#tag: Roux

[madscientiststoybox]

a sweet new friend.. its Roux!

[ghastigiggles]

today

[fallengrvity]

The Kathryn Janeway x reader tag is empty to a very disappointing degree. Not only the Janeway x reader tag, but EVERY fem character x reader…

I’m gonna fix this☝️

[stunfiskz]

you think if you put rouxls on a torture rack hed just. stretch. since hes pretty much slime

luckily considering my stupid rouxls body headcanons i think he would die from it ❤️ you could try to staple him back together i guess

[direwombat]

15 lines of dialogue

tagged by @corvosattano, @voidika, and @aceghosts to do this fun little character study!

Rules: Share 15 or fewer lines of dialogue from an OC, ideally lines that capture the character/personality/vibe of the OC. Bonus points for just using the dialogue without other details about the scene, but you're free to include those as well!

“Shit,” she hisses [sighs/groans/growls/breathes/etc.]

 “I’m gonna need a gun.”

“I’ll do what needs to be done,” she says. “Just tell me where to start.”

“Just doin’ my job,” Sybille shrugs. “Protect ‘n serve ‘n shit.”

“I’d say I ain’t an optimist.”

 “I always look pale,” she grits. Then she shoves away from the bar. “I need to take a piss.”

“Yeah, you know what’s gonna be painful?” she asks. “My boot up your ass.”

“An animal?” Her brows shoot up in surprise. “You tellin’ me an animal burst through a barricaded door, mauled and beheaded Mr. Wolanski and — what? — decided to do some redecoratin’?” 

“Savin’ my — savin’ my life? Sir, I nearly shot you! ” She scoffs and shakes her head. “Comin’ at an officer of the law with your gun raised like that, the hell were you thinkin’?”

“Your generosity would make Jesus weep,” she hums mockingly. 

And then, as if she reads his mind, she looks up at him and rasps, “I ain’t licking that clean.”

“What I — What I want?” she stammers. “You know damn well this ain’t about what I want.” 

“Take care of your woman,” she drawls, allowing the thick, honey-sweet tone of her southern accent drip off her words, just how he likes. 

 “I ain’t poisonin’ you, if that’s what you’re worryin’ about. You know I’d stab you in your front.”

 “Morality ain’t a luxury a soldier can afford, Pastor,” … “It’s just…,” she continues after a moment, “When you start thinkin’ ‘bout what’s right and wrong,  y’start askin’ questions. For most people, that ain’t a bad thing.  But for a soldier? It’s a distraction. We ain’t meant to think. Other people do that for us. Our job is to fall in line and follow orders. You question your CO, you get written up for insubordination. The military ain’t a place for free thinkers. Cuz once a soldier starts thinkin’ ‘bout morality, then they ain’t a soldier, no more.”

tag list: @marivenah, @florbelles, @fourlittleseedlings, @wrathfulrook, @harmonyowl, @ivymarquis, @carlosoliveiraa, @cassietrn, @confidentandgood, @strafethesesinners, @trench-rot, @miyabilicious, @simplegenius042, @g0dspeeed, @inafieldofdaisies, @josephslittledeputy, @adelaidedrubman, @finding-comfort-in-rain, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @strangefable, and anyone else wanting to do this! (tag list opt in/out)

[ghastimart]

birth of a vessel

[mareastrorum]

Brevyn isn’t a D&D goliath blood hunter. She’s a WoW Kul Tiran enhancement shaman.

D&D Blood Hunters:

Are a martial class with the crimson rite ability to spill their own blood to temporarily enhance weapons with cold, fire, lightning, necrotic, psychic, thunder, or radiant damage (there is no rock/earth/lava version)

Don’t use fist weapons because D&D has no such weapon category (requires homebrewing, or just unarmed strikes, which generally suck for every class but monks or BH lycans)

Some subclasses have limited self-healing (Ghostslayer rite revival, Lycan regeneration, Mutant reconstruction mutagen), but only the Profane Soul subclass with a celestial pact can heal others with blood maledicts

Can be goliaths, which is a D&D race of humanoids distantly related to giants (implying they are more human than giant) that have skin reminiscent of stone.

