#this was loosely inspired by the frankenstein au

[dreamy-pill]

I’ve been imagining another AU, one that starts, unfortunately, with the tragedy of Stanford Pine’s twin brother, Stanley Pines. He hears about his brother’s demise from his mother. Most likely, Stanley died before Stanford arrives in Gravity Falls. That’s just the basic plot for the beginning.

So…I was reviewing Passengers, the one with Jennifer Lawerence and Chris Pratt? I became inspired when I saw the robotic bartender, played by Michael Sheen. And it had me thinking about DBH (aka: Detroit(:)Become Human), the game about AI sentience created by this guy called Kamski. And then I also just thought about Astro Boy and Ex-Machina, too.

You’ll most likely know about the Frankenstein AU for Gravity Falls, right? Kudos to the creators, that’s a lot of really impressive and interesting art.

Well, what if Stanford went about developing an android with the initial intent to revolutionize humanity while in Gravity Falls? During the daytime, he’ll focuses on research of the local ecosystem, while in his pass time he’ll be pouring research theories into blueprints for the robot. And when he gets Fiddleford to help him with his project, the robot is molded into Stanford’s likeness because why not? And, for selfish reasons Stanford will keep to himself, he starts referring to the robot as Stanley. Then, you know, Fiddleford will most likely just assume his partner is becoming narcissistic because he doesn’t know about Stanley yet and that Stanford lost his twin brother.

Is it almost morbidly contrived for Stanford to reshape the android to share the same likeness to his brother from the last time he saw him, which was during his wake?

Then, just when the android finally emerges and his processors are all switched on from an unknown power source, Stanley is awoken once more. He just doesn’t realize that yet.

For a shorter explanation for further plot, Stanford won’t be able to handle being in the same room as the android and Fiddleford will have to assume caretaker to the robot while running tests. Stanford will most likely be feeling guilt because he just brought a dead ringer of his brother back from memory. He’ll feel like he’s disrespected his brother’s memory and can’t handle it because he’ll sometimes forget that the android’s not Stanley. While talking with him, Stanford will unconsciously ask what the robot thinks, only to be met with confusion, then Stanford will look at the android for any signs of familiarity on his face. He forgets sometimes that the android doesn’t share any memories between him and Stan. That really bums Stanford out. The android notices but doesn’t know how to help.

Think of this as an alternate version for Wax Stan, except with robots.

Now, imagine if Bill wanted Stanford to build him a body at first when he finds out about his project, only to be rejected. I don’t know how to carry on more with that. I just became inspired by Avengers(:)Age of Ultron.

[spiderpupware]

Day 17 - Alternate universe! (click here for Crossover)

[maythearo]

" Welcome back to Night Raven College's 'Ghostly Gossip'! The school's unofficial main online source for the latest news, articles and trending topics circulating around campus! "

" You see, all my notes have to say about him is 'Mr braincell Spade that electrified the whole pool last swimming class'- and I'm almost sure it wasn't me who wrote it. Although I still remember this event so clearly... what a weird day. "

Navigation:

R. Rosehearts - T. Clover - C. Diamond - A. Trappola - D. Spade - L. Kingscholar - R. Bucchi - J. Howl - A. Ashengrotto - J. Leech - F. Leech - K. Al Asim - J. Viper - V. Schoenheit - R. Hunt - E. Felmier - I. Shroud - O. Shroud - M. Draconia - L. Vanrouge - S. Zigvolt - Silver

[ design notes ]

Alright so that took a bit longer bcs I wanted Ace to be ready as well, just so I could link his and Deuce's designs in a few aspects, and I'll talk about this in more detail later, for sir Ass Trampoline's future entry.

I know in that picture I said there was way too much free space on reference pics, but I'm just realizing I should have included one of Frankie bcs obviously they were a huge inspiration for Deuce's design as well 😭 both from G1 and G3. I initially chose the Frankenstein monster for him just for the fact that he's good with machines n stuff in canon, but later I realized the og story of Frankenstein had a lot to do with conflict between the creator and the creation, that if I squint it I can see the similarities between that and Deuce's character arc to change + his rocky relationship to his family, idk, can't really oversimplify the book's story but. I thought the themes could be very loosely connected 🧍 (?)

I should also add that the highlights on his hair match his mom's, that's cute. ALSO also his rings designs/placements don't really matter, I think he'd just wear whatever rings he finds without much preference.

For his AU personality and traits, well, he's just Deuce. Straightforward, diligent, at times naive, and clumsy Deuce. Story and background pretty much remains the same too, why not!

Sorry I didn't have much to say here, most of the notes I work on I write while in class or in the car (not the best places for concentration imo), bcs I'm not having much free time to stay still lately 😭 I'm hoping I didn't leave much of my hcs behind though!

[soup-in-my-fly]

🧪⚡️HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!! May I TREAT you with a loosely frankenstein-inspired au? :3

[⚠️slight NSFW under the cut]

Theon and Ramsay both attend the university of Ingolstadt. Whereas Theon got accepted because of pure nepotism, Ramsay actually had to be SMART to study there. Typical Thramsay rivalry ensues, and Ramsay ends up deciding that Theon would make a PERFECT candidate for his crimes against nature.

