#she's still herself and she's still the same person but something about her is different and for those first few weeks it just feels WRONG

[daughter-of-the-demons-head]

Talia always felt guilty for bringing Damian into the world.

Her father encouraged her, yes, but in the back of her mind, there was something telling her not to. Something telling her that this wasn’t what she wanted, that it was her father’s desire, not hers.

But she did it. She let her father overrule her mind. It wasn’t unusual, but this time, it made her feel different. It didn’t just go to the back of her mind. It stuck. She felt guilty every day of Damian’s life. The day he was “Born” (more like removed from a test tube) she felt guilt. She looked at her newborn son (why did he have to be born afab? Why couldn’t he have been the male heir Ra’s wanted without having to change the way he was? Talia thought he was perfect. He was her son and she loved him from the moment he was born but she still felt so much incredible guilt.) with intense apprehension. She didn’t know how to be the mother to a child. She never had her mother. She was taught to be her own mother. How could such a small, defenceless child be their own mother?

He couldn’t.

She had to be his mother. She had to raise him the best she could. The way she was raised.

As an infant, she told him that she loved him. She hummed to him, played with him, and gave him the attention any infant deserves. This carried on until Damian could hold things in his hands, which is when his training began. The issues started when Damian began to talk. She stopped giving him that affection once he learnt to talk. She felt so incredibly guilty. She didn’t tell Damian that she loved him anymore. She didn’t play with him. She didn’t show him the same amount of love as before. This didn’t mean she didn’t love him, though. Damian was her heart. Her baby. Her reason for trying to continue getting out of the League.

Talia showed her love in other ways. She called him nicknames, the most common being “Ya Qalbi” - my heart. She cooked for him. She trained with him. She raised him to be the best assassin he could possibly be, and she was proud. She was so incredibly proud of how her beautiful, perfect son had grown and improved and shown his worth. It felt as if everything was okay. Her guilt was lessened by the day.

Until he died.

The first time Damian died, Talia cried. She hated killing unnecessarily in the first place, but seeing the death of her own son, her baby, was too much. She couldn’t control her emotions, and rightfully so. She mourned him. Ra’s wouldn’t let her bring him back. He forced her to let him rot. To make it agonising when he returned.

She held him in that pit, quietly humming to him. She hummed a song that wasn’t new to her, or to Damian. It was one she presumed he felt comfort from. It was one of the only things she could do to help.

This set something off in her, though. It opened her eyes. It opened the floodgates and released an entire new flood of guilt into her mind. If she couldn’t get out, at least he could. He could be free. She trained with him, over and over and over, until she felt as if he was fit to see his father.

Once she had parted ways with both of the people who meant the most to her, she watched. She kept an eye on Damian, from afar. Watching how he grew. How he developed as a person. How he made friends. How he could thrive with Bruce, without needing to worry about the burdens of the League weighing him down. She saw him gain a family with the Waynes. She saw him happy. Well and truly happy for the first time since he was an infant. And when he was on missions, she observed. Her efforts had not gone to waste: he was amazing at what he did. Sometimes, when he had truly been doing his best, she allowed herself to feel something about him that she had not felt for some time: pride.

Talia and her Cursed Son.

[zonezyo]

glinda and fiyero, both being for all intents and purposes on the same footing socially, are two sides of the same coin on what happens to those who come from privilege if they choose to forsake their standing in the face of adversity. they come from the same place, they have essentially the same thing to lose, but they end UP losing insanely different thing based on the way they choose to live their lives. however, glinda and fiyero have the same thing to lose, but they do NOT have the same thing to gain.*

fiyero is of course actually very smart, no matter how carefree he plays himself, but before elphaba, before the catalyst, he WAS truly content with dancing through life-- he probably would have skated through on his looks and his charm, living a blessed but ultimately unfulfilling, unhappy life, with no real direction. but when given a cause he wakes up and begins to actually want. he wants change, wants elphaba, wants something different than what he's had. though it comes at obvious sacrifice for him, it is natural for him to follow elphaba. there is no personal risk of straying off his path because there is no real path ahead of him anyway. yes, he's captain of the guard, he's engaged to glinda-- but his heart is not truly with them. he has already mentally strayed towards elphaba.

glinda, though, is not like fiyero. she can play herself as charming as she wants to match him and everyone that expects anything from her, but she's at shiz to learn sorcery-- from the moment she's introduced we know that she's dead set on that goal. she WANTS something. she, like elphaba, marvels at the emerald city, imagining her life there one day. so when faced with this fatal decision between choosing what might be good but what is risky, she panics-- it's right there in the lyric!! to grovel in submission to feed her own ambition!! though part of it is certainly her backing into what is safe, she can't let go of her own dream for what would effectively kill every future she ever dreamed of. glinda is WILLING to forfeit her SOCIAL status for elphaba-- it's just that she's smart enough to understand that this is not simply forfeiting social status. this is forfeiting any and all power she ever could have, gain, or use to her/elphaba's advantage.

however: glinda's choice may seem entirely based in self preservation but she's also just as much trying to preserve elphaba's, maybe not safety, but status, because that's what she thinks of as safety. though it's unfair, glinda is right-- maybe not in this instance, but at least in the broad strokes of the song. elphaba HAS hurt her cause forever, she IS having delusions of grandeur, and this is going to make it that much harder for elphaba to ever truly make change regarding animals in oz because as a villain all she can do is drive people away (though ofc this doesn't mean she shouldn't have done what she did). glinda is desperately bargaining-- she knows elphaba cares about the animals, but she doesn't truly understand why, so there is nothing she could have said or done to level with elphaba. glinda ultimately still thinks that change is manageable under the people responsible for cruelty. she's misguided, unaware of the weight of what's happening. it's why she calls it ELPHABA'S cause, not the animals' cause, because she's not really concerned with the greater good at the moment, she's focused on saving her and her best friend. she's smart enough to understand power play, but not aware enough to understand what all that power means, really, at least not in the moment of act 1.

we can speculate what the "good" choice would have been for glinda but the real truth of the show is that the choice she made was the only one she was ever going to, though it might not be just or right or the one she should have.

[fatallyfalling]

Bitter Water 0.09 ~ ♆

“ maybe it was better that way. “

{{ Finnick Odair x Reader }}

{{ previous part || next part }} {{ masterlist }}

warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, PTSD, forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, time skip, unshared feelings, nightmares, unintentional self-injury, alcohol, sexual harassment, character death, gore/blood, etc

{{ word count }} 3.8 k

{{ outfits }}

{{ prompt }} Following the conclusion of the 70th Games, emotions are tense, and the weight of being crowned Victor weighs heavier than ever.