WoW Enhancement Shamans:

Are a melee specialization that, along with the other shamans, have/had the ability to enhance weapons with fire, water, earth (which went through multiple iterations before ultimately being removed from the game in 2020, but still exists in WoW Classic), or wind at no cost

Can use fist weapons, including an iconic set that is literally molten lava fists (player characters can use this appearance as long as they have previously looted the item, so this has been a popular farm drop for shamans for more than a decade)

Always have access to a standard healing spell that can be used on others despite being primarily a DPS subclass

Because WoW has race/class restrictions, the only humans who can be shamans must be Kul Tiran (human, but Bigger), a race which was first added to the game in 2018 and playable in 2019 (when Madeleine Roux played the game (especially Classic) to immerse in the lore while writing a WoW novel, which featured several shaman characters, but none of which were Kul Tiran)

Here's a picture of the in-game item:

Man, that sure looks like molten lava claws wrapped around fists, just like the names of the twin weapons: Fist of Molten Fury and Claw of Molten Fury.

Brevyn:

Spilled blood so that "[h]ard, black stone rippling with molten fire formed around her hands"

Otherwise used bare fists instead of a standard D&D weapon

Healed other characters and had no reference to a patron or Profane Soul abilities at any point in the novel

Was a “half-goliath” with normal skin, as opposed to a D&D goliath, implying even less giant ancestry than a typical goliath (human, but Bigger)

The only thing suggesting that Brevyn isn’t a WoW shaman is that she didn’t self-rez, but you know what? Skill issue.

[carolinelikesdinner]

A character in my dnd game got bit on the head by a bear and I knew what I had to do

[ziptiesnfries]

Upstairs

kinda continued from here - Roux & Ambrose masterpost

tag list: @theelvishcowgirl @transgender-scout @gala1981

Takes place a week into Roux’s captivity

CWs: captivity, drugged food, creepy whumper, panic attack

The door creaks, and suddenly Roux is wide awake, bolting upright in bed. They blink the bleariness out of their eyes to see Ambrose standing in the doorway, the scent of bacon wafting in behind him. Despite themself, their mouth begins to water; he neglected to feed them yesterday, and now they’re sure it was on purpose. “Good morning,” he chirps. “I made you breakfast. Are you hungry?”

On cue, their stomach growls, and their face turns red. They shove the covers off their legs and hop to the floor, stumbling at the drop—they’re still not used to sleeping in a bed that’s so high off the ground.

Ambrose smiles at them, like he thinks it’s the cutest thing in the world that they’re too short to reach the floor. They want to strangle him. “Come on.” He motions them towards the door. “It’s going to get cold.”

Warily, they follow behind him. He hasn’t let them out of the bedroom yet, so they’re curious—and a little scared—to see what the rest of this place looks like.

Just beyond the door, there’s an open living room and kitchenette area, with small windows set high into the walls. Beyond the windows, all Roux can see is grass. So this is Ambrose’s basement. That explains why the bedroom—as nice and normal-looking as it is otherwise—doesn’t have any windows.

They want to keep looking around, get more familiar with their surroundings so that maybe they can find a way out, but Ambrose puts a hand on their back and guides them over to the kitchen table. There’s one place set, the plate heaped with pancakes and bacon, a glass of orange juice sitting next to it. Suddenly Roux is having a hard time concentrating on anything else.

But they’re not hungry enough to be stupid about it. They sit at the table, eyeing the plate warily. Ambrose takes the chair across from them, a perfectly innocent smile on his face. “Well?” he prompts.

Again, their stomach growls, reminding them that they can’t afford not to eat. They pick up their fork and take a small bite of bacon. That should be safe, right? It would be hard to subtly drug bacon. Unless it was cooked in something, their brain helpfully supplies. It tastes normal enough. They keep eating, trying to reassure themself that if Ambrose wanted to kill them, he would’ve done it already. But it’s not so comforting when they know that he could do a lot worse than kill them.

The way he’s watching them right now, for example, the same way he might watch a cute animal video, is a lot worse than death. “Do you have to stare at me like a fucking creep?” they ask, just before taking a tiny, tentative bite of pancake. It practically melts in their mouth; it might be the best pancake they’ve ever had. They swallow, still trying to decipher whether it tastes drugged.

Ambrose’s smile falls. “You’re very rude, sweetheart.” His expression clears quickly, though, and he rests his chin on his hand. “You’re lucky you’re so adorable.”

They glare at him, trying not to squirm under his invasive gaze. Another bite of pancake, larger this time. They wonder whether Ambrose really made this himself, but a glance behind him shows pans on the stove and utensils in the sink. Maybe the entitled rich boy does know how to cook.