[quotidianish]

ANOTHER human au art compilation! Here’s the first! More info about the AU and their cultures under cut ~

Groundwork:

-Abilities which stem from things inherent to dragon biology (fire, venom, frostbreath, gills, etc.) aren’t present. More traditionally supernatural gifts (mindreading, oracle, animus magic, etc.) are still present. In retrospect this makes the Nightwings completely op but shhh

-Each tribe is inspired off a mishmash frankenstein of different real-world cultures

-Dragons are an endangered species, just a hum in the background and nearly hunted to extinction. They’re hardly considered a threat, especially when most humans haven’t even seen one in their lives. Once the centre of each people’s culture and civilisation, they’re now nothing more than Bigfoot sightings or exotic pets.

Culture:

-Sandwings are the least homogeneous tribe and take inspiration from various cultures in the Indian subcontinent and Arab nations (most largely India and Palestine). Many subcultures exist within the larger Sandwing kingdom. Common identifies (not present in them all, but there will usually be at least one) include gold accented accessories, darker skin, and clothing with light, desaturated, yellow/orange tones. They’re renowned for their abundance of poison, excellent street food, musical talent, and stereotypically maliciously intelligent. Regardless of class there’s a nation wide pattern (you can find the reference for it by Qibli’s headscarf) symbolising trade routes, oasis waters and dunes. It’s a symbol of national pride (included on thorn’s dress, and ostrich’s headband/headscarf).

-Nightwings are, on the contrary, the most homogeneous tribe due to their small population. They’re based on Japan (spanning multiple eras). I like to think the Nightwings lost a lot of their culture after migrating to the volcano, for they were once the most religious tribe, worshiping the moon alongside the Icewings, which I’ll get to later on their cultural similarities. I promise it’ll make sense. By now, all their deeply religious traditions have been relegated to superstitions. It was said they were blessed by the moons, but the connection has been largely severed. Only old dresses follow the tradition of embroidering in the moons they were born under. Moonwatcher’s dress is something akin to a hand-me-down, as are her silver earrings, it’s by coincidence it lined up with her actual birthday. Moon’s family was an exception because she came from a long line of seers (or alleged seers) who have done their best to preserve a crumbling culture. Common identifiers include near pitch black clothing and skin as pale as the moon. 

-Icewings have some of the largest populations, however, are surprisingly homogenous. Most sub-cultural differences are as a result of class. They’re based on Mongolia and Manchuria. Like Nightwings they are also deeply religious, maintaining their beliefs through rigorous scholarship. Hair has intrinsic religious value as a gift from your family- therefore it cannot be cut. The same goes for ear piercings and any other physical alterations to your body. IceWing jewellery as a result is very distinct because of its lack of need for an ear piercing, hooking around the back of the ear instead. Common identifies include long/braided hair, and light, cool-colored clothing suited for the cold.

-Skywings are loosely Scottish inspired, and I do not have a lot to say about the rest of the tribes. Most of their clothing have feathered accents. The peregrine is a sign of luck and wealth, with their feathers being adorned on the upper classes. Geese and chickens, being common farm animals, are found adorned on working classes. The second richest tribe, employing silver, gold, lazuli, and about any gem they can find in their clothing. Common identifies include curly orange/red hair, taller statures, feathered accents, a tartan like pattern, and clothing ranging from yellow to magenta.

-Seawings are loosely based on various Polynesian cultures, most prominently that of the Māori. The sea has an intrinsic religious value to them, with all children learning to swim, sail, and/or fish. They live off the sea’s resources, rarely consulting the surrounding land for supplies. On rare occasions albatross birds and seagulls are plucked for headdresses. These are reserved for high ranked royalty. Their clothing is loose and well adapted for the warm beach setting. Common identifiers of Seawings include ta moko like tattoos, olive skin, and clothing ranging from lime to purple.

-Rainwings are loosely based on Thai, Indonesian, and Cambodian cultures. They’re colourful and have the second largest poison reserves (bested by sandwings). Having once been a trade centred tribe, now they’re isolationist, albeit not intentionally. They have many history records, almost as detailed as that of Icewings, but the art has been lost to a changing cultural atmosphere. Once too religious, now their intrinsically religious practices are more cultural. Their clothing is similar to sandwings in the fact they cover as much of the body as convenient but remain loose and breezy. Common identifiers include bronze tan skin, vibrant pigmented clothing, and flower motifs. Nightwing villages don’t follow that guideline, they build on the ground as a tribe with a focus on hunting. I’m assuming everything in this universe is made proportional to dragons, hence why the trees are so large. This assumption is based off that specific panel of Bandit in the book six graphic novel eating a blueberry as big as his head. 