{{ a/n }} The ending of this chapter is a bit rushed I'm sorry :( also, we're not gonna talk about the time I post these at....

Annie Cresta was the lone survivor of The 70th Annual Hunger Games.

When she returned to District 4 a few months later, she wasn’t anything like the timid girl you’d met while mentoring Trout. The Capital medical teams had kept her longer than they usually held Victors due to the severity of her traumas. The wickedness that had sunk its talons deep inside her memories was less than favorable in their eyes. A tarnish to the reputation of The Games.

She’d taken victory by pure luck. The Gamemakers had chosen to cause an earthquake roughly two days after Trout died - having grown bored of the remaining Tributes hiding from one another in different corners of the Arena. The quake destroyed the large dam where the Cornucopia had been set, flooding the Arena. The remaining tributes couldn’t swim as well as someone from the Fishing District could. She’d outlasted without taking a single life - but that didn’t make the fracture in her thoughts any less tormenting. 

She was only a year younger than you at eighteen. Her age made her experience of being Reaped almost as depressing as Trout’s name being drawn. She’d nearly gotten by without ever having to face the Arena.

Almost.

You weren’t even allowed time to grieve the small red-headed boy after you returned to the nautical District.

The closest thing to closure you’d given yourself was tracking down Trout’s family. You’d discovered he had been the middle child of a seven - now six-person household. His mother was an angular woman who managed the busy home by herself. You recognized her from the shipyard where she washed sails and nets with other older women in the large washbasins filled with filtered seawater and bubbling soap. You’d never spoken to her till now. She stood straight-backed and stoic, her apron stained and the scent of sage and linen wafting off her as she pulled open the front door. She had struck you as hard as she could with her palm when you’d tried to offer your condolences. She screamed in your face that you should have tried harder. That you should have protected Trout. The words were strained and broken - just like her heart. Her voice was grief-stricken and harsh - but you’d expected nothing less. She was right in your failures. Even if she was using you as the outlet for her grief and anger for the death of her son when you’d done everything you could, nothing would make up for sending her son into that Arena to die. Nothing would compensate for her contempt for The Games - For The Capital.

You still left small bundles of wildflowers on her porch once a week. 

Trout’s mother never touched them.

You didn’t expect her to.

They stayed there to rot and be replaced with something new each week, the cycle of life continuing.

Sometimes you left seaweed bread instead. But the green-tinted, fish-shaped buns were left to rot just the same.

Trout’s funeral service was small - funerals always were. Despite District 4 being the fourth wealthiest district with the seventh largest population in Panem, their funerary traditions were kept private, with only close family and friends in attendance. There wasn’t much of a procession, nor a public wake, but the shipyards and boardwalk would be silent as dusk settled on the damp sands of the coast. The silence came as a sign of respect. Funerals were hosted at sunset to see the sky spread in a beautiful array of color, a beacon calling their loved one home. You’d only attended a handful of funerals in your lifetime - the last one having been your Mothers. 

The citizens of District 4 honored their dead by returning them to the sea.

The ritual was elaborate, but not at all luxurious or gaudy. The deceased loved one would be dressed in white, often the same soft, lightweight linen material they wrapped around newborns right after delivery. A symbol of safety and new beginnings. They would then be wrapped in a specially woven net, handmade by their loved ones and often intertwined with mementos like ribbons, locks of hair, shells, pearls, photographs, letters, and more between the ropes. The net was made to protect and aid the deceased on their journey to the afterlife. Their body would be carefully cradled in a wooden longboat atop a bed of dried tall grass and seaweed. Sometimes grieving families gave them blankets to lie upon for their voyage. The boat’s prow is carved with their name, lest they forget it in their journey onward. Their crown is surrounded by a fan of cattail stalks, a symbol of survival and protection, with the prospect that their loved ones will follow them to the sea when their time comes. The rest of the shallow hull of the longboat holds wildflowers, heirlooms, and personal belongings the family chooses to send with their loved one.

Goodbyes are said individually, between hushed voices and tears, with as much love and care as they can manage. This way nothing is left unsaid to the deceased before they begin their journey home. The speech before the send-off is brief, usually made by the head of the household if there is one or the next best substitution. There are slight variations in the rituals between the Northern and Southern ports.

The send-off is accompanied by a song older than even the Districts of Panem. The melody is languid, and peaceful, speaking of a sailor’s final voyage home to rest the remainder of his days. The tune is sung by whoever gathers for the send-off. It’s tradition to teach the songs of the District’s rituals from an early age. The lyrics are bittersweet. Finally, the longboat is gently pushed from the shore, guided forward by six members of the family, who wade into the salty water with the boat till a current catches. It's a way of giving one last embrace to the deceased. A final warmth of touch and farewell filled with heartache and love. Once the members of the family return to shore an arrow is lit, the flames a small orb of flickering light as the sky above darkens overhead, casting shadows on the attendees’ faces as if that small flame was the very soul of the person they’d lost. The head of the household knocks the arrow and draws back, the flame is a welcome warmth to their shaking hands. With a sealing, permanent farewell the arrow flies.

The boat sails on as the flames catch the dried grass beneath the body.

Those in attendance remain on the sand till the longboat burns through, another sign of respect for their dead.

Some stay long after the flame disappears and the darkness of night cloaks them in shadow.

You weren’t permitted to attend Trout’s funeral.

Maybe it was better that way.

You visited the cove where the funerary boats were launched a week after he’d burned. You hadn’t set foot there since your Mother's funeral. And you couldn’t say how long you stayed on that beach either - staring out at the waves with only the sound of their crashing on the coast and the distant call of seagulls to fill the silence. You’d whispered your goodbye alone and to the wind that day. 

There was no answer as the waves crashed.

Life continued - nothing stopped as the world kept turning and your heart begrudgingly kept beating.

The process of helping Annie adjust to Victor’s Village was difficult. 

She was placed next door to Mags, which made her two doors down from Finnick and across the street from yourself. The three of you tried to help her adjust, taking shifts to monitor her considering the extent of her traumas and unstable condition. If she had family, they hadn’t moved with her. Annie was alone. You’d asked Marjorie for help as well, but the elder couldn’t give the poor girl any tonic or natural aid to quell or repair what The Games had broken. Your heart broke for Annie, but sometimes even you were too overwhelmed to stay with her during her episodes due to the unpredictable nature triggering your own symptoms.