They decide that the pancakes taste safe enough, and also that they’re too hungry to care. “I’m not adorable,” they finally reply as they eat another forkful of pancake. “You’re just deranged.”

It might be unwise for them to taunt their captor like that, but he just laughs. “Like I said, you’re very rude. We’ll have to work on that.” They don’t want to know what he means by that. Hopefully they’ll be out of here long before they find out.

They finally get around to the orange juice. One tiny sip, and they’re already sure it tastes wrong, something extra under the tanginess. But they keep their expression indifferent as they swallow, putting the glass down. They’re not drinking any more of that.

Then the first wave of dizziness washes over them, and they almost drop their fork. What the hell? They blink, trying to snap themself out of it, hoping desperately that it’s a fluke. Then they start feeling a little drowsy, their muscles weakening, and they know it’s not. But they only drank a tiny little bit of the orange juice—that wouldn’t be enough to do this to them. Would it?

A slow, pleased smile spreads across Ambrose’s face as he notices. “Something wrong, sweetheart?”

They grip the edge of the table, partially out of rage, and partially to keep themself balanced. “What did you do?” they hiss.

“Oh, well, I did put a light sedative in those pancakes. Just something to keep you calm.” Right now, they feel anything but calm. Their vision is getting blurry, and they don’t even realize they’re listing to the side until Ambrose reaches across the table to steady them. He quickly gets up to help them out of their chair. “Careful, there. No need to panic; I’m not going to hurt you.”

They shove him away, but it makes them lose their balance. Suddenly they’re sitting on the floor with Ambrose looming over them. He scoops them up in his arms. “Let … let go of me.” They try to claw at him, but their muscles feel so weak.

“Shh, it’s okay.” He bounces them a little, like he’s trying to calm a baby, as he carries them across the basement. “I just wanted to take you upstairs with me, and I couldn’t have you running off. You don’t have to do anything, okay? Just relax.”

“Put me down,” they whine, but they’re already going limp in his arms, their head lolling against his chest.

Ambrose carries them to the back of the basement and up a flight of stairs. Part of them wants to just close their eyes, give into the drowsiness, but they force themself to pay attention. Maybe this is finally their chance to figure out how to get out of here … Ambrose nudges open a door at the top of the stairs, emerging into a hallway with dark wood paneling. Once he starts moving, though, all sense of clarity is lost. The space passes Roux by in blurs of dark wood, gilded paintings, brass light fixtures … It makes them dizzy, trying to watch it all blur by. Finally, the nausea forces them to close their eyes.

A door creaks, and a moment later, Ambrose sets Roux down on a soft surface. Their eyes crack open long enough to see him leaning over them, with the vague outline of a wall of bookshelves in the background. He gently lifts their head to slide a pillow underneath, and they feel like a ragdoll in his hands, too drugged up to move a muscle. “I’ll just be working at my desk.” He strokes their hair, and although it makes their skin crawl, they can’t find the strength to flinch away. “Let me know if you need anything, sweetheart.”

“Fuck you.” It’s hard to put any venom behind the words, but they try.

He pats their cheek as he stands up. “We’ll work on your attitude problem later.” Their eyes slip shut as his footsteps recede.

Without much else to do, they doze. Occasionally, briefly, they try to look around, but moving their eyes too much still makes their head spin. Judging by the bookshelves and the desk across from where they’re lying, they gather that this is some kind of office. Or, rather, a study; someone as pretentious as Ambrose would probably call it a study.

For a while, the only noises are typing and quiet sighs from Ambrose. Roux tries to sleep, tries not to think about the fact that he only brought them up here to stare at them. What a fucking creep. At least they know how to get out of the basement now, but the information isn’t doing them much good in this condition. Maybe another time, though, when Ambrose trusts them enough not to drug them … they don’t know how they’re going to build that trust. They don’t even want to be here long enough for that, really, but unless they get really lucky, they doubt they’ll get an opening. He’s had them locked in the basement for the past week; he’s being careful. But maybe they can find something to pick the lock with, and maybe there’s some other way out of the basement, like a cellar door …

The soft sound of rain against the window panes snaps Roux out of their sleepy ponderings. Their stomach jolts, and they take a deep, shaky breath. It’s just rain, they reassure themself. Nothing to worry about. It’s not like it’s—

A low rumble starts up in the distance, and the blood freezes in their veins. They squeeze their eyes shut and take another breath. Please, not here, not now. Not in front of—

The thunder gets louder, and they swear they hear the windows rattle. A whimper slips past their lips, and the show of weakness makes them wince, even with the panic setting in.