-Mudwings are sooo underdeveloped in my au (following in the steps of Tui herself) but they’re based on southern Chinese and Vietnamese cultures! They live in cities akin to Chinese floating villages, Vietnamese floating markets, and Tulou (architectural style of the Chinese Hakka) made of mud bricks. They're a very agricultural based people. Many of their villages are isolated communities- their emphasis on family extending to their towns. Common identifiers include umber skin, straw conical hats, and practical clothing in shades of brown.

[cloudss-space]

Metal Band Guitarist Ronin x Drummer MC?? 👀👀👀

What is taken, is given

( killer chat ) ronin x reader ... band au ... given inspired

trigger warning:

character death / mention of suicide

slight gore

Drumming was your means of survival, not just music. From the moment you were old enough to hold sticks in your small, trembling hands, you felt it deep in your marrow. At five, you didn't know what rhythm was in any formal sense, but you knew how it felt. It was the wild, chaotic thudding of your own heart, the pounding of your feet as you ran barefoot across cracked pavement, the desperate, incessant hum of staying alive in a world that always felt too sharp – and you did it.

At six, you built your first drum kit. You used whatever you could find: old pots and pans, coffee cans, anything that could take the beating of your hands. The skin on your palms split sometimes, little rivers of red tracing the lines of your tiny fingerprints. You didn't care. The pain was nothing. It was just a necessary offering to summon the sound.

The drumsticks came later, as a gift from someone whose name you don't even remember. You held them in your fists like weapons, determined to beat the silence into submission. Every strike of wood against metal or plastic sent vibrations through your arms, shaking loose the tension that lived in your small body like a parasite. You hit harder and harder, chasing a release you knew was coming.

By seven, your passion had become an all-consuming obsession. You carved patterns into the walls with the tips of your sticks, tracing rhythms you had to unleash. Your parents yelled, but you were too busy listening to the pounding in your head to hear them. You were too busy listening to the ghost of a snare drum that hadn't been born yet, the phantom echo of a kick drum that lived only in your dreams.

The neighbours complained about the noise, but I told them noise was better than silence. Silence was suffocating. It was a gaping maw that swallowed you whole and left you stranded in your own thoughts. The drums were loud, messy and alive. Each hit was a defiant scream of existence, a reminder that you were still here, still fighting.

At eight, you got your first real drum kit – a battered, secondhand set someone had abandoned in a garage sale. It was a Frankenstein monster of mismatched pieces: a snare with a dented head, a kick drum missing its front skin, cymbals with cracks spidering through their edges. But to you, it was beautiful.

You bled for that kit, and you meant every drop. Your hands bled, forming blisters that popped and reformed, leaving streaks of red on the drumheads. The sight of it made you feel alive in a way you could not and would not explain. Pain was part of the process. It was the cost of creating something that felt bigger than yourself.

By nine, you knew drumming had changed you. It was more than just a hobby. It was a transformation. When you played, you were no longer the quiet, awkward kid who flinched at loud voices and harsh words. You transformed into something else, something raw and primal, someone who demanded to be acknowledged.

The drums demanded everything from you. You practised for hours until your arms ached and your muscles trembled under the strain. You kept going despite the fatigue, the sweat dripping into your eyes, the sting of salt mixing with the rawness of your skin. You played until the world narrowed to nothing but the rhythm, the sound, and the motion.

At ten, you grasped the darker side of your passion. The drums were more than just an escape; they were an outlet for everything you couldn't say and everything you couldn't feel safely. Anger, fear, despair – they all came pouring out in relentless cascades of sound. Sometimes you hit so hard that the sticks splinter in your hands, the shards cutting into your skin. You'd pick them out later, and they'd be there, tiny splinters embedded like memories you couldn't quite shake.

The kit was the target of your wrath. The skins were stretched taut like a body under stress, taking every blow without complaint. But it wasn't enough. The noise wasn't loud enough. The strikes weren't hard enough. You wanted to fly, to break free from the crushing weight of expectation that hung over you like a guillotine.

Your parents simply didn't understand. They called it a phase, but I know better. I'll grow out of it. They scolded you for making too much noise and spending too much time on something that didn't matter. The drums mattered more to you than anything. They were your voice when words failed, your lifeline when the world became too much.

The beat was relentless and unyielding. It followed you everywhere, even in your dreams. You'd wake up with your fingers twitching, mimicking the patterns you had played earlier. The rhythms lived in your body, a second pulse that kept you grounded even when everything else threatened to fall apart.

But the passion came at a cost. Your hands were a patchwork of scars, the skin rough and calloused. Your back ached from hours of leaning over the kit, and your ears rang from the constant crash of cymbals. You questioned whether you were destroying yourself, piece by piece, for the sake of the sound.

And yet, you simply couldn't stop. The drums were my addiction, my need as essential as breathing. You played through the pain, through the exhaustion, through the doubts that crept in when the world grew quiet. You did not let anything stop you. When you played, you felt invincible, untouchable, alive.

By the end of each session, the drumheads were streaked with sweat and sometimes blood, the sticks worn down to nubs. The room reeked of exertion, determination, and endurance. You sat there, breathless, staring at the kit as if it were a living thing, a beast you had tamed for a fleeting moment.

