorted, his voice firm. "I know for a fact this is worth 140 at least." His confidence was unwavering, and you could see the pawnbroker's resolve starting to crack. "Well sweetie, you in a pawn shop. This ain't Zurich." Her voice was firm, but there was a hint of concession in her tone.

"Ninety, or I walk," He bargained, his voice steady. "Seventy, half price, and I don't ask questions about where you got this.” JJ clenched his jaw, looking over at John B, who nodded his head, giving him the green light. "I'm gonna need that in large denominations, please," JJ agreed, his voice calm but resolute. "Well, here's the snag, I don't have that much denominated. Not here anyway, but I can write you a cashier's check." JJ immediately shook his head. “No ma’am, I want the cold hard, that’s what that sign says. Cash for gold, and that’s what I expect.” He pointed to the sign on the wall as emphasis.

“Well, I have to send you to the warehouse. I have the money there. Is that alright?” Everyone in the room held their breath, watching as JJ mentally weighed his options over in his head. “Where’s this warehouse?” He finally asked, his voice steady but with a hint of skepticism. That is how the group found themselves further into the middle of nowhere following the pawnbroker's instructions to the supposed "warehouse". The road was rough and winding, lined with tall, ominous trees that seemed to close in on them as they drove deeper into the unknown.

To say you were on edge would have been a complete understatement. Every creak of the van and small jolt from where you were seated on JJ's lap made your heart race faster. "So, they keep money out here?" Pope voiced aloud the question everyone was probably thinking. His voice broke the silence, but instead of easing the tension, it only seemed to heighten it. The unease in his tone mirrored the anxiety that had settled in your chest. JJ shrugged, attempting to lighten the mood. "That's what she said," He chuckled at his own joke. "That's what she said." His snicker was met with silence, the gravity of their situation overshadowing any chance of humor.

"Stop," Pope warned, his expression hardening. The seriousness in his eyes was a stark contrast to JJ's attempt at levity. "That was cute, but definitely not the time, J," You exasperated, your voice barely above a whisper. The fear and uncertainty in your tone were unmistakable. The blonde boy nodded, his playful demeanor fading. He held onto the melted gold in one hand, the other resting reassuringly on your thigh. The warmth of his touch was a small comfort in the midst of the overwhelming tension. "I've never even heard of Resurrection Drive." Sarah inquired. "That's cause your rich." JJ mumbled under his breath.

"You've never heard of it either." Both you and Kiara retorted in unison. "Thank you." Sarah replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "There's nothing but weeds back here." Kiara informed the group, looking out the van's window and seeing nothing but shrubbery. JJ was about to retort with another sarcastic comment, yet he was interrupted by the sudden, piercing sound of a siren. The noise sliced through the tense silence like a knife. Sure enough, John B looked in the rearview mirror, his eyes widening as he saw the flashing lights of a car behind them, signaling for them to pull over.

"Cops? Out here?" Kiara questioned, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Are you kidding me!" JJ fumed, his grip tightening on the gold and your thigh, the panic in his eyes was evident. "What did we do?" Sarah questioned, her voice small and wavering, the fear clear in her tone. "Stash that," John B whispered urgently to JJ, who was still holding onto the gold in his hand. You quickly got off his lap and sat next to Kiara, your heart pounding in your chest. The van's interior felt even more confined as Pope and John B coaxed JJ to hurry up. The oppressive weight of the situation pressed down on you, making every second feel like an eternity as you waited for what would happen next.

Your heart sank in your chest upon hearing the cock of a gun and seeing a rifle a few inches away from John B's face. The metallic click echoed ominously in the confined space of the van. "Why don't I go ahead and see them hands in the air?" A gruff voice declared, belonging to a mystery assailant who wore a bandana on the lower half of his face. The fear that gripped your heart quickly morphed into a seething anger. You knew that voice. "All of y'alls hands up in the air right now." Oh hell no, you thought to yourself. This was going to end here and now. "No," You seethed, making direct eye contact with your assailant. You could tell by the look in his eyes that he knew you recognized him, and his cover slipped slightly.

The tension in the van was palpable, like a coiled spring ready to snap. Every muscle in your body was tense, ready to spring into action. The familiarity of the voice only fueled your anger, making it harder to think clearly. You could feel the eyes of your friends on you, their fear and confusion mirroring your own. "Just do as he says, Y/N," John B urged, his voice steady but his eyes betraying his fear. He slowly raised his hands, setting an example for the rest of you. "No," You shook your head, challenging him. The defiance in your voice was clear. The assailant's eyes narrowed behind the bandana.

"Alright, tough girl, come on out here then," He taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. "Y/N, what are you doing?" Sarah whimpered, her voice trembling as she watched you step out of the van, the barrel of the gun trained on you. "It's gonna be okay, Sarah," You reassured her, trying to keep your voice calm despite the fear gnawing at your insides. "Y/N!" This time it was JJ. His voice cracked with desperation. As your eyes met his, you could see he was barely holding it together, his usual bravado nowhere to be found. "JJ, trust me, stay here," You coaxed, trying to project as much confidence as you could muster. The last thing you needed was for him to do something reckless.

"I'd listen to the lady, unless you want your brain scattered here on the side of the road," The assailant threatened, his voice cold and unyielding. The weight of his words hung in the air, adding to the already suffocating tension. "I'll be okay, I'll be right back," You promised, hoping your words would be enough to keep your friends from doing anything rash. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for whatever was to come, and stepped further away from the van, feeling the eyes of your friends burning into your back. Once you were a safe distance away from the van, Barry lowered his rifle, letting out a surprised chuckle. "Mighty brave of you, Cameron, especially 'cause I'm the one holdin' the gun." He mocked.

"Oh please," You rolled your eyes, your voice laced with disdain. "Drop the act, Barry," Addressing him by his name with a tone of authority, you crossed your arms over your chest, standing your ground. "We both know Rafe will kill you if you so much as lay a finger on me." You smirked confidently. "Now, why don't we cut to the chase, shall we?" You proposed, your eyes never leaving his as you reached for the shiny gold diamond ring that adorned your knuckle. Barry watched in disbelief as you slipped it off and held it out to him. "Here," You coaxed, handing him the ring. "This will get you a couple thousand dollars if you pawn it off right." Barry took the ring, studying it in the sunlight. "This covers what you and your friends got, but not what country club owes me, you feel me.”

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest once more, the frustration evident in your posture. "How much does he owe you?" You asked, your voice tinged with exasperation. "At least two hundred," Barry replied, a smirk playing on his lips. Sighing, you reached into your back pocket for your wallet, picking out two hundred dollar bills. "Are we free to go?" You huffed, knowing that if this deal took any longer, your boyfriend would most likely come and take matters into his own hands, whether Barry had a gun or not. "Tell your boy toy that his attitude's gonna get him in trouble," Barry sneered. "Don't," You spat, your eyes narrowing. "If you even think of touching him, we're going to have a problem. You feel me?" You threw back his previous words with a defiant glare.

Raising his hands in mock surrender "Damn, looks like I hit a nerve." Barry chuckled. "I mean it, Barry," You insisted, your voice steady and unwavering. With one final smirk in your direction, Barry pockets the cash and the ring and climbs into his car without a single look back in your direction. You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding and turn back towards the van. As you approached, the tension was palpable, hanging thick in the air. "What the hell was that?" Sarah was the first to question you, her eyes wide with concern as you climbed into the backseat as if nothing had happened.

"I handled it, it's over." You shrugged nonchalantly, but the tightness in your chest betrayed your calm facade. Sarah scoffed, clearly unconvinced by your bravado. "That was pretty stupid, Y/N," Kiara scolded, her voice filled with frustration. Everyone nodded in agreement, their faces a mix of worry and disapproval. You shrugged them off, trying to meet JJ's eyes, who had yet to say anything. You could see the worry and anger battling for dominance in his eyes, the tension in his jaw making it clear just how much he was holding back. "Let's get out of here," John B broke the silence, his voice a calm command that cut through the tension. Everyone was unharmed, yet you somehow knew this was far from over.

Arriving back at the Château, you watched JJ throw open the door before John B even parked his van. The sound of the door slamming against the wall echoed through the air. You watched as JJ stormed inside, his movements quick and agitated. One hand was gripping his chest, his knuckles white from the pressure, while the other was balled into a tight fist, veins visible under his skin. He didn't look back, his anger propelling him forward. John B, Kiara, Sarah, and Pope turned to you, their faces a mix of concern and curiosity. It was as if they were silently asking if they should get involved, their eyes darting between you and the direction JJ had gone.

"I'll handle it," You sighed, feeling the weight of the situation settle on your shoulders. You stepped down from the van, the gravel crunching under your feet. "Good luck," John B sing-songed, a teasing lilt in his voice. You flipped him off with a smirk, hearing Sarah and Kiara scold him in unison. Their voices faded as you walked through the door, the familiar scent of the Château enveloping you. You found JJ in the spare bedroom, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. His footsteps were heavy, each step reverberating through the wooden floor. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, filled with a storm of emotions - anger, frustration, and a hint of vulnerability.

"JJ, talk to me," You urged softly, stepping closer. Your voice was calm, trying to soothe the tempest within him. He stopped pacing and turned to face you fully. His expression was a mix of anger and hurt, his jaw clenched tightly. "What the hell were you thinking, Y/N? You could've gotten yourself killed!" His voice cracked slightly, betraying the fear behind his anger. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, but you took a deep breath to steady yourself. "He's the scumbag who sells coke to my brother. I know him and what he's capable of. As much of a psychotic asshole as he is, he wouldn't hurt me. Not without facing Rafe's wrath." That only made JJ angrier. "How are you so sure?"

He shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he stepped closer, the space between you shrinking. "Maybe next time you won't be so lucky, or I won't be there to protect you." His voice was low, almost a growl, and you could see the worry etched into his features, mingling with the anger. His fists were clenched at his sides, and his breathing was ragged. "I'm fine," you replied, trying to sound reassuring. "It's over now." "Over?!" JJ's voice rose, and he ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. "Dammit Y/N, you don't get it!" He screamed, pulling his hair in frustration. "I was fucking terrified. Did you know how scared I felt, watching the woman I love being held at gunpoint?" His voice broke, and you could see the tears welling up in his eyes, though he tried to blink them away.

You opened your mouth, but nothing seemed to come out. The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy and significant. "What did you just say?" You finally managed to whisper, your heart pounding in your chest. JJ stayed quiet, almost as if processing the words himself. His breathing slowed, and he looked away, his shoulders slumping. The vulnerability in his stance was palpable, and it hit you just how deeply he cared. This was more than just anger; it was fear of losing someone he couldn't bear to lose. "JJ," You coaxed to stop him from overthinking, knowing that his flight or fight mode was kicking in.

JJ's confession hung in the air, the raw emotion in his voice making your heart ache. You could see the fear and love in his eyes, and it made everything else fade away. The room seemed to shrink, and all that mattered was the two of you, standing there, vulnerable and exposed. "I love you, Y/N," He repeated, his voice softer this time, filled with a desperate need for you to understand. He took a hesitant step closer, his eyes searching yours for any sign of rejection. Your breath hitched, the intensity of the moment overwhelming. Without thinking, you closed the distance between you, your hands reaching up to cup his face. "I'm so sorry, JJ," You whispered, your voice trembling.

"I didn't mean to scare you, but I couldn't just stand there and do nothing either." His eyes softened, the anger melting away as he leaned into your touch. "Just promise me you'll be more careful," He murmured, his forehead resting against yours. "I can't lose you, Y/N." He whimpered leaning his forehead against yours. "You won’t lose me, ever, I promise," You replied, your voice barely above a whisper. Without another word, you both closed the distance between one another, your lips meeting in a kiss that was both tender and fervent. It was a kiss that spoke of all the fear, the love, and the relief you both felt. Bodies pressed together, seeking comfort and connection, hearts beating as one.

“And I love you too,” You grinned the second he pulled away giving you both a moment to catch your breaths. “In case that kiss didn’t make it clear enough.” JJ shook his head, only pulling you closer. "What do you say we seal the deal?" JJ grinned suggestively, wiggling his eyebrows. "You're lucky I love you." He didn't even give you a chance to finish his sentence before he kissed you again, wanting to show you just how much he meant it. His hands slid down your back, pulling you even closer, the heat between you growing more intense. The world around you faded away, leaving just the two of you in a moment that promised so much more to come.

[tryingtofindava]

𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐚 & 𝐂𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐛𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫*ೃ༄

a/n: this one’s been dusty in the drafts since November lol

: ̗̀➛Back to source

╰┈➤ 𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

OMG.

She literally loves you and your aesthetic sm.

Personally, I can imagine her being Scene x Bimbo if ykwim.

I can imagine you having the JUICIEST drama to share with one and other during your weekly sleepover.

You guys know everything about EVERYONE!

Even letting Jane, Nat, and Toby in on the drama sometimes too, bcs let’s be honest with ourselves. The conversations and tea spilling would be funny af.

Shit talking bout the boys in the manor™ (Jeff being your guys main target.)

Feeding into each other’s delusions.

Late night drives to Starbucks while blasting Ayesha Erotica. (ur guys song is deffo Juicy Couture)

“She has McDonald’s! Y/n where did you get McDonald’s?”

“…McDonald’s?”

“Bitch, give me a fry.”

“Is that how you ask?”

“Bitch PLEASE give me a fry.”

UGH DON’T EVEN, YOU GUYS DO EACH OTHERS MAKE UP RELIGIOUSLY.

Even better.

Y’know that one pic of the couple doing each others make up?

This one?

Literally u guys. (Had to make it pink for the vibe bro)

You guys share clothes, you have a cute mini skirt? She’s wearing it. She had a tank top that went with your outfit? You’re wearing it. (Maybe even sharing thongs..)

All I’m saying, is that you guys are very close!! Ppl in the manor mistake you guys for dating.

And tbh, you guys own it.

╰┈➤ 𝐗-𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐮𝐬

The duo that serves Cunt.

His name for you on his phone is ‘Barbie💖’ (which is fine tbh bcs your name for him is Frankenstein.)

You guys fit in the trope listener x gossiper and it’s acc so cute.

He’s acc not a big fan of the aesthetic (he’s still salty a girl in high school who was also a bimbo declined to go out w him.) but it’s okay bcs it’s you.

OMFG YOU KNOW WHEN YOU LOOK AT YOUR FRIENDS WHEN SOMEONE SAYS THE MOST OUT RAGOUS SHIT EVER, YOU TWO ARE KNOWN FOR THAT.

He’s probs chill bout you practicing make up on him too.

Yk that one scene in Brave.

This one.

It’s literally him covering your eyes while he’s letting you chill w him in his lab. Because for some fucking reason you thought it would be a good idea to look at the blinding lights of his viruses?¿?¿

ALR HE’S PROBABLY SMITTEN OVER YOU.

Ask him to do something? Oh he’s doing it alright. But not without bitching and whining the whole time.

“Do you know where I could get one of those cute necklaces with the T on it?”

“That’s a cross.”

“Across from where?”

✯.★*°•.°✯•.★*°°·.•°★���✯.★*°•.°✯•.★*°°·.•°★•

[fantasy-anatomy-analyst]

Combining Creatures

(image description: sketch of a cat-like creature with a long prehensile tail and a back full of sharp quills. the creature is crouched in an angry defensive pose. above it is the title "cohesive chimeric design". end description.)

combining different animal traits to make a new creature is such a common part of fantasy world that the word most frequently used to describe it is the name of an ancient greek monster that combined a lion, goat, and snake. Now, the original chimera is usually depicted with a lion head, a goat head, and a snake for a tail, usually all attached to a lion body. But I and many other people prefer to combine our creatures in more cohesive ways, trying to make them look like whole living beings, not a frankenstein creation (though those certainly have their place and I do not disparage anyone who prefers them!)

I get asked about this topic a lot, so I'm just putting my advice in one post now! and for my example, I'm going to be using the original chimera as inspiration and combining the features of a lion, goat, and snake.

the first steps are identifying the creatures you want to combine and the end result you want to reach. These two steps are pretty interchangeable! Maybe you already know you want to combine a pig and a racoon, but you're not sure what your end result should be. Or maybe you know you want to make a creature that lives underground and digs holes to catch prey walking over it, using different real life animal traits, but you haven't decided which animals to use.

it's alright to take your time thinking things over and working out the details, and you should never be afraid of doing things over if the creation process brings you some new ideas! It's so rare for a first attempt to be the final result. think about the purpose this creature will serve in your project, do some research on mythological creatures and real animals that have similar behaviors and traits, and adjust your concept until you're satisfied.

and i already know this post will be so long, so the rest is under a cut.

My idea for the chimera design here is that I didn't want it to have multiple heads. Multiple heads is already a difficult design to make believable, and having three heads that are all so different from each other is just a lot to work with. I needed it to look monstrous and I needed the three animals to still be recognizable in the design while also blending them together until it looked a bit more natural.

step one: identify end result and base creatures. Chimera. Lion, goat, snake. find reference images.

(image description: a photo collage of a lion with a partly black mane, a small brown and white goat, and a cobra snake, as well as an old black and orange plate with a chimera design in the middle. end description.)

I picked a cobra for the snake because it matches with the general region that chimeras originate from and also because the hood has a similar shape to the lion's mane. which brings me to the next step!

step two: identify similarities and differences between your base creatures.

(image description: same as above, but now the animals have been colored over in flat shades to show how their body parts match or differ in shape. end description.)

the goat and lion have more in common with each other than they do with the cobra, because they're both quadrupedal mammals while the snake is a legless reptile. but! all three animals have a roughly oblong face shape, and the lion's tail is long and flexible like the snake's, as well as the matched shape of the mane and hood. the coloration of all three animals also look a little similar, with all of them having some level of contrasting light and dark patches.

step three: start sketching out the details.

combine the similar traits, emphasize the different ones. focus on designing the parts that will really make your creature recognizable, and the traits that will be the most important. make some full body drafts! do it as many times as you need to get things looking the way you want. compare and contrast different ideas!

(image description: sketches of a chimera's different important body parts and the full body shape and pose. there are two different eye designs, one with a snake's vertical pupil and one with a goat's horizontal pupil. likewise, there are two foot designs focused on a more lion-like shape and a more goat-like shape, and also two different snout designs with one being snake-like and the other being lion-like. there are also sketches of a snake-like head with goat horns and lion ears, a front-facing head with the cobra-like hood shape, and a long snake-like tail with a furred tuft at the end end description.)

step four: finalize your idea.

as fun as it is to keep sketching, you do have to finish things at some point! pick your favorite ideas and move forward with them. give yourself one good final design and stick with it, making adjustments on it instead of creating more new ideas.

(image description: a new chimera design colored in a terracotta orange with white and black stripes and spots all over its body. it has a snake-like head with twisted horns, a short goat-like beard, and a swooping furred cobra hood. its ears are short and rather cat-like, its feet have long sharp cloven hooves, and its tail is curled over its back with a furred tuft at the end. its mouth is wide open, teeth bared and forked tongue sticking out. end description.)

look at that! I had a lot of fun drawing it! step five is to polish your design, whatever that means for you. I'm going to leave this one just as it is, because my idea of a polished design takes hours and I don't feel like doing all that right now. I could paint it out in full and make the textures and colors much cleaner and more obvious.

one important step of polishing, for me, is also making sure your creature fits in the world you're making it for. give it natural behaviors, figure out how it interacts with other creatures and people in the setting. this extra step will really make your world feel more alive and coherent!

the most important step of course is to enjoy your creative work! you've got cool ideas and you should be proud of that!