“Roux?” Ambrose’s chair creaks. “What’s wrong?” They open their mouth to respond, but another rumble of thunder cuts them off. Their breath hitches as they tighten their arms across their chest, like that’ll keep their heart from pounding out of control. “Oh.” He laughs a little. “It’s just thunder, sweetheart. It won’t hurt you.”

That’s what everyone says. That’s what people have been telling Roux since they were a little kid, hiding under the bed with their ears covered to escape a storm. But knowing that it won’t hurt them doesn’t stop their heart from pounding, their chest constricting, their head going fuzzy every time they hear thunder in the distance. It may be true that thunder is only a sound, that it can’t hurt them. But the lightning? That will hurt them. The fact that it never has before doesn’t stop the gut-churning certainty that it’s going to kill them.

As if on cue, right as they open their eyes, a flash of light illuminates the bookshelves. Their chest constricts, and they begin to sob.

“Oh, sweetheart …” They hear Ambrose hurrying over, but the sound is quickly muffled as they clamp their hands over their ears and curl into a ball. Part of them is mortified to be doing this in front of Ambrose, exposing a weakness he could use against them. They desperately want to stop crying, but their body won’t let them. Every flash of light they see from behind their eyelids—even if they know it’s just their eyes playing tricks on them—sends them into hysterics all over again.

Ambrose gently lifts them up to sit beside them, but even that doesn’t snap them out of it. He pets their hair, pulling their head into his lap, and they can vaguely hear him murmuring reassurances, but the low rumble of his voice just sounds like more thunder. They can’t stop crying, can’t even control their limbs enough to pull away. They feel mortified and pathetic as they sob into his shirt and let him hold them, even though all he’s doing is making them feel worse.

Finally, he scoops them up into his arms and carries them out of the room. It’s almost a relief to be out of the study, if only because it means they’re farther away from the windows—Although the lightning could always strike the house and burn it down, their brain helpfully adds in. They grit their teeth and bury their face in Ambrose’s shirt. It’s a relief when he takes them back the way they came, back down into the basement, with its lack of windows and relative sound insulation.

He sets them down on the bed, and they curl into a ball, tentatively removing their hands from their ears. Right now, they can’t hear any thunder, but they don’t think being in the basement would completely block out the sound anyway. They’re still tense, ready for it to start up again.

The bed dips as Ambrose sits beside them, rubbing their back. “So,” he says lightly, “you’re afraid of storms?”

They jerk away. “Shut up,” they hiss, their voice thick with tears. “Just shut the fuck up.”

His hand chases after them, and he continues rubbing their back. They grit their teeth and begrudgingly allow it—they’re too exhausted and drugged to keep squirming away from him. “It’s alright, sweetheart. Everyone’s afraid of something, aren’t they?”

“I said, shut up.” Their face burns with humiliation. This is why they didn’t want to do this in front of him—because he’s so goddamn smug about it, using it as an excuse to get closer to them, to baby them.

“I hate to tell you this,” he says, “but there are a few storms in the forecast for this week.” They know he’s just trying to get a reaction out of them, but still, their whole body goes rigid. “But don’t worry, sweetheart,” he continues, “you’re perfectly safe down here. Maybe we’ll hold off on having you hang out upstairs for a little while.”

They’re too exhausted to argue with him or to retort that they’re anything but safe down here. They bury their face in a pillow and let him pretend to comfort them.

[oxfordslutphase]

WIP Ask Game

Hello 👋 to the like five whole people who have found this sideblog and decided to indulge the nonsense. Taking a couple open tags from @anincompletelist and @nocoastposts for the WIP game, because I'm trying to share more about my writing (and maybe find more pals to talk about writing with on this here internet???) Ask away (or just bother me in the DMs I love being yelled at) WIPS Super Secret RBB fic 🤫 where [redacted] and [you'll find out later] Sundays in Brooklyn what it says on the tin because I love to write about my city It Was Only A Kiss Alex plants a kiss on Henry on the dancefloor at that first NYE party and a picture of it goes viral (oops) People We Became a 10-Years later alternate timeline where Alex and Henry meet again under different circumstances in NYC Rule of Thirds menage a trois RPF do NOT look at me 🙊 Plot Ideas (of varying levels of completion) Hockey AU aka. Arthur Fox, Hockey Legend because I need to find a use for all my niche hockey knowledge in this fandom Alex the Official Royal Suitor the photo that goes viral from cakegate isn't quite as innocent and suddenly Alex finds himself officially courting a prince against his will Henry/June PR Relationship Henry is down bad for his fake girlfriend's brother

Tagging a couple folks I follow who I don't think did this yet? @cha-melodius, @firenati0n, @anchoredarchangel and also anyone else who sees this floating around in the tags and wants to join in (please tag me if you do so I can peep and chat you up about your writing!)