Her episodes were fierce and sporadic. One minute she’d be sitting quietly trying to read with you beside her, Finnick in an armchair nearby as the two of you monitored her. And the next she’d be sobbing while clawing at your arms, desperately trying to hold onto something as her gaze turned far off and she screamed. All because the wood in the fireplace cracked. Or because a door shut too abruptly or she had to close her eyes under the showerhead. Both of your aversions to water were similar in that way. But the angry red scratches that her nails left stretched over both your and Finnick’s arms only grew in number as her episodes worsened. Her grip had drawn blood once or twice now - both of those times leaving you to deal with poltergeists of your own after Finnick had pried Annie off of you, furiously blinking back memories of a ravine and a river and the way your fingertips had clawed into a girl’s arms as she’d attempted to drown you almost four years ago now. The same way she’d clawed into yours as you’d drowned her instead. Bile had threatened to rise in your throat as you had forced yourself out of the room, panic and adrenaline seizing your chest and constricting your throat to what felt like suffocation. Your heart hammers in your ears, drowning out your ability to focus as your breathing grows hyper and you crumple in a hallway of Annie’s house. You fight the panic attacks alone. Finnick asks if you’re okay when you return, concern constricting his features, and you say you’re fine - even though you’re not.

He doesn’t pry.

The Darling has his fair share of moments that he has to step out as well - the way he recoils from Annie as if she were burning him with just the pads of her fingertips elicits a pang of something in your chest that you can’t place. It’s a feeling you don’t recognize and that scares you. So you shove it so far down that you’re almost able to forget it. Sometimes you feel that strange tether again, almost like an urge to reach out to him, but you’re quick to smother it. You don’t allow yourself to even think of the implications of the internal tether. You ask if he’s okay when he returns - he says he’s fine. He isn’t.

You don’t pry.

The two of you were just two damaged people who were equally sinking. Opposites - pulled together by shared traumas and guilt. Nothing more - nothing less.

Your role as Desirable was once again hanging its guillotine over your neck as well.

One misstep and it was all over.

Because of the high demand you and Finnick had garnered as Mentors, the onslaught of clients and sometimes back-to-back events was strenuous - leaving you barely any time to grieve your Tribute, let alone think.

Finnick appeared to be doing the best between the two of you. 

If he was struggling - he didn’t show it. Nowadays it seemed he wore his mask as The Capital’s Darling more often than not, leaving you unsure of how many of his words were truths.

The responsibilities of being Desirable to the Capital had picked up right where they’d left off after the two of you were released from mentorship before The Games had even finished. Neither of you had any semblance of peace till the demand eventually slowed months later. You barely spoke - not that there was much to say. The two of you had been kept in the Capital for the same period they’d kept Annie in the medical bays of the Tribute Center. Finnick wasn’t even sure what he’d have said to you if he’d gotten the chance. How do you casually ask about the well-being of someone who is grieving a person they’d been forced to send to their inevitable death against their will? 

Certainly not over tasteless hors d’oeuvres and champagne.

Definitely not.

He was back to being held at arm’s length. Unallowed to get anywhere near close. 

Maybe it was for the best.

But Finnick had spent the last several years teetering over an edge he couldn’t see the other side of. Meticulously toeing the line between stranger, acquaintance, and sometimes friend. Though, he doubted he was ever really your friend. The verbal waltz the two of you had tediously crafted through both passive and direct interactions over the years had brought the Darling peace. He’d even found himself looking forward to whatever witty remark you’d say in response to his instigating. Maybe a part of him craved it. Your attention, the way you looked at him. But any shred of your attention he’d once held was gone, swallowed by the gluttoned maw of the Capital. He tried to ignore the itch that crept up under his skin when you glanced his way across the crowded halls and parties. Still acknowledging his existence but unable to slip away. Peacekeeper security had increased in the last few months due to rumors of a riot in one of the lower Capital neighborhoods. An artist’s collective protest as they’d burned their gallery and studio after displaying multiple works of treasonous anti-capital rhetoric. The artists all but ceased to exist from Capital records and their work was removed and destroyed from establishments across the city. The incident was quickly, and efficiently removed from the public eye. There had been no news coverage - the rumors only spreading by word of mouth. Secrets shared between sugarcubes and wineglasses to listening ears and prying eyes. The added security made the secret meetings that you and Finnick used to share nearly impossible. He tried to feign nonchalance, to keep his cooled exterior and charming wit in check. Hell, he really did try. But despite his best efforts to remain cordial - to quell the snapping thread in his chest that tethered some part of him to you, a part of him yearned for something he couldn’t name. Something he couldn’t have. He’d patiently waited till you’d opened up to him through your small trade of secrets. He’d gotten to know pieces of you that only made that thread in his chest snap harder. 

He’d tried to forget the thread, or at least move past it.

Multiple times - actually.

He’d tried being logical - chalking it up as a foolish infatuation of youth. Overthinking and over-rationalizing that whatever it was, had been the result of some shared Victor trauma bullshit. He’d even warred with himself that it didn’t matter, that it was unattainable and foolish. Finnick wouldn’t allow himself - no he couldn’t, allow himself to ponder the meaning of the thread. He’d drilled it in his head that it would fade, that the painful yearning would cease as time went on.

But it hadn’t faded.

Not even a little bit.

As much the two of you had gotten on one another’s nerves, as much as you’d hated him, It felt like a routine at this point. He’d let you do what you had to, to get through your Games, The Victory Tour, then that first year of being Desirable, and then the next, and then Mentoring, and now this. The push and pull of drawing near enough to almost step afoot the shores of your thoughts only to be dragged back out to sea by the tide of the ever churning life of a Victor.. He’d started smothering any flicker of that tether in his chest somewhere along the way after your initial announcement as a Desirable. It was pointless considering the life he led. The life both of you now led. Doomed to walk beside one another on similar paths with different destinations. He could handle the sharp edges as the thread frayed. He could handle it. Survive it.

His mind was swimming, unable to focus on whatever his client was squawking about in his ear as she dug her talons into his forearm. There’d be marks there tomorrow. A muscle in his jaw pulses as he grits his teeth, forcing a coy smirk and a nod as if he were listening to anything she said. He wasn’t. The Darling’s mind was elsewhere. He’d spotted you across the pleasure hall about a half hour ago. You’d already settled into your timid demeanor, the role of the Capital’s Doe, and hadn’t spared him a glance. You were linked arm and arm with a regular client, Mr. Sarginski. He was an older Capital Broker who wore too-tight suits and drank too much for his own good. It was an effort not to glare toward the older male as Finnick was all too observant of the man’s wandering hands, or “grubby paws” as you’d referred to them on multiple occasions. 

“Bastard.”

The curse echoes through Finnick’s thoughts as his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.

A firm pinch to the Darling’s bicep has his attention whipping back to his client. It’s an expensive effort not to recoil or pull away from her. She scolds him for looking at anyone besides her, her angular face flushed with irritation as she sticks her nose up at the other guests. That muscle in his jaw pulses again as he slides his arm around the vulture’s waist, tucking her into his side just to shut her up with a sly, feigned smirk, crossing his lips. He gives her an apology sugar-coated with his signature charm to make up for it. Her feathers smooth and she continues to yap his ear off, though her grip on him tightens painfully again.