[sunrisetune]

Lukewarm to mid-temperature take about Dragon Age II meta that I found in my drafts from a hundred years ago, but I was still right -

I think Justice was corrupted when he and Anders joined, but it wasn’t anything Anders did that corrupts Justice, eventually; it’s what was done to him, what he lived through. Like, spirits corrupt when they’re acting against their nature, or can’t fulfill their purpose. Two thirds of Anders' life, up until the Wardens, had been an extended injustice. Justice could not handle that shit intact, but when they did the ritual, there wasn’t a choice. So he changed, and lashed out uncontrollably. It’s only by Anders’ will (very literally) and their common ground that Anders doesn’t become a body-horror-activated abomination right there.

This also tracks with how Justice changes in DA2 depending on Hawke’s and Anders' relationship in the friendship / rivalry routes. If you encourage Anders’ views and help him with his cause, reinforce that being kidnapped and brought up in a Circle wasn’t right and he does have the ability to do better, him and Justice work together. You can hear Justice’s tone of phrase come through, and him referencing his memories sometimes, when Anders is talking. But if you rival Anders, tell him the Chantry and templars were right to imprison him, that mages are incurably dangerous, that everything he lived through is (if you’ll forgive the pun) justified-- Justice gets worse. Instead of working with Anders until they share a purpose, he overwrites Anders’ mind & will with his own. The acceptance of injustice makes Vengeance the only possibility. (Stealing a line from one of the only good Frankenstein movies,, if he can’t satisfy one he’ll indulge the other.)

+ Worth Noting, Three: The way that Justice and Anders mix together. I really think that part of Justice’s corruption arc is the others genuinely not recognizing how much of him is there. Like, the whole ‘Justice is righteous. Justice is hard’ line. Justice was very black-and-white with his thinking. Justice also didn’t know what cats were, and he worried about Sir Pounce-A-Lots freedom of person. Justice liked feeling the wind on his face. Justice made a joke about the darkspawn ‘catching Kristoff’ when someone mentioned he'd went to go to catch them. If Justice hadn’t been inhabiting a corpse the first time he realized he’d caused someone grief, he would’ve cried, he wanted so badly to help.

Absolutely, revenge and (yk) judgment were significant parts of him. Justice was also kind. He had humour, and complicated ethical questions he was grappling with.

I think that so much of that got folded into Anders, the only thing that Hawke and the others recognize as different, fully ‘Justice’, was his rage. And that's a huge part of the tragedy of it. But Anders was right, he was there the whole time.

[mashup-writing]

Backstage Brainstorm (Resident Lover; Cassandra Dimitrescu)

-------------------------------------------------------

Requested? ❌

"Hurry home, let's never leave the house."

Summary: It hasn't even been a week since the Romeo and Juliet play had It's closing night but Cassandra, the ever sky-reaching star, is already trying to think up her next play that will be shown on the Campus theatre next year. It's up to you to convince her to get some much needed sleep.

Warnings: None

Genre: Fluff

Resident Lover Masterlist

01-11: I swear, there was someone who asked me to make a Cassandra fluff fic but I can't find it in my inbox so now I'm not sure if I just accidentally deleted it or if it was in the RL Server that someone asked..

----------------------٩(◕‿◕｡)۶-----------------------

Light assaults your eyelids and you can't help but groan in sleepy annoyance. It's not bright enough to feel like sunlight, plus there's a lack of warmth in the air. You're forced to slowly blink your eyes open as your mind starts to wake itself up in the attempt to decipher what the light source is.

You turn in the bed, arm extended to reach for...

Cold sheets?

You crack one eye open to find the culprit behind the brightness: Cassandra's over on her writing desk, with the night lamp turned on as she types away on her laptop, occasionally turning to a book by her hand before turning back to her laptop.

You untangle yourself from the sheets before slowly getting up and walking over to where the theatre director is.

"Hey there."

The clicking of the keycaps stop as you place a soft kiss to the top of Cassandra's head, keeping a hand buried in her hair even when you've pulled away. She tilts her head up to meet your gaze, and a sheepish smile grazes her lips as you raise your eyebrows at her. A silent question of "What are you up to?" conveyed clearly enough by your expression.

Cassandra sighs, taking your free hand in her own and placing kisses on each of your knuckles. It puts a smile on your lips, it was a habit Cassandra has developed ever since the two of you had started officially dating which she does whenever you're in very close proximity and she's gathering the words in her head before letting them leave her lips.

"A rough script draft of the play that I'm thinking of bringing from pages to a theatre stage. For this incoming year I was thinking Frankenstein, The Shadow Over Innsmouth, or Faerie Tale- I'm thinking Innsmouth but I still have no idea how we'll be able to set the stage for the parts that require an oceanic backdrop.."

The Actress has looked back over to the book on the table and her eyes skim the pages with a very focused look in them which you would have found cute if not for the very dark bags underneath.

"Incoming year."

Cassandra looks back over to you with a raised brow. "Huh?" is the only sound that leaves her mouth. You shake your head in fondness, how she's both basically a genius and a dumbass all in one is something that will never cease to surprise you. She offers no complaints when you take your hand out of her hair and go about saving the file on her computer before shutting it down. The look you sent her when she tried to start complaining was enough to shut her up.

You take both her hands in yours, gently pulling her up from her seat before leading her back under the blankets. Cassandra settles into your arms, head tucked underneath your chin. The sigh of contentment she lets out results in a chuckle from you.

"Much better than hunching over a desk isn't it?"

There's a beat of silence before Cassandra begrudgingly agrees with a muffled "I guess so." that could've been mistaken as nothing more than a grumble. But you know better.

"Vacation's just ended, Cass. I know you're in love with the Theatrical Arts, but now's the time for you- For us to catch up on sleep and take the breaks that we deserve."

She places a kiss to your collarbone, agreeing with a hum before nuzzling back into her comfortable position being tucked underneath your chin.

"You've got a point that I refuse to argue, and that's coming from someone in pre-law so you know you've won big time."

You both laugh, and the air in her room is filled with the essence of comfort. There's no place you'd rather be and even if you can feel that sleep is starting to creep up on the both of you, you can't help but try your best to delay it in favor of hearing Cassandra's voice for just a little longer.

"How come The Shadow Over Innsmouth was your first choice?"

"Well, the book literally starts off from the point of view of this traveler in a bus who ends up in an almost-abandoned village off a coast. He's heard stories about his destination but he's also very skeptical cuz most of the rumors legitimately sound like the story-tellers are off their fucking rockers-"

Cassandra's words start to slow and slur, and you're having difficulty in stopping her words from blurring together.

There's faint traces of bright sunlight peeking through the curtains of Cassandra's room, but it bothers neither Juliet nor her Romeo as the two both start succumbing to the inescapable pull of sleep.

The only sound that can be heard within the room is the faint synchronisation of the lovebirds' breathing.

----------------------٩(◕‿◕｡)۶-----------------------

01-11: Cassandra fluff!! Cassandra fluff!! Cassandra fluff!! I still can't believe that this Campus heart throb has the "Tamest" cult ending possible.

[uncouth-the-fifth]

pythia, a supernatural rewrite. bloody mary, rough draft.

read it on ao3.

words: 6k notes: hi y'all! yes, you read that chapter title right - this is a little unconventional, but since I've unfortunately shifted hyperfixations and have drifted away from SPN, I thought I would post what I have for the next part of pythia. since I'm moving into resident evil land, I'm not sure if I'm going to come back to this fic—but I absolutely didn't want to leave you guys empty-handed!! I'm so so sorry that this fic will go unfinished (for now), and I'm so grateful to those who were along for the ride with me. I have so much love for all the people who motivated me through writing this fic. all of you are beyond kind!! and I hope you enjoy this dose of pythia content, featuring some of my notes and process-work, lol. I only had a few heavy chunks of the beginning written, but the prose for this chap (ironically) started to get into the meat of what I really wrote this fic for—psychic bullshit between reader and Sam. It was just too plain juicy to not share!! All of my spn fics will remain up, but if you keep up with me, expect lots of Leon Kennedy bullshit and tomfoolery. Again - thank you so much for your endless love and support, I had so much fun writing what I could of season one!! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this unfinished chunk of silly/ansty Christmas drama :)

EAU CLAIRE, WISCONSIN - Dec 21st, evening.

Sam drops the stack of glossy, brand-new legal pads into his lap, and flashes his brother a plain smile. “Thanks, Dean. I needed more of these.” From your spot seated on the living room rug, you twist your rings and wait for Dean’s witty reply. With all those notes you’re always makin', Sammy, I’ll hafta buy you some for New Years, too. You wait for him to make a crack about the gift he got Sam, something about diaries or his brother’s girly handwriting.

Instead, Dean shrugs, “Well, then there ya go.”

Voila. And with that, the feeble threads you’d tried to braid into a proper Christmas are cut. Without a word, your Mom picks up the little wooden jewelry case the three of you had thrifted her and recedes into the dark hallways of the house. Dean peels himself out of his seat to clean up. Sam sighs, picking at the plastic seal around his legal pads. Hilariously, this all plays out while Paul McCartney chimes about what wonderful Christmastime he’s been having from the radio in your kitchen.

Technically, you hadn’t just been celebrating Christmas. No, you managed to completely bomb both Christmas and the sacred Winter Solstice sabbat that the Proctors had been celebrating for a bajillion fucking years. The special sabbat that would have a real spiritual effect on you for the next couple months.

You’d given it a good ol’ college try. First, you’d painstakingly picked out gifts for the boys and your Mom. Good ass gifts, too, that you’d been hiding in your duffle since summertime. Hell, you’d been looking for the Eagles album you bought for Dean in tape form for at least two years. (Cool, Dean had said, half alive in his armchair after your chupacabra hunt in Illinois. He was at the ugly front end of a cold. He’d sniffled, Don’t have this one.) And knowing that this would be Sam’s first Christmas without Jess—the one person who had given him any kind of good holiday when he was away from home—you’d poured extra love into his gift, too.