The drums defined you. They were your identity, the thing that set you apart from those who drifted through life without purpose. They were your rebellion against the silence, your refusal to fade into the background – and you made that clear. And even as they demanded more and more from you, you gave willingly, knowing that the cost was worth it.

The drums were your lifeline, not just music. In a world that often didn't make sense, they were the only thing that did. As long as you had them, you knew you could keep going, keep fighting, keep living. It hurt, but you kept going. Even if it bled.

The drumsticks felt weightless in your hands at first, like extensions of your own body. You joined the band at fourteen and it was everything for a while. The beat became your heartbeat, the rhythm your breath. It was freedom, pounding through your veins as the snare and cymbals roared beneath your touch. When you played, the world faded. The noise inside your head was drowned out by something louder, something yours.

You met him there, the boy who would change everything. He was sharp and edgy, with soft eyes that fascinated you from the start. He played the bass with an effortless ease that made you jealous. His name was Ezra, and when he smiled, the world tilted.

At first, it was just stolen glances and shared laughs between sets. But it didn't take long for something deeper to grow. He saw you in a way no one else ever had. He peeled back the layers you'd carefully constructed and touched something raw inside you. He made you feel like you were living, not just surviving.

You loved the nights. After practice, you sat on the hood of his car, legs dangling over the edge, talking about everything and nothing. He lit a cigarette, the cherry glowing like a tiny ember in the darkness, and you watched the smoke curl into the air, wishing you could be as free as it looked.

You fell in love quietly, like slipping into a warm bath. It wasn't sudden or dramatic, but it consumed you all the same. You didn't tell him right away, but you didn't have to. You were confident that he would understand. He knew. You could see it in the way he looked at you. He looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in a room full of people.

He kissed you for the first time behind the venue after your first gig. Your hands were shaking, not from nerves but from the adrenaline of the performance, and he grabbed them to steady you. His lips were soft and tentative, and you felt something inside you crack open, like the world was finally letting a little light in.

But light doesn't last.

You didn't see the darkness creeping into him at first. He concealed it skilfully, masking it behind his genial demeanor and keen intellect. But there were moments, brief but intense, when the mask came undone. You'd catch him staring into the distance, his eyes hollow, as if he was somewhere else entirely. When you asked, he simply shrugged it off with a smile that was too quick and too practiced.

The fights started small, with inconsequential issues that were easily overlooked. He'd snap at you over a missed note or disappear for days without explanation. You told yourself it was normal, that everyone had bad days, but you knew better.

Then came the silence. This wasn't the kind of quiet you found comforting, like the pause between drumbeats. It was stifling, laden with all the words he chose to leave unsaid. He stopped coming to practice and stopped answering your calls. The band felt empty without him. It was like a song missing its melody.

You found him one night, slumped against the wall of his room, the floor littered with empty bottles and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale, and he looked at you as if he didn't even recognise you. He told you he was fine, but you knew he wasn't.

You didn't know how to save him, but you were going to find out.

You were the one who found him when it happened. That memory is seared into your mind, a wound that never stops bleeding. You can still see the crimson pooling around his wrists, the stillness of his body in the dim light of his room. The bass guitar he loved so much was leaning against the wall, untouched, as if mocking you.

Your scream was inhuman. It felt like something was ripping you apart from the inside, shredding every part of you that had ever felt whole. You fell to your knees, your hands shaking as you tried to stop the bleeding, even though you knew it was too late.

The funeral was a blur. A cacophony of muffled sobs and whispered condolences that meant nothing. You refused to look at his parents, unable to bear the weight of their grief, which mirrored your own. You sat in the back, your hands clenched into fists, nails digging into your palms until they drew blood.

Drumming was no longer an option. The sticks felt foreign in your hands, the beats hollow and meaningless. Every time you touched the drum set, you saw his face, heard his laugh, and felt the weight of his absence like a phantom limb. The music that had once saved you now felt like a curse.

You tried to move on, but the guilt was relentless. You replayed every moment in your head, searching for the signs you'd missed and the things you could have done differently. You told yourself it was your fault. If you'd been better and stronger, he'd still be here.

The band simply couldn't go on without him. The others tried to keep it going, but it was obvious it wasn't the same. The rhythm was all wrong and the energy was gone. You drifted apart, each of you bearing your own burden of grief and scars.

Nights were the worst. The silence that once comforted you now felt like a void, engulfing you. You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, your mind a whirlwind of memories and regrets. You reached for the drumsticks, then stopped. The weight of them was too much to bear.

You dreamed of him sometimes. In your dreams, he was alive, smiling, his hands warm against your skin. But even in the dreams, you saw the shadow behind his eyes, a stark reminder that he was gone. You wake up gasping, tears streaming down your face.

You cut music out of your life for a while because the sound was too painful. Even the sound of a snare drum in a passing car made your chest tighten. The memories flooded back in vivid, agonising detail.

People told you it would get better, that time would heal the wound. They were wrong. But it didn't. The wound wasn't healing. It was festering and infecting every part of you until you didn't recognise yourself anymore.