The touch burns.

Tonight would hurt.

The revelry continues. The music swells, and the Capital aristocrats overindulge themselves in food and drink to make themselves sick and overindulge again. Finnick tries his best to keep up his act. Despite his client’s scolding, he caught himself still turning his gaze your way on occasion. Your dress was a gauzy, muted pink that whispered when you moved, the delicate movement of the fabric made it seem as if you were floating each time you were twirled on the dance floor. That thread in his chest snaps against his heart and he forces his gaze elsewhere. 

“Stop it.”

The thought clamps down on the thrumming in his chest like a vice. Like it did everytime his thoughts began to stray. Everytime they flowed to close to you. It was like drawing back an empty net, the hope of something fruitful only to be disappointed. He still tried to convince himself things were better this way.

Better for both of you.

Not that he’d ever allowed himself the pleasantry of even hoping if not down right praying for something different.

Finnick tried not to think about what that meant, what different meant.

It didn’t matter.

None of it did.

In the end, all of it did.

Its another excruciating hour before the honey tanned victor finally finds a moment to himself, leaning against one of the marble pillars in the hall pretending to sip the drink in his hand.

He didn’t even notice your approach till the familiar, sweet yet earthy scent of your perfume fills his senses.

“I think If I have to spend another moment smiling my face is going to get stuck.”

Your voice was soft, despite the resignation in your tone. His gaze snaps to your features in an instant only to force his sea-green eyes elsewhere not a moment later, trying to feign indifference but somehow failing miserably

“Tell me about it,” Finnick almost scoffs and he can almost feel the way you roll your eyes at him. Hes trying to play it cool, swallowing thickly as if that’ll quell the acceleration of his heartbeat against his ribcage. “I’m surprised Sarginski loosened your leash this far,” he attempts to jest, hoping you don’t pick up on the slight hitch in his breath. You dont, instead scoffing while crossing your arms over your chest while casting the honey-tanned Victor a sidelong look. “He’s too drunk to care.” you muse with a small shrug. Atleast your whit and sarcasm remained intact. A slight smirk tugs the corner of his mouth as he allows his gaze to meet yours again. You’re still looking at him, your gaze intent yet unconcerned. He can’t help the brief once over he gives your form, trying not to let his vision rake too long over the planes of your face.

“You’re staring again,”

You arch a brow as your look turns knowing. Finnick looks away again.

“Am not,”

“Are too,”

“Nope.”

“You’re insufferable,” You huff, fighting the urge to roll your eyes again.

“You love it,” Finnick rebuttals, his tone teasing and he almost doesn’t catch the words till they’re tumbling off his tongue faster than he can even try to reign them back in. He’s stuck in a stunned silence, not daring to move even a fraction of an inch as he stands mortified with what he’d just said. Not to mention the possible prying eyes and ears around every corner.What they wouldn’t give to feed the propaganda machine that  festered the most heinous rumors concerning the Victors and Districts.

You seem almost just as shocked by his claim at the moment.

But you don’t reply, and he doesn’t apologize. Neither of you say anything at all, actually, for a moment or two. 

“Shut up, Peacock.” You mutter, and its clear the slight hush to the words are both in jest and subtle warning. Despite your usual sarcasm you really were telling him to shut his trap. And he does, shaking his head and shoving his hands in his pockets.There isn’t a chance to say anything more as you’re approached by one of the party goers, both of you almost immediately going rigid.

“Greetings, Victors. Apologies for the interruption, but I believe it to be time I finally introduced myself,” The stranger begins. His voice is deep and he appears to be about middle age. He could almost appear to be district if it weren’t for the finely trimmed suit he wore. Most members of the capital favored cosmetic enhancement. He’s a tall but stocky fellow, not quite strong but not flabby. His posture is straight as well and his overall demeanor rings authority - which immediately has warning bells going off in your mind. The stranger outstretches a hand to Finnick before stating his name, The bronze haired male hesitantly accepting the handshake as the name forms on his lips.

“Plutarch Heavensbee, I’ve been looking for you.”

{{ taglist }}

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[chairteeth]

Alina Gray Makes A Lot Of Sense

This is a quick one. Alina isn’t one of my focus characters but I do quite like her, and she is in the TouNemu orbit, so I feel like I should bring this to the table, since I still see a lot of people, even ones that call themselves her fans, who don’t really give Alina much thought beyond “she’s crazy” (which… guys I don’t think that’s a good mindset). Plus this perspective is rare to see. I will preface it by saying that I’m drawing from both psychology and personal experiences (my own and others’) for this. My thesis for this: among whatever other things that I’m sure she has, Alina comes off as having Antisocial Personality Disorder to me. Let me explain why.

Let’s start with this example. Both Alina and Ren attempted suicide (in the same way) and both attempts were thwarted by making a wish to Kyubey right before or during the fall. Ren’s every character motivation is tied back to what led her to that ledge and what impact it made on her life in that moment. Alina was completely unfazed by the experience, and only changed as a character because of 1. Karin's intervention after the fact, and 2. the discovery of witches, which she found beautiful and changed her motivation. Plus she almost seemed disappointed by the state of “death” and it’s not something she ever thinks about. That dismissiveness, her general uncaring attitude towards others and herself. Wouldn’t you know, that’s a symptom of ASPD. Not to mention the lack of empathy or guilt, at least most of the time.

Another important point is that Alina isn’t really malicious. She doesn’t think about her actions the way most people do. She’s said herself on multiple occasions that she simply does things, she simply creates things. That’s also a very ASPD mindset. Impulsiveness is another symptom of it, which lines up with Alina’s whims and urges driving her to do things, and the lack of traditional thought put into one’s actions is an ASPD experience I can attest to. Only someone actively in recovery or scheming would consciously put effort into thinking about their actions. The way it works in daily life, however, is extremely reminiscent of the way Alina acts. The only difference is that most people with ASPD tend to mask a bit more than Alina does.

The way she acts is uncomfortably familiar. It feels like looking into a mirror of what could have been, back when I was younger, less self-aware, and I’m sure most others with this disorder would agree. If Alina were older and started manifesting some of her more criminally-aligned urges, I doubt anyone would argue with me that she’d have police called on her. Her status as a genius in a way “protects” her from being viewed as dangerous. Geniuses are allowed to and expected to be eccentric, after all. Back to the impulsivity, certain symptom combinations like the ones Alina blatantly displays are so dangerous because the likelihood of ending up with an extensive criminal record is high to say the absolute least. Which combination? Ah well, one easy example is impulsivity and anhedonia. I’m sure everyone who has paid the slightest bit of attention to Alina is aware of how… easily bored, she seems. That’s not just her being easily bored, that’s another symptom, and it combined with the impulsivity is responsible for the aforementioned criminal record.