He’d been begging you to read Frankenstein since high school, and you’d dodged it because sometimes books that pushed too far into the “classics” category could lose you. Mary Shelley got a little wordy at times. But you were a big girl with a big brain, so you’d read the whole thing for Sam… and annotated the whole thing for Sam…

He’d taken one look at your labor of love and murmured, “Good. Glad you read it.”

…Yeah. You had half a mind to check if he’d been replaced by a clone, hearing that. Fifteen-year-old Sam would have melted into a babbling, ecstatic mess if someone had carefully combed through one of his favorite books and shared their thoughts on it with him. Bare minimum, you figured he’d at least enjoy having his own copy of Shelley’s work. All his other books had been lost in the fire.

But you’d given the book to a Sam who was twenty-two, not fifteen. Fine. People changed.

The boys being a collective bummer was something you could deal with. Sam was always sullen around the holidays, and you couldn’t exactly be mad at Dean for being exhausted after a stressful hunt. But your Mom…

Beth used to make Yule her bitch. When you were a kid, come December 1st, the Proctor House could easily have been the center of all Wicca celebrations in the world. If working retail during the holidays tested one’s love for festive music, then the non-stop winter songs bouncing off Beth’s vinyl player would’ve made Santa beg to hear something else. Every room would gush with the smell of evergreen branches and holly. Your family’s altar, the home of all the love and joy for the season, would be lush with offerings and presents. The candles you lit as a family to welcome the light of the new year would glow in a neat row—your little silver candle, your mother’s tall red one… and the biggest. Your Dad’s.

Now, your Dad’s candle was tucked away with the rest of the unused decorations in the attic. From your spot on the floor, you couldn’t help but stare at your piss-poor excuse for a family altar. Beth hadn’t “had the time” to find the table runner your great-grandmother had embroidered just for that space. The small bouquet of mistletoe you’d brought sat pathetically on the wide, barren surface, framed by your family’s dollar-store candles: silver for you, red for Mom, and twin green candles for the boys. 

It was stupid. Really, you shouldn’t have cared so much. You were almost twenty-five, and the older you got the less people cared about silly, trivial things like a single holiday out of the year. That was just a fact of life.

Still, an ugly ball of bitterness sat in your gut. She couldn’t have tried to decorate? Even out on the road, you’d still found ways to make today a little special for the people you loved. Did she really have such little strength left in her? You’d dragged the boys up to Wisconsin with you so your Mom didn’t have to be alone. Was it really that impossible, after eleven whole years without your Dad, to try and be happy?

Fuck this. Yule isn’t over yet. There’s still time for you to squeeze some life out of today, and you’re going to start straight at the source. You find your Mom in the kitchen, mindlessly swiping invisible crumbs off pristine counters. When she senses you paused behind her in the kitchen doorway, clutching in both hands the gift she got you this year, the radio suddenly needs to be toyed with. Then cleaned. There are gray strands in her hair that shine like tinsel in the low kitchen light.

“Hey,” you say, your voice bright and christmas-card perfect. “I don’t think I got to say thank you for the gift.” (You did. More than once already.) “It’s been a bit since I read this one.” The gift in question is your Dad’s second edition print of The Shining. It’s even older than you are, with soft, petal-thin pages that reek of that wonderful old book musk. Rolling the flexed and cracked paperback between your hands, your Gift automatically picks up the distant echo of the hands that had touched these pages when they were new.

When you were little, you’d always found it kind of strange that your Dad considered this book his favorite. He was a sweet, soft-spoken person, and the mental image of him indulging in uncensored horror novels didn’t mesh with the Ray preserved in your head. Having since grown up and read it for yourself, you understood that it was less about the gore of the Overlook and more about “the shine;” the array of psychic abilities that kept five-year-old Danny Torrance alive through the book.

Years of having book-club with Sam had trained you to form cultivated opinions about the stuff you read, but The Shining existed in a realm that made it hard for you to describe how you felt about it. See, you had Danny Torrance’s shine—on the same level, too, enough shine to power the decades of ghostly ballroom parties and mob conspiracies inside the Overlook for a century. Seeing your Gift put onto a page so nakedly and cinematically made you uncomfortable. Yet, feeling the weight of your father’s book in your hands, standing in the kitchen he hasn’t touched in a decade, you know that it must’ve comforted him. Back then, surrounded by a psychic mother-in-law, girlfriend, and daughter, it would've been impossible to survive without a little shine of his own. You’re sure that your Dad's Gift was faint and unimpressive next to the psychic blackholes of your Mom and Grandma. Just enough to know if you’d skinned your elbow or had a nightmare. On the days that you came home from school tear-streaked and ruddy-faced, Dad would be waiting on the porch with soup.

You can still feel the faint psychic imprint of one of his whiskery kisses on your face. You don’t have many vivid impressions of him left to feel; none that haven’t been rubbed again and again, like the hollow of a fingerprint smoothed into the face of a rock over time.

Your Mom gives a non-committal hum at your attempt at conversation. Not because she doesn’t care—you can feel how much she cares from across the room—but because she’s tired. Adult Tired, like when she’d turn down your pleas to play together as a kid. Not tonight, baby. Momma’s exhausted.

“Mom,” you say, sounding as glossy and clean as a brand-new cookie tin. You open your mouth to say more, maybe to start in on one of your long-winded book-rants that had everyone wondering where Sam had suddenly appeared from. You know the answer, but you ask anyway, “This was one of Dad’s favorite books, right? I vaguely remember him talking about the hedge animals.” Beth accidentally hits a button as she’s dragging a rag over the shiny front of the radio, forcing Paul McCartney to have yet another wonderful Christmastime. She doesn’t look at you.

“Yup. But you knew that already, honey.”

C’mon. Nothing? She won’t even throw you the smallest, most pathetic olive branch? A psychic battle occurs. You get so frustrated all at once that your throat closes up, and that frustration balloons out into your family kitchen like the expansion of a bomb. You push. There is no give. The bubbling stormcloud of grief and loss hanging around Mom is there, then it’s not. The side of the kitchen your mother stands on is suddenly a void of absolute nothingness, empty of any feeling whatsoever, good or bad. She’s cutting you off from reading her—and protecting herself from your explosive emotions, as per usual.

Beth keeps cleaning the radio, her back to you.

Your rage bubbles out of you all at once. One day! One day out of the entire fucking year, the day your Dad always made special, and she can’t even pull herself together for that. You know you should be a good daughter and empathize with the woman who made you, but you’ve been a good daughter about this since you were twelve years old. Eleven Yules have gone by since your Dad passed. Just for one measly moment, you want to talk about him like he’s not a corpse rotting in the living room.

And the worst part is that Mom knows that. She’s known you’ve felt that way all day, a slow-bubbling pot building to a boil across the room. The two of you can always feel each other. You’re the only two who can; she’s the only other radio tower that can receive your station in its purest quality, and yet she has the gall to shut all her signals down.

“Fine!” You burst out, making the conversation physical.

It should feel good to yell, really. After the slow, ungratifying day you’ve had, you’ve been a shaken soda bottle waiting to implode. Instead, since you’re the crazy person yelling at nothing for no reason in the kitchen, your anger booms out of you and fizzes out in the same breath like a faulty firework. Fine. Fuck all of this. If you can’t beat em’, join em’. If everyone’s determined to rot the day away, then you’ll go wallow in self-pity the Proctor-Winchester way, too. Merry fucking Christmas, and a happy fucking Yule.

There is no satisfying door to slam on your way out of the kitchen. You take a sharp right down the front hall, hoping to veer up the stairs and slam your feet down on every single step up to your room. If your Mom wants to live forever in the year your Dad died, by all means—you’ll even bring home your thirteen-year-old self and her childish tantrums, just for time-accurate ambiance. Sam’s standing frozen just outside the kitchen archway, and you catch his deer-in-headlights look as you go peeling around the corner. You’re still keyed up with enough lashing rage to spare, so seeing him, just as hollowed-out and not there as your Mom, only feeds your pyre.

As you get to work thoroughly stomping the staircase to death, you hear him go into the kitchen and ask Beth about soup for Dean’s sore throat.

Upstairs is even more painfully quiet. Through the floor, Paul McCartney muffles down to a cheery mumble. All old houses shift around a little, but yours settles like it's alive, clicking, creaking, swaying. You don’t look at the portraits of Proctor women up the stairwell. The dusty grandfather clock in the hall watches you with its stained glass face, and you’re so lost in your own head—

—and Dad’d be so pissed we didn’t decorate the altar or listen to the Tull Christmas album, he’d riot, he’d talk some sense into her—wouldn’t think any of this is stupid— —that you don’t hear it when it chimes. Muscle memory plants you right in front of your bedroom door. Having a good cry under the covers sounds like a perfect end to the night, right? And yet you stop. Your hand drops on the knob and stays there, unmoving. Maybe it’s your Gift, or good old-fashioned human instinct knowing when something in the home has been nudged two inches to the left, but the air in the hall tastes staler than usual. A draft? Your gaze is pulled all the way down to the opposite end of the hall, where the untouched, stately storage room door is ajar.

Your Mom probably left it open. Maybe she’d gone in there to hunt around for all the heirloom Yule decorations, only to rediscover Dad’s football memorabilia or Dad’s engraved cigarette case and go bolting out of the room. —everything’s different without him, Sam and Mom and Dean too. So am I. Everything’s twisted—without him— Still riding the whirlwind, you stomp from one end of the yellowing, starry zodiac carpet (Aries) to the other (Pisces), the floorboards squeaking under your weight. You push the door and it goes shuddering into the darkness. This was one of many rooms in the house that Mom had banished you from as a kid, mostly as a way to shoo you away from the hunting world. It’d given you this insatiable fascination with it as a result, but when you tug the chain to turn on the closest lamp, what it illuminates doesn’t come close to the spectacular stories you’d made up in your head.