And yet, deep inside, you knew that you couldn't let go completely. You kept his bass guitar, even though you didn't want to play it. You kept the setlists from your gigs, the ones he'd scribbled on, his handwriting messy but unmistakable.

You carried him with you, in every note you couldn't play and every beat you couldn't hit. He's gone, but he's still there. He's a ghost haunting the spaces between the rhythms of your life.

You were unsure if you'd ever find your way back to the drums, but you knew one thing for certain: the silence was unbearable. And you know what? One day, you'll find a way to fill it again.

Graduation was coming, and you knew it was a milestone you should have been celebrating. Instead, it felt like a noose tightening around your neck. The cap and gown hung in your closet, their fabric ghosting against your fingers every time you reached for something else. People called this time of life bittersweet, but you knew it was only bitter – a cruel joke wrapped in the pretence of moving forward.

The halls of your high school were the same as they'd always been, but you could feel them emptying around you. Your past lover's absence clung to you like smoke, lingering in places where he used to stand, in the faint echoes of laughter that would never return. The band was gone, and so was he, and without them, every passing day felt more hollow than the last.

Your classmates spoke about college, careers and futures, their voices ringing out like a chorus around you. You nodded when they asked about your plans and offered vague smiles when they asked how you were doing. But inside, you knew you were spinning your wheels in the mud. What future could there possibly be without him? What future could there be without music? The guilt tightened its grip on you with every congratulatory word, their smiles blind to the storm raging behind yours.

On good days, you felt numb. On bad days, you felt like the wound your past lover left behind was bleeding all over again, staining every part of you that tried to move on. Nights were the worst – long, suffocating stretches of time where the silence grew louder than anything else. The nightmares were relentless, dragging you back to the moment you found him, to the stillness of his body, to the crimson that refused to leave your hands no matter how many times you tried to scrub it away.

There were moments when you felt his absence acutely, even in the ordinary things. An empty chair in the classroom, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke as you passed someone on the street, the strum of a bass in a song you hadn't heard in years. Each reminder cut deeper than the last. The universe itself seemed to be conspiring to keep him fresh in your mind.

You stopped telling people about the dreams. They simply didn't understand how vivid and real they felt. In them, he was alive and kicking. He was vibrant, laughing, teasing you about your drumming or sharing secrets under the stars. You'd wake up gasping, reaching for something that wasn't there, and the crushing weight of reality would settle back over you like a shroud.

The graduation rehearsals felt like another cruel reminder. The stage where you'd receive your diploma stretched out in front of you, a symbol of achievement you didn't care about. Your past lover had always joked about the future, about how he'd watch you play drums on bigger stages one day. You were stepping onto this stage without him, and you were going to own it.

The school counsellors advised you to speak to someone, but you were not prepared to do so. What could they possibly say that would make a difference? The guilt was too deeply rooted and the pain too sharp. You were walking through life with open wounds, and talking would not sew them shut.

Your parents tried to help, but they didn't understand. Graduation was a celebration and a reason to push forward for them. They failed to grasp the immense weight it carried for you. Every step towards that stage felt like a step away from the life you'd known, the life you'd lost.

You avoided the drums altogether, unable to touch them without feeling like you were desecrating something sacred. They sat in the corner of your room, gathering dust, a monument to what used to be. The silence they left behind was deafening and it seeped into every part of your life.

Your friends invited you to parties, to hangouts, to plans for after graduation, but you turned them down. The effort it took to be around people was too much, and the idea of pretending to be okay was exhausting.

The weight of it all grew heavier with each passing day, a constant pressure in your chest that made it hard to breathe. You knew you didn't deserve to be here, to graduate, to move forward. Your past lover was supposed to be here too, and without him, it all felt meaningless.

Some nights, you sat on the edge of your bed, staring at the crumpled graduation invitation on your desk. You thought about the future you once dreamed of, the one where your past lover was by your side, where the band was still together, where the music still made sense. That future was a cruel joke, a distant echo of something you could never have.

But deep down, you knew you could keep going. For him. For the dreams you shared. You knew you would play that music again, even if you couldn't bring yourself to do so.

You didn't know what graduation would bring, but you were determined to find out. You were equally determined to find out if you'd ever feel whole again. But you knew one thing for certain: your past lover would not have wanted you to stop. He wouldn't have wanted the music to die with him.

As the day drew closer, you tried. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't pretty, but you did it anyway. You found the rhythm again, picked up the pieces of yourself that had shattered when he left. And you found a way to carry him with you, not as a weight but as a reminder of the love you'd shared, the music you'd created, and the life you'd both fought so hard to live.

The desperation gnawed at you, testing the limits of your resolve until you felt raw and hollowed out by the need for something—anything—that could keep you afloat. The debts piled high, each letter in the mail like a strike to the chest, each reminder that you were sinking faster than you could swim. There was no doubt about it. The job interviews blurred together, and each rejection weighed heavily on your shoulders. By the time you met him, exhaustion had become a part of you, as natural as your heartbeat.