On a related note, and trust me I will come back to the topic of anhedonia in Alina, people often clock her as bipolar. She seems manic, very rarely depressed or introspective. That might be right, for all we know, but here are my two cents. The “numb” way she acts when she’s calm, down to her expressions, is textbook low masking ASPD behavior. Generally carefree, doesn’t assign much value to most things the average person would. Annoyed semi-often. In fact, Alina’s main emotion, the one we see the most, is anger. Which happens to be the primary emotion in people with ASPD, since it’s the least reduced one (I theorize this is because of what normally causes the disorder and the purpose of anger as an emotion). It even tends to be described as “explosive” which very much applies to Alina, Alina is either annoyed or explosively angry. Immensely ASPD of her, honestly. However, when she does become introspective, she becomes suicidal quickly, and while being told “your art holds ZERO purpose” is something to be upset by, it’s not “well time to end it all” levels of bad. That is reminiscent of practically every single person with ASPD I’ve ever met, personally, because it’s the one thing that holds Alina’s anhedonia at bay. The one thing that engages her mind, almost absorbing it. Her attitude towards it is extremely telling. She doesn’t care about the gravity of suicide, isn’t thinking about it, or dreading/fearing it or even doing the happy-before-attempting thing really, she’s just thinking about her art because she thinks she’s finally “solved” her problem.

Media often portrays things like what Alina does as evil machinations, manipulation and the like, but most of the time, the truth of the matter is that it’s being done with no thoughts head empty except for The One Thing (or the small handful of things) which holds your anhedonia at bay. Grand plans are also more entertaining. The ASPD way is either the most efficient possible path, or the most entertaining/least boring one. If possible, both. Anhedonia, or “boredom” as we often call it (especially before we know it has a name and that it’s not normal boredom), is often described by doctors as an inability to enjoy oneself and is also common in other disorders like depression. Boredom is poison to us, worse than death. There comes a point when you will do anything just to not be bored, you will do anything to yourself, others, or your environment, just for a chance of that feeling of anhedonia at least receding a little. Hence the behaviors like setting things on fire or animal cruelty often seen in teens and children with the disorder, because they’re following a random impulse and have no (or low) empathy to give them second thoughts. Zero guilt filter. It may work, it may not, but it’s something, an idea, and hopefully it’ll at least be distracting enough while you’re doing it. Anhedonia boredom begins with frustration. Irritability. Restlessness. Must Do Something Now Before It Gets Worse. None of the internal process shows on the face or body language. Sound familiar?

This is why Alina goes between some sort of ecstasy and then immediately frustration/anger or neutrality sometimes, and vice versa. Additionally, in terms of the anger, I’m unsure if this is related to a lack of object permanence, but as soon as the thing actively causing anger goes away, it fades. If it shows up again then the anger will be back. See also: Alina and Felicia. If something more interesting comes in, that will also divert attention most likely, unless you've gotten to the point of fury. The actual strong emotion is more like a spike. So for example, Alina might be really angry at the start of a battle, but unless something is continuously angering her and especially if she’s enjoying the battle (aka entertained), she’ll seemingly not be angry anymore. We see that happen several times.

Lastly, all of Alina’s behavior is just extremely easy to explain with ASPD (and comorbidities), but I should note that like all of the Cluster B disorders, people with ASPD can have a sort of exceptional connection. This one person that they like, that they think about. It can be quite dangerous, because most of the time it can become obsessive and they can easily become possessive over that person. The connection is not necessarily romantic, but the person with ASPD might mistake it as such if they’re on the side of the spectrum that cannot really feel most emotions. Alina’s behavior towards Mifuyu aligns with this a little (these connections can and do fade sometimes), and so does her behavior towards Karin, especially in Arc 2. Exhibit A: Alina will knock Karin out to keep her “safe” and carry her off.

This has been my opinion piece of armchair psychology on Alina Gray. And now back to my regularly scheduled TouNemu…

[madewithlove-sophie]

Chapter II | Beneath the Mask | Simon Ghost Riley Fanfiction

Chapter 2: Legacy and Lies

Previous | Next | Masterlist

The air in General Shepherd’s office was thick with tension. Y/N stood at attention, her boots clicking sharply against the polished floor as she faced her father’s desk. He sat behind it, staring at her over a stack of files, his face hard and unreadable. She had seen that look before—the one that meant trouble was brewing.

“I don’t care how good you are, Y/N,” Shepherd growled, his voice low and commanding. “This is a bad idea. You don’t belong in Task Force 141.”

Y/N's jaw tightened. She had expected this, but hearing it from her father, of all people, still stung. She had spent years proving herself, working her way up through the ranks, sharpening her skills. But nothing was ever good enough for him. He was always the General first, her father second.

“I don’t need your permission,” Y/N replied, her voice calm but firm. “I’ve been offered a position, and I’ve accepted it. This isn’t about you, Dad. It’s about what I can do—what I need to do. Task Force 141 handles the missions no one else can. I want to be part of that.”

Shepherd leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly against the desk. His steely eyes never left hers as if searching for any hint of hesitation. But there was none. Y/N had made up her mind.

“You think you can make a difference?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. “You think you’re ready for that kind of pressure? Those men—they’re not like the others. They far from what you're used to at the Shadow Company with Graves."

“I know that,” Y/N replied, her voice steady. “And that’s exactly why I want to be there. I want to be part of something that bigger. I've been personally requested by the Captain, that means my skills are needed.”

Her father’s gaze softened, just for a moment, but the hardness quickly returned. He stood, walking around the desk to stand in front of her. He placed a hand on her shoulder—a rare gesture of acknowledgment—and gave her a look she couldn’t quite place.

“I won’t be there to protect you, Y/N,” he said, his voice quieter now. “But I’ll be watching. Don’t get yourself killed.”

Y/N nodded, a mix of determination and apprehension swirling in her chest. “I won’t, Dad. I’m not the same kid I used to be.”

As Y/N stepped out of her father’s office, she felt the weight of his words heavy on her shoulders. But she had already made her decision. General Shepherd might not agree, but that wasn’t going to stop her. She didn’t want to be defined by her last name or her father’s legacy. She wanted to make her own path, to be part of something bigger than herself.

-

Y/N arrival at Task Force 141’s base was met with a mixture of wary glances and low murmurs. She had known this would happen. Being the daughter of General Shepherd, a man whose name carried weight—and not the good kind—wasn’t something easily overlooked. But Y/N wasn’t here to live in her father’s shadow. She was here to carve out her own path. To prove she wasn’t just the General’s daughter.