It’s just a room. It has windows and shelves and old things, some from your childhood, some from your Mom’s. Some from even further back than that. The closest fascinating thing is a shiny gold blob poking out of your baby things, which turns out to be Sam’s eighth-grade mathlete trophy. You had no idea what possessed Mom to come up here so often. There was no way she wasn’t in here at least a couple times a week; the tall metal storage shelf where she immortalized your Dad’s things was never dusty, and yet the whole room reeked of rotting books and insulation. You shove the box with Sam’s trophy aside with your foot until it skids out of your way, and then send the heavy door shut behind you with a wall-shaking bang.

A flurry of dust hails down from the ceiling. You cough through the cloud, wandering in your blindness towards the neat row of plastic storage tubs labeled with your Dad’s name. Clothes. Misc. Books. Maybe that’s where Mom had gotten your new copy of The Shining from, halfway through one of her sacred meditations over Dad’s things. You drop a hand onto the cold lid of the tub. Nothing, not even the slightest psychic imprint, reaches back.

What is she even holding onto anymore? You try the clothes next. The rounded corners of this bin have been scuffed gray from how many times it’s been pulled off and then pushed back on its shelf, again and again. The case feels as lifeless to you as it would for anyone else, but you try your luck and slide it out onto the floor. It comes loose with a solid thud.

When you were old enough, Beth would sometimes send you up into this room to grab things (spell ingredients, books you didn’t keep downstairs). You would run full-tilt right up until you hit the storage room door, then pass inside like a stranger in a dangerous realm, watching where you stepped and always, always keeping your Dad’s shelf in the corner of your eye. On brave days you would pick up his silvery cigarette case and roll it between your palms. It grew harder and harder to feel him each time, the ghost of him whittled down like a rock made round by the current of a river.

When you crack off the lid, you expect some kind of smell. You don’t remember what he smelled like, but you have a few guesses—cheap, vanilla-sweet aftershave, or maybe the woody stale smell of cigarette smoke you know you shouldn’t love. Maybe both. It doesn’t really matter. The neatly folded stacks of your Dad’s old shirts and jackets don’t smell like a damn thing. You dip your face into a holey band-shirt with the sleeves scissored off, but all that comes back to you is the rotten smell of dusty insulation. He’s here—he’s right here in front of you, right in your fucking hands, and yet the whole world is dead of him. You can’t sense even a sliver of him left.

The same old reservoir of despair pushes and pushes at your composure, wiggling through your cracks, widening them with a hundred thousand tons of pressure bearing down on you a minute. It is a day by day task to handle the reservoir. You like to think you’re good at handling it, at patching the cracks as they come and letting them breathe when the moment calls for it. But when you lift your face from the bin, the leak springs—really, genuinely springs, like it hasn’t in years.

You fall back onto your haunches, swallowing back sudden stinging tears. The bin and its askew lid go shrieking back onto the shelf with a lash of your foot.

-

The music downstairs stops. You can’t tell how long it’s been.

When his death was fresh, and you were stuck deep, deep within the reservoir, you’d wondered if it would always feel this way. It got easier, right? And in many ways it had—on most days you could talk about your Dad without it hurting, letting the dam’s water run. The battle was still there, but it was a burden you were proud to carry if it meant his memory lived on in you. He would want you to be happy, your Mom used to urge. So you gave being happy your best shot, loving and giving as much as you could.

That’s what frustrated you so endlessly about your Mom. She’d been right; your Dad would’ve wanted the two of you to move on, and yet she still entombed herself in the bottom of her reservoir far too often. There was no release, no acceptance with her. The dark part of you that wanted to pass blame wondered if this was all because of John, and how well Winchester grief happened to mingle with a Proctor’s. How would your mother’s life be different, if the evil that’d taken Dad hadn’t been put down a week later? Would she be just as hellbent? With your knees sore from pressing into the floor, you knew the answer. You knew if the thing that’d taken Sam or Dean from you was right in front of you, you’d chase it until you were in your own grave. You knew that even after it was dead, you would be digging your nails into the backseat of the Impala and clawing for every psychic molecule of them left in the leather.

And that’s what scared you—was she just going to be chasing Dad forever, til’ there wasn’t a wisp of him left in the world to feel? 

Something dawns on you, thudding through your mind like a rock dropped down a chute. With limp hands, you slide The Shining towards you on the worn wood floor, part the pages with your thumbs, and press your nose into the binding. There’s the smoky, earthy scent of old paper first… then something just underneath the surface that no one but you and your Mom can pick up.

Old books. Yes. Yes, that’s what Dad had smelled like.

-

You’re seated on the floor of the storage room, back pressed to one of the ancient metal shelves holding up your gramma’s VCR collection, when a blot of the future is tossed at you. Cheap deodorant and lemon cough drops.

Around a minute later, the stairs beyond the door squeak under someone’s weight. Even without the roulette glimpse of the future, you can tell by the footfalls who it is. Heavy knuckles rap the door and come straight in without waiting for an answer. Behind him, the silence of the rest of the house is even heavier.

You try to sound like a reasonable adult, but the mopey teenager slips out anyway. “Thought you were sick, Dean.”

He artfully dodges your point. (Dean is, after all, a master of the craft.) You don’t look back at him, but the lemon cough-drops glimpse you got of him creates a clear picture: Dean’s whole body listing into the door frame, one hand on the knob, his face lacking its usual color. His cheeks have graduated from stubbly to scruffy, neglected. “Hey,” he says. It’s the, okay, you’re done cooling down, let’s have a grown-up conversation kind of hello.

You don’t know what to say back. You’re not sure if you can have any kind of conversation right now.

Dean rolls with it, trying to decide if this silence is begging for a subject change or a heart-to-heart. You’re not sure what he goes for when he says, “I had an idea.” “Did it hurt?” You joke. Jokes you can do.

There’s his opening. After a beat, you’re—

—fucking lobbed with a foam football. Like you’re fucking twelve. Dean’s throw arcs straight towards your head and bounces clean off the top, a perfect spiral. You yelp in outrage, and before you can think you’re following where the stupid ball went so you can clock him right in the face with it. Asshole. It loop-de-loops on the floor around an old dining chair, and you clamber on your knees to fish for it.

Just when you get the toy in your hands and you’re about to demolish him with it, Dean ducks behind the doorway, chuckling, “Woah! No face shots! You wouldn’t bash a poor, sick guy’s face in, would’ja?”

God. You can’t fucking believe him. If anyone else did that…

You lower your hackles and drop the foam toy into a basket, far out of reach of congested troublemakers. When his shining eyes appear in the slit of the doorway again, your cheeks are aching with an impossible smile. “You’re lucky it’s Christmas, loser. What is it?”

Dean hesitates a moment more, just in case you’ve got something else to throw at him, then joins you in the storage room with the evil little oily smile you love. The same dust cloud that got you earlier descends on him in a rough coughing fit, but this lets him get a good look at the little mess you’ve made: the book on the floor, your Dad’s things open and askew. When he clears his throat for the last time, he looks pained.

For your sake, you pretend it’s an empathetic kind of pained. And you know that’s a part of it—Dean doesn’t enjoy seeing you and your Mom like this. But it’s an unfortunate fact of your life that you will have four times as much context for him than he will ever have for you. Just breathing the same dusty air as him, you know he’s been nursing a sinus headache since Monday, one that’s made his head feel like it’s chock-full of stuffing, and that Sam made him canned chicken noodle soup—and at first he felt a little smug making Sam play nurse, until he stewed on it more and—

—hate it when he gives me that dead-eyed look, like he can’t even pretend to care anymore. Like he’s just dragging himself through this for our sake. Poor kid scares the shit outta me. Is this how it’s always gonna be? Sammy aching over her, night after night after night—

You know just touching the bins holding your Dad’s things that on a icy February afternoon in 1994, fifteen-year-old Dean had picked up the plastic tubs for your Mom from the store.

So when he gives you that pained look, you know it’s part-concern, part-fear. If this is what you look like eleven years after your Dad’s passing… if John never comes home from his hunting trip, is this what Dean will become? The loyal son, waiting and waiting on that porch for a man who would never come home? 

Your whole life, you’ve felt like you were becoming more and more like Dean; lately, it feels like he’s becoming so much like you. Your last four years on the road together had slowly but surely melded you together.

“Okay, so, Yule’s a fire festival, right?” Dean grasps around in his memory for the yearly history lesson your Mom gives about the Wicca calendar. “Uh, we lit candles… I thought about burning Beth’s Muppet Christmas CD with my lighter a couple times. That’s about all the fiery, burny-stuff we did today.”

“I love the Muppets Christmas album,” you pout.

“After the millionth partridge in John Denver’s goddamn pear tree, you’d change your mind,” Dean swears. “But I was thinkin’—we got the firepit in the backyard, marshmallows, and I think I could put together some vodka shots. Then we can blow em' out and eat em' with the s'mores.” Your eyebrows raise. Only he, of all people, could take your sacred family traditions and twist them into such a wonderful, stupid-ass thing. Maybe it’s ridiculous, but… there is chocolate and graham crackers downstairs… and with how cold it is outside, a fire would be perfect… It’s the best blend of weird Proctor-Winchester traditions you need to save Christmas and Yule. Dean takes your silence as glowing awe. “Exactly. I told you, I'm a fuckin' genius. Helluva way to start the wiccan year, right? You in?”

You’re well aware that this is an elaborate plan to coax you away from your moping. Still, it’s just too Dean to turn down. “...Hell yeah.”

At first R hopes that it’s just her and Dean, and that Sam and Beth keep their grief to themselves. But then she realizes how cruel and selfish she’s been—everyone grieves in their own way, and just because she works through it by talking about it doesn’t mean it will work for everyone. It’s not good that Beth is holding on so tightly to her loss, but that doesn’t mean R wants to leave them out.