It was in some dimly lit corner of the city, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and smoke, a cacophony of sounds ringing in your ears. You strode purposefully to the door, your steps faltering only briefly as you pushed it open. The music inside was loud and raucous, the kind of noise that made your bones ache. That was when you saw him – Ronin.

He stood like he owned the world, the stage his throne and the guitar in his hands a weapon. Every note he played was violent, shredding through the air with a ferocity that felt almost tangible. His grin was sharp, cocky and infuriating. It was the kind of smile that made you want to punch him as much as it made you want to stare.

You stayed because you didn't know why. He played with such passion, it was as if he was bleeding onto the strings, every note a cut across his soul. He commanded the room. His presence was magnetic, pulling you in despite yourself. Or perhaps it was simply that you had nowhere else to go.

The show ended and the crowd dispersed, leaving behind the faint buzz of conversation and the clinking of glasses. You stayed, lingering near the bar, and you were going to ask him anything – work, connections, a sliver of opportunity. He approached you instead, his smirk even more infuriating up close.

"You look like you've got nowhere better to be," he said, his voice a low drawl that carried over the din of the room.

You were offended but you stayed. "And you look like you enjoy hearing yourself talk."

He laughed, a sharp, biting sound, and you hated how it made something inside you twist. He introduced himself with the kind of arrogance that made you want to roll your eyes. He was Ronin, guitarist, metalhead, and self-proclaimed genius. But there was something there, something raw and jagged that mirrored the chaos inside you.

He offered you a job soon after. It wasn't a glamorous job and it wasn't something you could put on a resume, but it paid well. You'd be a roadie, a band assistant, hauling equipment and dealing with their mess. You weren't going to take it. You didn't want to be around him. His sharp tongue and sharp eyes made you feel uneasy. He seemed to see right through you. But you needed the money.

The first few weeks were hell. The band was loud, chaotic and constantly on the move. Ronin was worse. He was demanding and impossible to please. His expectations were as high as the volume of his guitar. But he was also brilliant, his talent undeniable. You couldn't help but admire him.

He pushed you, and it felt both infuriating and exhilarating. He challenged you, called you out on your bullshit, and made you feel things you hadn't felt in years. And at some point, the lines between anger and attraction got blurred.

The nights were the hardest. No doubt about it. The silence after the shows felt suffocating, the memories you tried to bury clawing their way to the surface. Your partner's ghost lingered in the quiet, his laugh echoing in the back of your mind, his absence a constant, gnawing ache in your chest. You hated how much you missed him and how much you hated yourself for moving on even a little.

Ronin noticed. He did, of course. He could see right through you and force the truth out of you, whether you wanted to share it or not. He didn't pry or push, but he was there, a constant, grounding presence that was also, infuriatingly, comforting.

He had the same effect on you as your past lover did. It wasn't about looks or actions. It was about how he made you feel. You realise you're not as broken as you thought. You knew there was still something left of you worth saving.

Ronin wasn't your past lover. You refused to let yourself forget that. He was unpolished and unyielding, a force of nature where your ex-lover had been gentle and composed. He was everything you weren't supposed to want and everything you weren't supposed to need.

And yet, you were drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. It was dangerous, and you knew it, but you couldn't stop yourself. He had a way of pulling you out of your head and making you forget how much it hurt to breathe.

The guilt gnawed at you, a constant reminder that you didn't deserve this. You knew you didn't deserve to feel anything but the pain you'd been carrying since the night you lost that lover. Ronin didn't let you wallow. He didn't let you drown.

He was your opposite: fire to your ice, chaos to your control, life to your grief. And for the first time in a long time, you knew you could survive this.

The work was hard, the days long, but you found solace in the rhythm of it. The music, the noise, the chaos – it was a different kind of drumming, one that made your blood sing in ways you hadn't felt in years. And Ronin was there, always there, proving you were never alone.

But the shadows still lingered, the ghosts still haunted you, and the scars you carried weren't so easily healed. You didn't know where this path would lead, but you were determined to find out if you could truly move on. But for the first time, you knew you didn't have to do it alone.

The stage lights blazed into your vision, intense and overwhelming, cutting through the smoky haze like a knife. Every time you sat behind the drum kit, it was like stepping into a war zone. The crowd roared like a tidal wave, their voices colliding and swirling into an unholy storm of sound that rattled your chest and shook your bones. The bass reverberated through your ribs with each beat, hammering against your skin as if it were trying to split you open. And at the centre of it all was Ronin, silhouetted in shadows, his guitar screaming like it was alive.

Playing in the band was pure chaos, an unstoppable force that burned through every part of you. The crash of the cymbals, the pound of the toms, the relentless heartbeat of the kick drum – it was all-consuming, a cacophony that drowned out the world. You hit harder than you needed to, driving the sticks into the drums with a force that seemed to try to punch through them. It was about survival, plain and simple. It was a primal release that kept the darkness at bay.

Ronin thrived in the chaos. His energy was infectious, wild, and unpredictable, and his riffs cut through the air like jagged glass. He locked eyes with you mid-song, his grin sharp enough to slice through the noise, and you hated how it made your heart race. He played with the intensity of a world-changing blaze, and you were just trying to keep up, to match his heat.