As she stepped into the briefing room, her boots echoed against the cold concrete floor, sending a brief shiver down her spine. She straightened her posture, eyes locking with Captain Price’s. His authoritative presence was unwavering, yet there was a warmth in his handshake when he greeted her. His piercing blue eyes gave her a brief once-over, as if measuring her up.

“Sergeant,” he greeted her with a nod. “Glad you could join us.”

Behind him, the rest of the team stood—Soap, Gaz, and Ghost. The first two shot her curious glances, sizing her up with an almost casual interest, but Ghost’s unreadable expression hid whatever thoughts he may have had. He didn’t even acknowledge her at first, his gaze never leaving the wall as if he was already deep in thought, or perhaps just uninterested.

Soap couldn’t resist. “So, the General’s lass, huh? We’ve got royalty in the house,” he said with a grin, his tone light, but tinged with the usual banter he liked to throw around.

Gaz, however, was quick to elbow him in the ribs. “Lay off, mate. Let her settle in first.”

Price raised a hand, silencing the room. “I know who your father is, Sergeant,” he said, locking eyes with Y/N. “But that doesn’t bother me. You’re here because you’ve earned it. And you’ll be expected to do the same as everyone else. I don’t care about your last name. I care about your results. Understood?”

Y/N gave him a firm nod, her back straightening even more. She could feel the weight of her father’s reputation bearing down on her, but Price’s words were a small comfort. She had no intention of living up to anything except her own standard.

“Understood, sir,” she replied, her voice steady, betraying none of the uncertainty she felt beneath the surface.

-

As the briefing wrapped up, Captain Price dismissed the team with a simple, “Gear up and be ready for mission briefing by 0600 tomorrow.” The group began to disperse, each moving with a sense of purpose that made Y/N feel like an outsider. This was their territory, their dynamic. She was the new piece trying to fit into a puzzle that already seemed complete.

She lingered in the room for a moment, glancing at the current mission board on the wall. It was covered in maps, photos, and notes scrawled in shorthand she didn’t recognize. The weight of her decision to join Task Force 141 pressed against her chest, but she pushed it aside.

“You’re staring pretty hard at that board,” a Scottish accent broke the silence, and Y/N turned to see Soap leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed and an easy grin on his face. “Trying to memorize it already? Or just lookin’ for your name?”

Y/N smirked despite herself. “Just getting a feel for how you all work,” she replied, her tone light but measured. “Don’t worry, MacTavish. I’ll catch up.”

“Call me Soap,” he said with a chuckle, pushing off the doorway and walking over to her. “And you’ll do fine. Just don’t let the big man over there scare you.” He nodded toward the corner where Ghost had been standing quietly, his face hidden behind the skull mask that made him as intimidating as his reputation suggested.

Y/N glanced at Ghost, whose posture was as rigid as ever. His arms were crossed, and he seemed content to stay in the background, watching but never engaging. She wondered what kind of person he was beneath the mask. The others were open, their personalities easy to read, but Ghost was a fortress. A part of her was curious about what lay behind those walls, though she quickly pushed the thought aside.

“You mean the one who hasn’t said a word to me?” Y/N asked, arching a brow. “He doesn’t seem like the chatty type.”

Soap laughed, shaking his head. “Aye, that’s Ghost for you. Don’t take it personally. He’s like that with everyone—well, except Price. But give it time. He’ll warm up.”

“Doubtful,” Ghost’s deep, gravelly voice cut through the air, startling Y/N. He hadn’t moved from his spot, but his words were sharp, precise, and unmistakably directed at her. “This isn’t a social club. Focus on the job.”

The room went quiet for a moment, the air thick with tension. Y/N held her ground, refusing to let him intimidate her. If she was going to earn her place here, she couldn’t back down. “Noted, Lieutenant,” she replied evenly. “I’ll stay out of your way.”

Ghost didn’t respond, his unreadable gaze fixed on her for a beat longer before he turned and walked out of the room. Soap gave her a small shrug, as if to say, That’s just Ghost, before following after him.

-

As Y/N placed her last few belongings into the narrow locker, the muffled conversations from down the hall grew louder, her sharp ears picking out snippets of chatter. The tone was casual at first—lighthearted banter and jokes—but then her name came up.

“...did you see her? Shepherd’s kid, strutting in here like she owns the place.”

“Shepherd must’ve pulled strings to get her on the team. No way she made it here on her own,” another voice scoffed.

Y/N froze, her hands tightening into fists as the voices continued.

“Bet she’s never seen real action. Daddy’s little princess, playing soldier.”

“You think Price actually wanted her here? Probably had no choice. Orders from the top.”

A wave of anger surged through her chest, but she forced herself to take a slow, steadying breath. She wasn’t naïve—she had expected skepticism. Despite her expertise and experience, it was inevitable with her father’s reputation looming over her like a storm cloud. But hearing it said out loud, so dismissively, stung more than she cared to admit.

Grabbing her jacket, she made her way toward the common room, her boots heavy against the concrete floor. If they wanted to talk about her, they could do it to her face.

As she stepped into the room, the conversation abruptly stopped. Three soldiers—none she recognized—sat clustered around a small table, a deck of cards spread out in front of them. Their expressions flickered from surprise to discomfort as they noticed her standing in the doorway.

“Am I interrupting something?” Y/N asked, her tone deceptively light.

One of them, a wiry man with a sharp face, straightened in his seat, trying—and failing—to look unfazed. “No, Sergeant. Just…talking.”

“Right,” Y/N said, her gaze cool and unwavering as she stepped further into the room.

“You’re entitled to your opinions,” she continued, her voice low and steady, “but don’t let them get in the way of staying alive when the bullets start flying.”

The wiry man opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then thought better of it. The others exchanged uneasy glances, their bravado evaporating under her steady glare.

Without waiting for a response, Y/N turned and walked out, her shoulders squared and her head held high. The weight of their stares lingered on her back, but she didn’t falter. If they wanted proof, she would give it to them.

-

The rumors echoed in her mind as Y/N walked to the shooting range. The words were like a distant hum, relentless and sharp, cutting through her thoughts. "Shepherd’s kid," they had said. "Doesn’t belong here." "Daddy’s little princess."

It was nothing she hadn’t expected, but hearing it in hushed whispers behind her back made her blood boil.

Y/N felt the heat rising in her chest as the words from the soldiers echoed in her mind. Was she really just a legacy, a shadow of her father’s reputation?