Lead this into a touch of psychic!Dean and how he has a teeny tiny second sense for what she needs, just like her Dad did. Just enough shine to get by.

R and Dean come downstairs and invite Sam and Beth to their campfire 😀

Or, at the very least, all the psychic happenings in the house echoing between them; if Dean's sharper instincts were as psychically heavy as a shadow falling on grass, then Sam's Static was six feet of snow in an arctic blizzard.

It tingles all the way up to your shoulder when Sam touches you. And that, oh, that was a whole new can of worms. As they get dressed for the snow outside and assemble the s'mores and flaming shots, you try not to head down that train of thought again.

Every time you’ve glanced at Sam these past few weeks, you’d been unable to hide from what you’d sensed there—from what you’d seen in the demon, and what you now knew to be completely and utterly true after reading its mind.

Sam had It. The Gift, the Shining, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it. Not the vague imprint of psychic-ness from loving one or sharing the Impala with one for four years; full-on, unlatched, REDRUM, I-saw-it-before-it-happened psychic abilities. In the weeks you'd had to sit with that revelation, you'd poked carefully at Sam from afar. Obviously, you knew what a fucking psychic felt like. The five-year-old Sam who'd cut Dean's gum out of your hair had not been psychic. Yet this Sam, twenty-two with three-fourths of an ivy league law degree under his belt, was as psychic as a fucking—well. You. He was just as psychic as you.

Without even a sliver of the same control or even understanding of—of what he had, yes, but you were confident that if Sam was pushed, he could reach into your mind just as easily as you could reach into his. There had been a shift, then. At six, having gum cut out of your hair, you had been decidedly less psychic than you were at twenty-four. So Sam had gone through the Proctor Rite Of Passage; some terrible moment had cut him deep, deep enough to pull a new kind of blood to the surface. After Jessica, he had been... yeah.

It was fucking crazy. And yet it also slotted perfectly into some of the weirder things you understood about Sam; about who he was now and the vague, strobing flashes you got of his future. It freaked you the fuck out. Did Sam know? Did anyone know, besides you? Had your Mom recognized that spark in Sam, the same way she'd seen it in you? Had John?

And the plain existence of the Gift in Sam begged the question—why? Had he just happened to drop from the tree as a different kind of apple? Or was this something you could trace back to his mother, the same way it traced back to yours? Had Mary…?

The implications of that took pretty much everything you understood about Sam and Dean’s life, lined it up on the chopping block, and cleaved it in two. Needless to say, thinking about it made you sick. How could you even begin to bring this up to them?

You cursed your abilities with all you had. There were nights when you sat on the bathroom floor, wishing you could dig in with your nails and rip out whatever had put It in your head. Never in a billion fucking years would you have wished It upon anyone else; especially not Sam, good, selfless, wonderful Sam, who already ached so deeply for other people. Seeing their future, too? And even more often, seeing it and being helpless to change it?

He used to cry over squashed spiders as a kid. You'd felt a whole lot more than just spiders die.

…Beside that shuddering horror was another, far more selfish feeling. As scary as the implications could be, when you thought less about the Winchester family and more about your relationship with Sam, you were… excited. Relieved, even.

There were only four people in the entire world that you could share your Gift with. One of them has been six feet under for over a decade. Your Gift was a clingy, possessive creature, too. It was maybe two steps shy of being an eldritch horror. It poked through Dean’s dreams when you slept beside him, sucking them up like cigarette smoke. It breathed down Sam’s neck wherever he went. If you wanted, no one could lie to you—all punchlines and stories were spoiled for you, you knew when people found you annoying or pretty or stupid. If that particular Proctor gene had skipped you, then maybe you’d be able to form relationships with people where you didn’t immediately, intrinsically understand who they were and why. Dean would say, You need a drink. You would know without asking that he meant, You scare the ever-living hell out of me n’ I know I can’t hide it from you. Fucking hell, kid, I wish I could.

You knew you were a freak. The tiny human vessel for the lashing, bubbling, soul-melting, cosmic weight of a star about to bloom into a black hole. Only your mom would ever understand what it felt like to exist on the fringe of time, between the exhaustive influence of the past and the vast, spotty expanse of the future. You were a tool to men like John; an anomaly for men like Bobby; and a responsibility to men like Dean. 

But Sam… Your best friend Sam, he’d always tried to understand. Maybe he’d never fully get it, but the point was that he tried to. You remembered sitting with him on the curb outside your old high school, the concrete thrumming with music from the junior prom you’d both left behind inside.

How either of you had gotten dates was a miracle. You, the class weird-freak-emo punchline, and Sam, on his fourth round being the new kid that year, were two peas in a pod. Your date had never picked you up; Sam’s had escaped with her friends long before their first dance. Neither of you were very broken up about it.

The future had sprawled in front of you that night as clear as could be. You must've sat and talked on the curb for three straight hours, pressed together at the hip with Sam’s blazer around your shivering arms.

He was always beautiful in the boy-next-door kind of way, dimples popping with every good smile and freckles rising out of the too-short sleeves of his button-up. But that night he’d been fucking Helen of Troy, and the roar of the past and future slowed to a halt around him. 

Do you really see the future all the time? Every second? Sam had curiously tilted his head, sending a gleaming swish of chocolatey hair out of his eyes.

Swallowing hard, you’d hesitated, Not every second. But a lot, yes.

Again, the head tilt, then the swish. His gaze was innocent and intrigued. No existential dread, no sweeping sense of fear. Just plain curiosity. Not even morbid curiosity. Sam had asked, What about right now?

Sam’s cologne—oh god, his cologne—was steaming off his borrowed jacket and floating around your head in a wonderful rosy fog. You’d poked at the future. Sometimes things came back, sometimes they didn’t. That night, the future had come back tasting like Sam’s vanilla chapstick and junior prom punch, and your face had gone up in flames just sensing it. He’d waited for an answer. You’d blurted out the plain truth: In a minute or two, you’re gonna kiss me.

This kind of absolute, unshakable certainty about the future had made other hunters’ blood run cold. You’d braced yourself for Sam’s displeasure or worse, his fear. But instead, there were those dimples again, and Sam had the gall to bat his lashes at you and delightedly ask, Really? That’s what the magic eight ball has to say?

His big hand had dropped onto your knee and you’d squeaked out a shrill, Signs point to yes!

Sam loved the stupid magic eight-ball joke. You could feel him smiling about it as he kissed you, kissed you, hand-on-knee, his face tipping down to yours, the shitty school punch staining his lips as the two of you connected. At fifteen and sixteen respectively, this was the first kissing that either of you had ever done. It’d been wetter and warmer than you’d expected, and Sam’s vanilla chapstick had left the slightest print on your mouth, one that your tongue swiped over obsessively for the next month. Your Gift had chased him for weeks after that, silently and invisibly swarming him every time he entered a room.

Back then, your mind had been on the Curse. But now, you thought about what had led to the kiss in the first place. Sam hadn’t kissed you on a night when your Gift had been crammed down deep where it could bother nobody but you. He’d instead chosen the precise moment where your Gift was most raw, one of Its fingers coming down from the sky to press against the pulse of the future. It was small, but at a time in your life when you’d wanted to claw your Gift out with your bare hands, Sam had gotten the smallest glimpse of It and had fallen in love.

You couldn’t help but see this thing inside him, his Static, and feel the exact same way. His powers were twisted and unavoidably demonic, and yet you kind of loved them. It made perfect sense to you. No one really understood you like Sam did. Now, it's clear why.

-

tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydenny @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1 @pplanetcaravan @notanotherthembo

[lightandfellowship]

My first draft of a Halloween Town Vor design. Just a doodle while I try to figure it out. (She's a fairy and a sphinx).

Though this probably won't be the final design, and I may even change my mind about the creatures I picked, here's some design notes to explain my current thought process:

Nomura has stated that his Halloween Town designs for Sora, Donald, and Goofy mix two different creatures together to create a more unique design (Goofy is Frankenstein's monster and a werewolf, Donald is a mummy and an invisible man, Sora is a vampire and an imp) so for the sake of pursuing authenticity, I wanted to make sure that my design incorporated two creatures as well.

Though a fairy may seem like an odd choice at first and something that would fit Christmas Town more (sugar-plum fairies and all) I'm thinking of the more traditional concept of a fairy that is mischievous and a little bit dangerous. (Though certainly if Vor were to visit Christmas Town, I think her design would become that more benevolent and cutesy kind of fairy.) Which I think fits Vor pretty well: she seems small and sweet, but don't underestimate her.

I wanted to balance the mischievous side of Vor with her observant/wise side (she's named after a wise Goddess after all), so I thought a sphinx would work there. Thus the lion paws and tail. In addition, the sphinx is known for asking people riddles, which I felt made for a nice reference to the Magic Mirror that's so important to Vor's story in the game, since it, too, speaks in rhymes and riddles. The sphinx also has eagle wings along with their lion body, which I think allows her sphinx and fairy side to be incorporated together well enough, since both creatures share the design element of wings. (Also, the big rope bow on Vor's back in her original design kinda resembles wings already). I tried to do something sort of similar with her ears, giving her the long ears of a fairy but adding fur to the tips to give it that cat-like appearance. Again, trying my best to marry two different creatures together that have vastly different visual aesthetics. Could be better, though? It's kind of hard to mix them together and make it look good/cohesive, I think.

I noticed two things about Sora's Halloween Town design that I felt were relevant and important for Vor's design: one, though Sora's design is drastically changed from his default KH1 design, the silhouette and shape of his clothes is mostly the same. And two, Sora's crown charm still exists on his Halloween Town design, it's just been changed from a necklace to a brooch on his bowtie. In light of these two things, I tried to keep Vor's clothes relatively the same shape with just some minor changes here and there (such as simplifying her big collar and making her shoes look more whimsical and fairy-like). And much like Sora's crown, I kept her "Terra's Mark" emblem (that's the canon name for it apparently), and just changed the ribbon around it to be more curly and Halloween-esque.