The band was a paradox: a sanctuary and a battlefield in one. The music was your armor, your shield against the grief and guilt that still lingered. It also tore you apart. Every song was an exorcism, dragging out the pain and anger you'd tried so hard to bury. You gave everything you had to the drums, every beat a scream, every rhythm a plea for something you couldn't name.

Ronin pushed you harder than anyone ever had. His demands were relentless and his standards were impossibly high. He didn't coddle you. He didn't let you falter, and he didn't let you fail. He was harsh on the critiques, rare on the praise, but when he did nod in approval, it felt like you'd conquered something insurmountable. You hated him for it, but you respected him even more for it.

The music couldn't always mask the pain. No matter how hard you tried to drown it out, the grief clawed its way to the surface on those nights. On those nights, you found yourself watching Ronin from across the room. You saw how he tuned his guitar with precise, almost obsessive care. You saw how his fingers moved over the strings like they were extensions of himself. His intensity and focus made you feel less alone, even if he never said a word.

The band's dynamic was volatile, with a constant push and pull between chaos and control. Fights erupted over nothing and everything. There were creative differences, missed cues and a lot of tension simmering beneath the surface. Ronin was often at the centre of it, and you found yourself clashing with him more often than not, because his temper was as fiery as his playing. But the fights never lasted. The music always brought you back together. It was a shared language that transcended words.

On stage, the world fell away. There was only the music, the lights, the crowd, and the feeling of being part of something larger than yourself. Ronin's guitar roared and howled, his solos cutting through the air like a blade, and you were his backbone, the steady rhythm that grounded the chaos. Together, you created something raw and alive, something that felt like it could shatter the world.

Things were messier offstage, without a doubt. The long nights, the endless miles on the road, the pressure to keep up the momentum – it all took its toll. The camaraderie you felt on stage didn't always translate to real life. There were times when the silence between you and Ronin felt heavier than the music ever could.

But there were moments of clarity, too. The walls came down, if only for a second. Ronin had a way of surprising you. His sharp edges softened when you least expected it. A shared laugh over a stupid inside joke, a quiet conversation in the back of the van, the way he handed you a water bottle after a particularly gruelling set without saying a word – those moments were proof that staying was the right choice.

The music was catharsis, but it was also a constant reminder of what you'd lost. Every time you picked up the sticks, you thought of your past lover, of the way he used to watch you play with a smile that made your heart ache. The guilt was always there, a shadow that lingered at the edge of every note, but the band gave you a way to channel it, to turn it into something tangible, something real.

Ronin never asked about your past, and he didn't need to. He saw it in the way you played, in the way your hands trembled when you thought no one was looking, in the way your eyes glazed over when the memories became too much. He didn't pry or push, but his presence was unwavering and anchored you. It was more than enough.

You began to notice the little things about him: the way his jaw clenched when he was concentrating, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about a new riff, the way his laugh rumbled low and deep like distant thunder. You hated how much you noticed and cared, but you couldn't ignore it.

Ronin had a magnetic pull that drew you in, no matter what you wanted. He was everything you weren't supposed to want, everything you weren't supposed to need, but you couldn't stop yourself. He made you feel alive in a way you hadn't in years, and it terrified you, but you couldn't stop yourself.

The band was a lifeline, a chance to start over, but it was also a stark reminder that you couldn't outrun your demons. The ghosts of your past still haunted you, the scars still ached, but you faced them head-on with the help of music.

Ronin was a part of that, and you couldn't get away from it. He was fire and chaos, raw and untamed. He forced you to confront parts of yourself you'd rather leave buried. He challenged you, pushed you, and made you better. You hated him for it as much as you were grateful.

Every night on stage was a battle. A fight to prove to yourself that you could still create something beautiful despite the pain. The drums became an extension of yourself. Each beat was a heartbeat, each rhythm a reminder that you were still alive. And Ronin was there, always there, his guitar screaming alongside you, a partner in your chaos.

The band took you places you hadn't been before. They kept up a relentless pace, but you were up for the challenge. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you were part of something bigger than yourself. The music was messy, chaotic and imperfect, but it was yours.

And so was Ronin. He was a part of this now, a part of you. Like it or not. He was a constant, a steady presence in the storm, and there was no way you could imagine doing this without him.

The road ahead was uncertain and the future was a blur, but you had the music, the band and Ronin, and that was all you needed. And that was enough.

The air backstage still hummed with the echoes of the performance. The thrum of the bass lingered in your bones, an electric pulse that refused to fade. The world was still reeling from the impact of the show, and your heartbeat thundered like a drumbeat, steady but intense. You wiped sweat from your brow, your fingers still slightly shaking from the adrenaline, but you were unphased. The crowd's roar was fading, but the rush was still there, and it wasn't going anywhere.