The weight of her last name pressed on her like an invisible hand, threatening to squeeze the air from her lungs. But she refused to let them see her falter. She wasn’t just General Shepherd’s daughter. She was Y/N Shepherd. And she would prove it.

Determined to shake it off, Y/N made her way to the shooting range entrance. She needed to focus. She needed to feel in control again. The steady rhythm of gunfire was her escape, each shot a way to drown out the voices in her head.

As the pistol’s weight settled into her hands, the anger morphed into precision. She lined up her shot and fired, the crack of the gun sharp in the silence. One shot, then another, each round hitting its target dead center. The rhythm of the shots was meditative, almost calming, as she allowed herself to disappear into the routine of practice.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“You’ve got good aim,” a deep voice rumbled behind her.

Y/N turned to see Ghost leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. His mask made it impossible to read his expression, but his tone carried a grudging note of approval.

“Thanks,” she replied, lowering her weapon. “Comes with the territory.”

He studied her for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable. “Heard about what happened in the common room.”

“Let me guess,” Y/N said, her voice edged with frustration. “You think they’re right?”

“No,” Ghost said bluntly. “But I know how soldiers think. New blood, famous last name—it’s easy for them to jump to conclusions. Doesn’t matter if they’re wrong. What matters is how you handle it.”

“And what do you think I should do?” she asked, her tone more curious than defensive.

“Show them,” he said simply. “Not with words. Out there. They’ll respect you once you prove you can keep up. Or better yet—leave them in the dust.”

Y/N turned, her fingers still tense around the pistol, his presence had made her uneasy, but there was something oddly reassuring in his presence now.

His words, though few, seemed to cut through the noise in her head like a blade, simple yet profound. 'Show them. Not with words.' She considered his advice, weighing it in the quiet of the range.

Was he telling her she didn’t belong here, or that she was exactly where she needed to be? Either way, the message was clear—walk, not talk. It was something she could understand. It was something she could do.

A sense of relief washes over her as she lets out a breathe.

Y/N smirked, a flicker of amusement breaking through her frustration. “That almost sounds like advice, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Ghost replied, pushing off the wall. “You’re here to do a job. Just make sure you don’t give anyone a reason to doubt you. Including me.”

Y/N watched Ghost leave, his footsteps heavy and confident, a part of her still unraveling his cryptic words. Was he challenging her, testing her resolve, or simply reminding her of the reality she’d already accepted? Either way, she couldn’t afford to second-guess herself—not now. She had a mission to complete. And she wouldn’t back down.

[aceshigh10987666]

[Transcript: Hey um, it's basically been a week since Wicked came out. Exciting, I've loved seeing people's reactions, um all the love for the movie it's, I mean I'm a fan obviously um, but there's something that's made me a bit uncomfortable um, and as somebody who's disabled with the platform I just wanted to talk about it really quick um starting off by saying two things. I have my laptop here by the way. I'm reading my thoughts because I get scatter brained and if I don't have my thoughts on a paper -

Anyways um, it is absolutely okay to not like a fictional character. I am going to be admitting my bias in the way that I have a lot of different feelings on Nessa than a lot of you do and that's totally fine. I think Nessa is complex*, um, but that's the beauty of art and Wicked. These characters and the movie wouldn't be what it was if there weren't different opinions on the characters and who's truly wicked or not and not liking Nessa herself is okay um, because she is fictional, that is totally fine.

Um, number two, I am a deeply unserious person, I love a little jokey joke, the house jokes? Silly, goofy, harmless because the basis of the joke is fictional. Jokes about Nessa's actions, her personality? Silly, goofy because she herself is fictional.

That being said um, and if you are looking for the comments in my comment section I've attempted anyways to delete most of them, um. Aggressive comments and jokes about Nessa's disability itself is deeply uncomfortable because disability is not fictional, um at the end of the day, me Marissa is theh person that is still disabled and in a wheelchair and so it is simply a low hanging fruit that too many of you are comfortable taking.

Um, before even being cast in wicked I had received comments just as me, as Marissa not Nessa, around the - I - or around the words of um, 'stand up for yourself,' 'I guess you can't stand him,' etc. These comments aren't original um and when these jokes are being made by non-disabled strangers with a punchline of not being able to walk it very much feels like laughing at rather than laughing with, um and the most - I'm literally shaking a little bit -

Uh the most frustrating part about all this is how scared I am to even post/talk about this um, which is also the bigger reason as to why I'm making this video in the first place. This goes so far beyond me, Marissa, just needing to ignore comments on the internet. These comments do not exist in a vacuum, um, aggressive comments of wanting to cause harm and push Nessa out of her wheelchair or that she deserves her disability are two very gross and harmful comments that real disabled people including myself have heard before.

Um I am scared also because I have seen firsthand what has happened to my disabled peers who are outspoken online when it comes to calling out ableism and why jokes of standing and being a vegetable - which is a derogatory term, by the way, for disabled people and a comment that I saw about Nessa.

Um these disabled creators' comments are flooded with ableist comments um, when speaking on ableism they're told to just take a joke and that they're asking for too much and to stop complaining to the point where some of my disabled peers use - disabled creators - have needed to take a break online for their own mental wellbeing. To state the obvious, that's not good.

To wrap this up because this is, it's, it's been a long one, um, **rather than dismissing one another and claiming an experience can't be true because you personally don't feel that way about a joke that wouldn't have affected your demographic anyways, listen to the people or to the person that it is affecting and how it makes them feel.

Thankfully I'm at a place in my life today where I can recognise these jokes about disability are made out of ignorance. I can't say the same about Marissa ten years ago um, and it would've affected younger me a lot more and I'm worried that a younger version of myself is somewhere on the internet and is harmed by these comments.

And I'm not claiming to speak for the whole disabled community when I'm saying this and I'm not trying to but I do know and have seen not in this specific instance but similar comments be made on my disabled peers' and disabled creators' videos to the point where again, it runs them off the internet. That's not good. Please be kind.

Um, and lastly I wanna say one of the major themes within Wicked is having the ability to listen and to understand one another and I truly hope that is something a lot of you can practice more and take with you. Thank you, love you, bye.

- Text added to the video by the creator:

* And not just black and white* she 100% could be a better sister. But I don't feel, (at least for now 👀) that she's an intentional villain ** Talking specifically to my non-disabled viewers specifically here:

/.end transcript]

[valtsv]

"Can you guess what it stood for, Mum? [...] It stood for valuable."

[adriartts]

more side character designs now to the tune of the Kil sisters

[bucephaly]

I keep seeing posts of people saying that a term transphobes stole and are using incorrectly to be transphobes is a Horrible Transphobic Term and Anyone who uses it is transphobic and it's Not Real and Entirely Not True when it's literally an actual anthropological term that has studies about it and is actually very useful for Everyone to think about, cis and trans, and be critical of. I hate seeing people respond to dumb hate by entirely writing off everything even remotely connected to the twisted shit bigots use when the shit the bigots are stealing and twisting is still like... a thing?