[ghastigiggles]

[ id : a transparent image of a chibi-style fox with a happy face on the left and pink text on the right. the text reads: "HEWWO! Rah | he/she/it | artist & authour" end id. ]

Meowdy! I'm Rah (the little fox is Roux) and this is my cringe corner! This blog is run by a 23-year-old and is meant to be entirely safe-for-work. All ages can follow and interact with posts, but please don't DM me or get more personal unless you're 17+. I do not do roleplays or exchange teases. I will never make content for/about IRL people.

Major interests at present include Final Fantasy XIV, Honkai Star Rail, and Pressure. (You can see the full interest list here!)

I don't take commissions or requests, but my askbox is always open for prompts and brainstorming! Art tag is #mine & fic tag is #my fic

NEW! STRAWPAGE!

Inbox : 13

[chaoticbooklesbian]

OK, so, I have been on the hunt for a creamy, no-bake macaroni and cheese recipe that does not require me to make a roux for A While Now. And that post going around about beurre monte that's like "use it for box macaroni and cheese. you will Nut" has me thinking. Could beurre monte be used as a base for a cheese sauce instead of a roux? Because I cannot for the life of me make a roux that doesn't go horribly wrong somehow, but the idea of beurre monte seems less intimidating somehow.

[direwombat]

OC INTERVIEW

tagged by @carlosoliveiraa, @aceghosts, @finding-comfort-in-rain, @cassietrn, @g0dspeeed, and @simplegenius042 for a little oc interview! making this kind of a part 2 to this oc interview i did a while ago.

“Jesus Christ,” Sybille hisses, sinking into the folding chair set up on the other side of Wheaty’s desk, haggard and weary from six weeks of nonstop fighting. “Are we really doin’ this shit again?”

He regards her, equally exhausted, and sighs. “It’s for morale, Dep. People gotta remember you’re human too.”

“Why?” she scowls. “Aint’ it more inspirin’ if they think I’m Wonder Woman or some shit?”

“Yeah, well, Wonder Woman has literal super powers,” Wheaty says. The attempt at levity falls flat, as Sybille levels him with a glare. “Look,” he sighs, “I know it seems counterintuitive to you, but reminding the people that you’re a person, just like them, will help inspire them to keep fighting against the Cult. Normal life is almost back in the Valley, you know? We gotta remind them that the fight’s still going.” 

She’s silent for a long moment, before ultimately relenting. “Fine. Ask ya damn questions.”

WHEATY: Name? 

SYBILLE: Sybille Marie La Roux. 

WHEATY: Nickname? 

SYBILLE: Was “Sarge” for a while. Mostly just “Dep” or “Syb” these days. 

Editor’s note: Also “Sweetheart/Honey/Jackrabbit” if your name is Jacob Seed. 

WHEATY: Gender? 

SYBILLE: [Rustling of fabric as she shrugs] Female

WHEATY: Star sign? 

SYBILLE: Taurus

WHEATY: Moon and rising?

SYBILLE: What now?

Editor’s note: She’s a Scorpio Moon and Capricorn Rising. 

WHEATY: Personality type? 

SYBILLE: The fuck does that mean?

WHEATY: Y'know. Like. Uh. Your Myers-Briggs or Enneagram type.

SYBILLE: I dunno what any of those words mean.

WHEATY: Y'know what, here. Let me call Xander up and see if he has the quizzes handy.

SYBILLE: The what now?

[A painful half-hour of listening to Sybille take various personality quizzes live on the air]

SYBILLE: [Very slowly] “Lawful Neutral,” “ISTJ,” “Type 8w9,” and “choleric.” [Long pause] Wheaty, all these words are nonsense.

WHEATY: Height? 

SYBILLE: 5'9"

WHEATY: Orientation?