Vor has two different prints/designs on her original design: a column of circles on her sleeves, and curved rows of circles on the bottom of her jacket. I changed the sleeve design so the bottom-most circle is a yellow cat eye, which I think feels appropriately sphinx-like and Halloween-y. As for the design on the bottom of the jacket, I'm not quite sure I like it. I just changed it to a simple spiderweb design, because (1. I thought it would look nice there and (2. Sora's Halloween Town design has the jack-o'-lantern mask, so I felt like a more "cliche" Halloween motif was needed somewhere on Vor's design; the eyes just wouldn't cut it. If I end up refining this design more, the cobwebs may be exchanged with something more fitting.

And finally, the most obvious and simple to explain change...her color palette is now much more desaturated to match Halloween Town's gloomy, dark atmosphere. Though I did depart a bit from Nomura's approach here: for Sora, Nomura made his color palette almost completely black/grey/white. For Vor, however, I felt her original purple and gold color palette already lends itself well to Halloween, so I decided to keep her color palette relatively the same, just desaturating it heavily. I also simplified her palette in areas, such as making her belt a plain blue instead of its usual brown/gold/white, and removing the gold from her shoes.

[cirrus-grey]

After thinking about it a bit, I think the thing that’s standing out to me about the tmagp cases so far is the idea of fusion – circling back to the idea of “some of him” from the first episode. In addition to Darla’s husband being… Frankensteined together, I think, with something else to bring him back, we’ve had:

Daria merging painting and flesh to the point she couldn’t tell the difference between the two.

Dr. Webber fusing with the jasmine trees in the garden.

Tom becoming just another faceless blogger repeating the movie’s tagline (this one’s a bit of a stretch, I’m aware).

Needles fusing with – well, needles. They’ve become a part of him, not just something he uses to hurt other people.

The outliers are RedCanary and the violinist, but the episode notes for the RedCanary case straight-up say it was filed as a transformation. And the violinist… that’s the only case dated before 2009. Obviously there haven’t been enough episodes yet to make a sweeping judgement on what’s going on, but I think there’s something to be said for the fact that there’s a noticeable difference between the one case that happened before the fall of the Institute and the ones after it.

I’m not entirely sure what this means – there were definitely fusion avatars in tma, looking at you Jane Prentiss and Jared Hopworth – but having such a strong emphasis on fusion and transformation in the first six episodes definitely feels significant. Is it related to the tma fears merging with a pre-existing supernatural system in this new world? Human minds being merged with computers? Something else entirely? I have no idea, but it’s something I’m going to be paying close attention to going forward.

EDIT: I had this post sitting in my drafts already when I was reminded about all the alchemy foreshadowing in the logo and the ARG. Given that alchemy is all about the transformation of one substance into another, I'm even more interested in what's going on with these cases.

[selfaware-bungou-stray-dogs]

I have two questions about SAGAU X BSD:

1: I'm really curious about how the BSD cast would interact with Genshin Impact characters who helped the reader?

2: will you write something where the BSD cast saved the Genshin Impact characters who got captured while helping the reader like Nahida, Xiao and Furina?

1. They are friendly towards them. BSD Cast also really grateful, that there were people, who tried to help.

As I mentioned in previous posts, BSD Cast will'transport' people, who helped Reader to the Real World. After that, BSD Cast will try to help Teyvat Helpers to settle in. Naval Helpers will stay in the Real World either until BSD's Cast Revenge is over and Teyvat will be safe to return to, or forever, if Teyvat got destroyed.

2. I do have some round drafts about Self-Aware! Paul Verlaine fic about saving Furina (maybe, with Wriothesley, I still on a fence about what side he in this au). As for Xiao and Nahida, I do want to write about them, but, for now, I don't have any ideas about who from BSD Cast should I use. They would either also get Verlaine, or Adam Frankenstein or Rimbaud. Maybe, will include Xiao in Mori vs Morax fic.

_______

Tag list: @withered-blossoms , @myluckymoon @cocodrilofeliz @c4xcocoa @vvyeislazzy @whisperingwinters

[bumlets-appreciation-blog]

Some Backstory For My Bumlets Post

One pattern I’d noticed when other Newsies fans posted about Bumlets was that a lot of people give him multiple sisters, and since I liked that headcanon, I incorporated it into my world-building. The sisters I gave him are: 

Xiomara: Born 4/23/1881, Xiomara is his younger twin sister. The two are very close, mostly due to the fact that they have a “twin telepathy” connection. Communication has always been easier between the two of them than with anyone else, which is part of why they’re both so quiet.

Cataleya: Born 1/3/1883, Cataleya is the mediator of the family and the biggest goofball on their side of the Mississippi. She loves making people laugh and would probably get along with Kid Blink if they ever met (though Bumlets is praying that they never get the chance for the sake of his sanity).

Gabriela: Born 11/25/1884, Gabriela is fascinated with dark, creepy things. She practiced her English by reading an old copy of Frankenstein that an older boy in their building had given her as a joke, which soon blossomed into a full-blown love of the macabre. She’s like a Victorian-era Wednesday Addams.

Maricela: Born 12/17/1886, Maricela is the dreamer of the family. She’s a sweet little girly girl who loves fairytales, romance books, and ponies and is essentially the exact opposite of Gabriela. Despite this, Gabi is her favorite sibling, and the two are rarely seen not attached at the hip.

Bianca: Born 7/20/1888, Bianca was the first of the kids to be born in Manhattan instead of San Juan. She’s awkward, blunt, and asks far too many questions that aren’t appropriate for a girl her age. If she’d been born in a more modern time, she’d probably be diagnosed with autism.

Inés: Born 9/12/1889, Inés is the baby of the family. For the record, she never actually hated Bumlets. She just preferred their mother and he was the sibling who looked the least like her (on account of him being a boy). Sadly, she was four when they were separated and she doesn’t remember him well.

2. Charlie is this boy here next to Bumlets:

I was unaware that he'd already been named by the fandom when I learned about a newsie named Charlie being in an early draft of the script (Jack mistakes Sarah for Charlie when she's wearing David's clothes), and since I thought this kid looks like a Charlie to me, that's what I started calling him in my head. Since he has so many names in fandom, I thought it would be funny to put a shoutout into my story. And look! He combed his hair like Bumlets did!

3. A lot of characterization and backstory inspiration (especially for Skittery) is inspired by @jackcowboyhero and @pandolfo-malatesta, who sort of did a joint story thing that I was obsessed with when I first joined the fandom. Neither of them is very active anymore, but @jackcowboyhero still has everything up and you can find @pandolfo-malatesta's story, V New Yorku, on Ao3 here.

4. Someone else came up with the story about Bumlets's name, but I can't find the post in my likes so I'm going to have to update this post later with the proper credit when I do find it.

[bonzos-number-1-fan]

TMAGP 22 Thoughts: Couples Therapy

A really great episode. Everything about this one was so well done and I don't think I've got a single complaint. Not that I often have those but still. It'll be interesting to see how much of this is deeply plot relevant and how much is just a fun spooky time too. This is another belated post on account of a hospital visit, and a half-written draft getting deleted. Hopefully we'll be back to our regularly scheduled posts for next week.

Spoilers for episode 22 below the cut.

Lena is just the best, isn't she? Unfortunately we just learned that she's married and so I've got no shot, but still. Lena is great in every scene she's in and I'm really glad we get so much of her and Gwen as they have stellar chemistry. I'd be interested to see if this ministerial visit goes anywhere. I'm not 100% whether it was a plot hook or a convenient way to not fire Gwen. She's obviously not in Lena's good books so she this could be a way to explain away not firing her so she can leverage that position for something and avoid the firing.

Augustus incidents are always such a treat. This one probably wasn't maybe my favourite of them for the incident itself but it was for the sound design and the music. They really hit it out of the park for this one IMO. Unfortunately this is likely the last Augustus statement of the season if it's sticking to the 1 per act cadence. Of minor note this does disprove that .JMJ errors herald Augustus in some way.

Okay, onto the statement proper. Hans Berger and Dr. Richard Caton are both real people, and the information within this statement is largely factual. Berger did invent the EEG in 1924, held off on publishing his research due to the reaction he presumed it'd received, and when it was later published a lot of the scientific community at the time was ready to discount it. It took quite some time before what he'd managed was really appreciated. But don't feel too bad for him as he also worked with the Nazis. So coercing a patient into getting their brain ejected from their skull isn't the only sin of his. Caton is similarly accurate here and the two of them had similar fates with their research. Without Caton's work Berger likely wouldn't have been able to create the EEG and Berger was one of the few people to give Caton's research much attention at all. It came very close to being forgotten about. Ursula was very real too and did start as Berger's assistant before they got married. Although not mentioned in the incident is that she was a baroness.

Okay, so the big thing in this one is obviously the experiment itself. I've heard quite a few theories on what's actually going on here. Lots of talk about it being Freddy or JMJ. I generally think that's a massive stretch that doesn't really mesh with anything in the text of this, nor the historical context of Freddy and JMJ. The incident predates both Freddy as software and JMJ appearing as voices by not insignificant margins. It's obviously entirely possible that something was floating in the void waiting for a host PC but in context to the text of the incident I don't really see how that's a logical conclusion. The incident was about a secondary or true self within a person that can be accessed through the hemispherical bridge. Which is sort of exactly what we see here. It's also generally how it works IRL, split-brain is a fairly well researched topic for what it is.

Which is all to say I think this one is fairly literal. Herr Schmidt isn't a psychic gateway to Freddy but that's not to say I don't think these things are related. I very much do but I think it's foreshadowing and metaphor rather than literally the same thing. But of course I think that because I've been talking about this idea of a homunculus JMJ for a bit. You can read about it in an essay entitled JMJ: Frankenstein; or, the Modem Prometheus. It's a short read for my standards and my favourite pun of all my essays, so check it out. The dream is a little more likely to be a psychic event but it's also pretty literal for a dream as the imagery goes so there isn't much to say on it.