[crows-of-buckets]

I think with Selene I want to lean into the idea of like. The people she considers friends barely considering her a friend in return. She views Varric as a friend but to him she's his boss, the Herald of Andraste, something bigger than any of them. She views Solas as a friend and maybe he views her in a similar light but that's not enough to give him pause in his ideals. She views Blackwall as a friend but he views her as a savior, a symbol, a force of good. And even the ones she has a genuine mutual friendship with, like Dorian, they end up leaving her behind for their own responsibilities. She saved the world but she's still so lonely at the end of it.

[our-lady-of-mcr]

everytime i think im done ranting i remember something else LMFAO this one is extra long i hit tag limit god mf damn

[iamthescalesofjustice]

idk if anyone has done this before but da2 au where you think at first its a both twins lived au and then find out bethany died and thats actually non-warden amell posing as her. something something escaped with jowan maybe, found her relatives in lothering, sought refuge with them and when bethany ended up dying it was way lower profile for amell to take the place of her cousin than try to get in to kirkwall with them as a non-immediate family member (especially given that leandra is publicly coming in as an amell and theres a resemblance and its known revka had mage kids taken to the circle and im sure theres a bulletin out or whatever for an escaped apostate matching amells description). points if people comment on how ‘bethany’ clearly takes after her mother. leandra is not normal about it. aveline knew the real bethany at least in passing bc of living in the same town and treats this as a reason for her distrust of hawke and co and one of the reason she sabotages carvers application with the guard. 

[poptartmochi]

i think that i will never be able to rid myself of Magdalena, despite my disdain for her source material, because she's just such a fun little inversion character 🤧

[the-judicial-assistants-notebook]

why didn't they just use franziska for literally all of this.

[variantia]

BELLUM. I want to make MHA verses for my SU muses too bc possibilities

but also my head is stuck in the fact that Jin wants to protect Riley from everyone who will judge her bc he knows a Quirk that can manipulate other people's feelings is one that will be judged BIG TIME

please imagine when he has no choice but to bring her along to League business and she can't control her Quirk and accidentally uses it on one of them and then suddenly there's this 12-year-old extremely late bloomer American runaway in the corner sobbing and telling them all to stay away because "I can't control it, it's bad, there's something wrong with me"

she has had a Quirk for maybe 2 weeks at this point and ALREADY she has internalized the message that because her Quirk is a certain way, it's bad and she's bad and there's something wrong with her for being this way

cue exactly none of them listening to her and some of them hugging her and telling her she's fine, there's nothing wrong or bad about her, some of them finding slightly bristlier ways to let her know it's all good

and Tomura in the corner dead silent but in his mind is just "well FUCK I have to let the brat stay now, she's ME."

in this essay I will-

[zoe-oneesama]

The Kwamis! Some of these came easier than others, but since Angelic Layer has no magic involved, all the kwamis became human~ They won't be very prevalent, they're mostly here to fill in background character roles - shop clerks, MCs Tournament Directors, fans - so they won't have a whole lot of speaking roles (aside from, you know, the MCs who're there to commentate on the fights lol). But I thought I'd give them all a nice nod in the story somewhere.

As expected, Tikki and Plagg are the main MCs. Marinette and Adrien's fights will be going on concurrently so Tikki will be commentating Marinette's fights while Plagg commentates on Adrien's. They'll have the most dialogue of the kwamis, so I do want them to have unique ways of discussing what they're seeing.

Pollen will be working directly for the Bourgeois'. As a VIP with a direct relationship with the international director of Angelic Layer, Chloe has her own private practice layer in her home and Pollen is in charge of it's upkeep and maintenance. She matches Armand the Bulter's levels of competence.

Trixx is a Rena Rouge mega fan. They've been following Alya's blog for as long as they can remember and are mega stoked that Alya moved to their city. When Alya starts to doubt herself, it's Trixx's voice that can be heard cheering her on to not give up.

Nooroo and Duusu are servants in the Agreste Estate. Unknown to Adrien, they are fully aware of his sneaking around to play and the two do what they can to make excuses and deflect Nathalie when Adrien isn't where he's supposed to be. They're rooting him on from the shadows!

Wayzz is the adult son of Marianne and Fu. He brings them to Angelic Layer fights against his will because the two really enjoy them. The two seem to be really invested in Ladybug and Chat Noir's career (and the behind the scenes shenanigans that they secretly spy on).

Longg is Kagami's bodyguard. Like Nooroo and Duusu, they are fully aware of what Kagami is doing behind her mother's back and feigns ignorance when Kagami pulls something..."sneaky" to get to a fight secretly.

Here's where we get into some existing jobs from the show:

Orikko and Kaalki are the "Layer Hot Girls (and boy)". lol I just thought it was funny that Angelic Layer even has them.

Mullo is the sales clerk at the Princess Piffle store (the store where you can buy your Angel and all the accessories). All of them lol. Mullo and her many many sisters who look just like her.

Barkk and Fluff take similar but still different roles (the uniforms are ALMOST the same but there are some tiny differences). So Barkk is the receptionist at the Practice Ring (literally you pay to reserve a mini-layer to practice on) while Fluff is the waitress/cashier at the cafeteria at the Tournament Center.

(and back to making shit up lol)

Daizzi is a nurse where Rose goes to the hospital and she has segmental localized vitiligo. Rose is particularly close to Daizzi since she helps Rose make her donations to the hospital.

Sass is the backstage directory, aka, the guy who makes things run. He has an earpiece that has the same diamond pattern as his pants on it! The anime does show one person who helps backstage, but I wanted to have a little fun with Sass's look and tie in to him being "in charge" of the kwamis.

Ziggy works at Socqueline's family art supply shop, which is frequented by Angelic Layer players who are on a bit of a budget. They love talking with the customers about their angels, though mostly the design part.

Stompp is Ivan's foster mother and Roarr his foster sister (Stompp's bio-daughter). I actually didn't think of what kind of job this outfit would be good for, but I think she'd make a good security guard - usually working at rock concerts, which she bonds with Ivan over, but she's also been hired for Angelic Layer tournaments. Sometimes sore losers get a little...violent.

Roarr falls in love with Juleka's Angel Purple Tigress immediately thanks to her pre-existing love of tigers in general. She's even bold enough to proclaim her love to Juleka herself!

Xuppu is Ondine's sibling and a fan of King Monkey, though they'll go out of their way to make fun of Kim himself. Secretly, they're very invested in Kim's career and get very upset on his behalf when he loses.