SYBILLE: [Muttering] Jesus Christ. [Louder] I’m bisexual and I ain’t lookin’. 

Editor's note: The rest of the county doesn't know she's taken by this point.

WHEATY: Nationality/Ethnicity?

SYBILLE: American. Cajun French. 

WHEATY: Favorite Fruit? 

SYBILLE: [Sighs wistfully] I’d kill for a mango or nectarine. 

WHEATY: Favorite Season? 

SYBILLE: Spring. But since movin’ to Montana, I understand the appeal of autumn. 

WHEATY: Favorite Flower? 

SYBILLE: Hibiscus.

WHEATY: Favorite Scent? 

SYBILLE: Fresh coffee. Pine. Frankincense. Shit, I dunno, it’s hard to pick just one. 

WHEATY: Coffee, Tea, or Hot Chocolate: 

SYBILLE: Coffee. Black. 

WHEATY: Average Hours of Sleep: 

SYBILLE: [Long silence] Not nearly enough.  

Editor’s Note: Between 4-5 on a good day; closer to 2-3 on bad ones. 

WHEATY: Dog or Cat Person? 

SYBILLE: [Rustling of fabric as she leans over to pet Boomer] I like both, but overall ‘m more of a dog person.  

WHEATY: Dream Trip? 

SYBILLE: Shit, it really is a dream trip now, ain’t it? Woulda liked to’ve roadtripped ‘round Australia, but I doubt that’ll ever happen, now.

WHEATY: Favorite Fictional/Real Character? 

SYBILLE: Jesus, I dunno. Trinity from the Matrix, I guess. 

WHEATY: Yeah, I can see that. 

WHEATY: Number of Blankets You Sleep With? 

SYBILLE: Depends on where I end up sleepin’. ‘F I can find a cabin or bunker, then one or two. Otherwise it’s just my leather jacket. 

WHEATY: Random Fact? 

SYBILLE: Was on the track team my freshman and sophomore years of high school, before I had to drop out.

this one has been going around so sorry for any double tags, but, tagging: @marivenah, @corvosattano, @trench-rot, @harmonyowl, @fourlittleseedlings, @purplehairsecretlair, @adelaidedrubman, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @voidika, @locustandwildhoney, @testyfestyenthusiast, @strangefable, @inafieldofdaisies, @alexxmason, @deputyash, @josephslittledeputy, and anyone else wanting to do this for their ocs!

[taldigi]

Pitch:

Rena (Short for Renard/e, Fox->french) Rouge (Red->French) ->->-> Rina (Alya -> Alina // Rena->Rina) Roux (Red[head]->French)

Rena Rouge (Alya) -> Rina Roux (Alina)

[lighttrls]

god is dead (i killed him)

[silly-scroimblo-whump]

I just read through your Roux and Spooks stuff and they’re such cuties :3 what if Ad was to kidnap them and take them in as thralls… how would they react?

YIPPPEE!! GUYS GO CHECK OUT SODA’S STUFF THEY’RE AWESOME!!! Ad is a vampire and I loveee them they’re such an awesome carewhumper😼😼😼

Spooks would put up far too much of a fight, then tire himself out, and then immediately fall for any sort of affection!

He’s a ghost, so I’m not sure if enthralment would work, but he still sees most kind adults as parental figures* and becomes incredibly clingy as a result anyway ☹️…

If enthralment did work, he’d instantly give up on trying to resist the second he felt safe! All he’d really care about is making sure that Roux is treated well. >_<

Speaking of Roux!!! He’s far less resistant than Spooks, only resisting or trying to flee with the assumption that it’s another hunter trying to hurt them both.

Roux has claws and sharp teeth and stuff, so maybe he’d inflict some sort of damage while resisting? When that’s settled, though, he’d immediately fall into trance. I feel like he’d like having no thoughts at all in comparison to the constant pit of hunger in his chest and cold biting at his face :(

The only issue I can really think of occurring is the fact that Roux’s injuries develop into little sets of gnashing teeth… good luck drinking his blood, Ad!! 😁🫶

Honestly, both of them would be especially helpless against Evangeline since her enthralment is related to parental comfort and both Roux AND Spooks have absolutely horrific abandonment issues ^_^!

On the other hand, they'd both be TERRIFIED of Darius 😭😭 He's too scary for them HEHAHSA they can endure The Horrors™️ but not constant judgement…

* Except for Roux! Roux is just a big brother to him :3