A very fun incident all around. As mentioned the main subject matter of callosal syndrome (split-brain) is a very real phenomena. I'm not going to get too into it but if it's something you want to dig into I'd suggest looking into the research of Michael Gazzaniga as well as Roger Sperry. The latter won a Nobel Prize for their work on this too.

I don't have much to say on the last to sections. Both conversations Sam has with Alice and Celia, respectively, are pretty explicit. Although Sam's mention of Alice being controlling does give us some insight into a likely reason they broke up. He's also very right that Alice has made a pretty quick turn around on all this and is now actively working against it despite not buying it at all.

Then it was something about a Marvin and Jason, I think?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Incident/CAT#R#DPHW Master Sheet and Terminology Sheet

DPHW Theory: 4488 sounds about right. Not a load to say on that one IMO.

CAT# Theory: 13 is somewhat interesting from the Person/Place/Object theory. Mostly because it's another that's a really big stretch and also doesn't help anyone know anything. There wasn't really anything out of the ordinary here as far as people and objects go, and in either case flagging that doesn't really impart any useful context. So it's just another one of those largely redundant data points.

R# Theory: Another old letter by an old man at BC. Love to see the consistency as it lines up very well with my ideas here.

Header talk: Experiment (Brain) -/- Imprisonment (Existential) is a somewhat interesting crosslink assuming it's correctly filed. Your second self being literally imprisoned in your head at all times is pretty wild.

[scribble-dee-vee]

Writeblr Intro circa 2024

Hi writeblr!! Sooo, I've been around here since about 2014. (Yes, I am ancient.) However, I've been dormant for the past 4-5 years. Blame college and a brief stint on Twitter. Now that I'm active again, I thought I should make an updated writeblr intro so ppl know my Deal. Basically, I want to engage with other folks who write fiction (esp original SF), and that's a little easier if I have a clear post that outlines what I do. Here to make connections and hear about your blorbos :)

About me

Hi, I'm Vee! They/them, 23, 💖 🤍 🧡

I do journalism/comms in western New York

My literary jam is feminist/adult SF and gothic lit (OG or modern) 🥀 ⚔️ 🌙

Enthusiastic about gay people, body horror, and sociopolitical allegories

I cook, run, play tabletop games, and occasionally draw. Other than that, I'm mostly writing (for work and for fun)

If you were on pre-2020 writeblr, you likely know me from my eight billion daily tag games. (I still like tag games and appreciate u for tagging me. I have also gained adult responsibilities and better mental health, so I respond very slowly now. <3)

Always happy to get asks or dms, tho as I've noted: I may reply slowly.

Sometimes open to beta read! I only read one longer project at a time, but it's always super fun :)

I tag very consistently – happy to tag triggers for followers/moots

Fun fact: I love mushroom hunting and worked as a mycology TA. #cottagecoreera 🍄 🧚‍♀️ 🌱

About my creative writing

I write,,,, feminist/adult SF with gothic leanings (surprise!)

Longform and short! Trying to do more short writing this year, and I'll likely share a bit on Tumblr. It's easier to clip a short story than a 150k novel, god bless.

The Aesthetic: moral g(r)ays, Victoriana, androids/cyborgs, Women™, monstrous femininity, incessant Hamlet/Frankenstein motifs, extremely boring socioeconomic worldbuilding, evil queens and/or dilfs, psychosexual witchcraft, probably a cat. Also, an ominous, plot-relevant letter laced with anthrax from your unhinged and brilliant ex-wife. Open if you dare.

Major projects

I'm going to be writing some short work this year, but these are the longer projects that I have going in the background. If I reblog blorbo-related text posts, they probably have something to do with these.

Let me know if you want to be added to any project-specific taglists 😎

Heart of Lead – Series

The big one

Perpetually evolving

Never ceasing

Pls send help I can't stop adding shit

5-book gothic fantasy epic that I'll definitely publish one day but probably no time soon! My bastard child, my wicked firstborn, my greatest love <3

Character-oriented political drama set in a pseudo-Victorian, dystopian oligarchy where everyone's heart is made out of metal. It's about coming of age and discovering queer identity in a world that is absolutely fucked. God is an extraterrestrial lesbian who gives ppl very traumatizing magic powers. There are cyborgs, shapeshifters, and morally gray women in STEM. It's tight as fuck idk what else what to tell u.

Book 1 is about achillean monarchists, and book 2 is about sapphic anarchists. There are only two genders, I guess.

At this point, I've drafted most of the books at least once. Working to refine a lot of raw material atm!

Tag: "heart of lead tag" or "hol tag"

Lost Letters – Book

Aka the current active HoL WIP, and book one in the revised series structure

Length: 80k as of now; around 120-140k when the first draft is finished, I presume.

Genre: adult fantasy, gothic, noir detective drama?? um?? If you want me to frame it in BookTok terms (why?) it's a dark academia villain x villain tragic romantasy. Hrgh.

Summary: Cyborg soldier goes to college, joins a shady socialite frat, and falls in love with the jilted heir-apparent to the throne. Hilarity ensues.

(By "hilarity," I mean a militant revolutionary faction and a tragedy of Greek proportions.)

POV characters: Charles (the cyborg), Dale (the heir), and Cecelia (Charles' sister, a junior detective, the love of my life and potentially the Chosen One???)

This book is twisty and dark and immensely fun to write.

I'm about halfway through the first full draft! Hoping to share snippets and vaguepost about my children here.

Tag: "lost letters tag" (also "hol tag," tho that one's less specific)

The Last of Mortal Tourists – Book

The next longform project on the docket!

Length: a standalone work that will hopefully fall on the shorter novel/novella spectrum.

Genre: literary SF, cyberqueer, psychological space quest

Summary: The consciousness of a dead coding genius, trapped inside a spaceship, seeks a new planet to sustain their sister, the last surviving human, after the destruction of Earth.

If you're here to get wildly philosophical about gender and the myth of essential self, this is the story for you! That's why I'm writing it, lol. 🏳️‍⚧️ 🚀 🤖

This one started out as a short story (100% finished) which I want to expand.

POV: Archer Alto, the coder. Spaceship? Human? Soul?

Supporting Cast: Pandora, the last human, and Abby, a holographic impression of Archer's childhood consciousness

Tag: "the last of mortal tourists tag" or "tlomt tag"

If you read all this way, you get a whole bouquet of flowers that are certainly NOT poisonous: 🌸 🌹 💐 🥀 🌺

<3

[self-aware-sawtrap]

excuse me (stares unblinkingly directly into your eyes) I would be very interested in hearing your thoughts on the parallels between frankenstein and saw. specifically those between the characters of the monster and amanda young. I am so curious..... but no pressure ofc. feel free to answer me in this ask if you wish! or if you feel so inclined, my dms are open as well :)

I literally screamed when I got your ask I’ve been waiting for somebody to ask me this specific question for so long. I actually just started drafting an essay on this very topic so I’ve got a lot of ideas floating around my head right now.

the main parallel I see between these two stories is between victor frankenstein’s relationship to his creation and john’s relationship to amanda. john and victor’s defining motivators in both of their stories are their god complexes—victor greatly admires his own mind and the power it grants him, and he starts out with this curiosity as to what it would feel like to have power over human nature as well. John’s god complex is more subtle but I feel like it’s definitely there as well. even before he starts testing people he expresses frustration with the cycle of addiction and recovery, as well as a desire to “intervene” despite his own acknowledgement that these cycles are a part of human nature. so even before the traps begin we see similar motivations between the two, and john’s similarity to victor only becomes more apparent after he starts testing people. in my opinion, victor frankenstein’s primary flaw regarding his treatment of the creation is that he views the creation more so as an extension of his ability to create than a person with their own feelings and autonomy. this is why he chickens out of the whole endeavor when he sees the creature come to life for the first time—it’s not because the creature is just so ugly he had to bail, but because he can’t confront the idea that this thing he created, which he made to prove his ability to “create humanity” and feed his god complex, is not just visibly imperfect but genuinely hideous. and throughout the course of the book he’s forced to confront the fact that he hasn’t created humanity—he’s created one human, who needs a competent parent and a supportive upbringing. in short, his relationship to his creation is too much like a father to be at all godlike.

which brings me to john and amanda. while saw obviously doesn’t take the idea of creating life as literally as frankenstein, there’s still a similarity in the way john treats amanda’s “rebirth” after her test. he tells her that the scars on her arms are “from another life”, one that he expects her to leave behind for the sake of their mission. and just like victor frankenstein, john is attached to amanda in part because he sees her as living proof that his philosophy works. if Amanda’s life improves after her test, if amanda changes because of her test, then that means john was right to want to change her. and that means he can continue forcing people to change, because no matter how brutal his method is or how dubious the proof that it actually works, he at least has amanda. his daughter figure and, in his eyes, the only definitive evidence of his control over human nature.

john, of course, loves amanda. that is the primary difference between these stories. john, unlike victor, understands that he is some sort of father figure to amanda. he understands that she needs comfort and support from him, and on some level I do think he wants to provide that for her. but in the end john’s relationship with amanda is doomed for the same reason that victor’s relationship with his creation is. while john understands that he has stumbled into fatherhood, this does not change the fact that both of them are completely unprepared for what fatherhood will entail. they set out attempting to become gods—of course neither of them were prepared to be fathers. but arguably, they should have been. arguably, they both should have known better.

it’s frankenstein, but centering on monstrous rebirth instead of monstrous creation.

sorry it took so long to get back to you! this post took a while to become coherent. I cannot cannot cannot thank you enough for asking! if you have any questions or want to discuss further I’m literally always willing to talk about this.