Ronin was there too, his presence unmistakable in the haze of the after-party noise. His fingers still curled around the neck of his guitar, as if the music hadn't left him. He was standing near the corner, his posture loose but guarded, looking more tired than he was willing to admit. His hair was tousled, wild from the heat of the stage, strands sticking to his face. His eyes, though, were bright and intense, burning through everything, searching, restless. You caught his gaze, and for a brief moment, the noise of the room dissolved, like a world where only the two of you existed.

He didn't smile yet, but his gaze softened just a little. You moved towards him, drawn by an invisible thread that had been there since the first chord you'd struck on the drums together. The silence between you was a low hum, an unspoken promise that the world around you had stopped for a moment.

The space between you shrank, and then your hand was at his side, boldly taking the lead, testing the waters with a tentative touch. He didn't pull away. His chest rose and fell with every breath, steady and strong, but you could feel the tension radiating off him. Your fingers grazed his arm, and you felt the heat pass through you, electric and alive. For a heartbeat, you both stood there, suspended in the moment, before he closed the distance between you.

Ronin was never one for gentleness, but there was something in the way he leaned in now, his mouth brushing against yours with a kind of quiet force, as if he had been waiting for this, too. His lips were warm and soft, urgent and insistent. The kiss was a slow unravelling, like a thread being pulled through fabric, one inch at a time, making you shiver from the intensity of it.

It was more than just passion, more than just heat. There was something deeper in the way he kissed you. It was unspoken, raw, as though both of you had been waiting to be seen in this way for so long, and now, at last, you were. The world around you blurred, dissolved completely, and it was just the two of you in the quiet of the backstage, the weight of the unspoken between your breaths.

His hands found your shoulders, fingers pressing down and pulling you closer. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he needed to be closer, needed to feel the heat of you against him. You kissed him back, slow and deliberate, savouring the moment. He responded with equal intensity, deepening the kiss and pulling you into him even more.

The sounds of the backstage, the chatter, the music still playing faintly in the distance – all of it faded, leaving only the pulse of the kiss. Your heart pounded against your chest, matching the rhythm of the music you had just played, as if it were still alive within you. Ronin's grip tightened on you, his touch possessive and powerful, igniting a deep, primal response. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, an answer to everything you had been too afraid to say out loud.

For a moment, you felt as if you were on fire. His mouth moved against yours with such intensity, such fervour, that you were consumed by the heat of it, flooded every inch of your body with sensation. You could feel the urgency in him, the way he needed you close, like he couldn't breathe unless you were there. His hand moved to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer until there was no space between you.

Your hand slid around his waist, feeling the tension in his muscles and the smooth curve of his back as he pressed against you. The kiss was slow and deliberate, yet there was an undeniable intensity and a slow-burning desire that surged through both of them. His lips tasted like the night – sweat, smoke and something wild, something untamed.

The kiss went on longer than you thought it would. It went on longer than you expected it could. By the time you pulled away, you were both breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other, the air thick with the weight of what had just happened. You could feel the faint thrum of his heartbeat under your hand where it rested on his chest. In that moment, you knew you were close to him and needed him.

He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath, but his eyes never left yours. There was no awkwardness between you. You understood each other, you accepted each other. You didn't need to say anything. The silence between you said it all.

At last, you knew you were where you were meant to be. The world outside of this moment didn't matter. The band, the crowds, the wreckage of your past – none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was here, now, with Ronin. And even though the music would continue to play, even though the world would continue to turn, for just a few minutes, the only thing that was real was the quiet between the two of you, the feeling of his breath on your skin, and the shared silence that told you everything you needed to know.

The kiss was the beginning. It ignited something between you. 

Ronin's lips still tasted of you, lingering in the cool air between you both as you stood there, bodies close but not quite touching. Your heart beat strongly in your chest, a steady rhythm that pulsed beneath the heavy silence. The weight of your lost boyfriend still sat on your shoulders, heavy like a stone you had carried for far too long. But now, there was something else. Something warm, new and undeniable was there, like the dawn breaking through the darkness.

You didn't know how it had happened, but you knew when you had crossed that line from mourning to moving on. And you could feel it now. Ronin is not a replacement, he is not a shadow of what you have lost. He was his own person, a force to be reckoned with, raw and real. The love you had for your late boyfriend still lingered, like the scent of old roses. But it wasn't the same kind of love anymore.

The quietness was a stark contrast to the pain of loss, but it was not overwhelming. It wasn't suffocating you, not like it once was. You could still see your late boyfriend in the corners of your mind and hear his voice in the back of your thoughts, but now it was distant and faded. A memory you can revisit, but not live in forever. You had been carrying that grief, that love, as if it was a burden. Now, with Ronin, you could set it down gently, just for a moment, and let it breathe. Breathe.

Ronin's eyes were fixed on you, searching, as if he too had felt the shift between you. His fingers twitched, a subtle movement as if he was waiting for you to speak. But there was nothing to say, not yet. You had to get the words out, but they were still tangled in your throat, wrapped around the pain of the past and the warmth of what you felt now. No words were needed, not now. The moment between you two stretched on, infinite in its quiet understanding.

You loved him. You felt it deep in your bones: this strange new love blossoming in the wake of the past. Ronin was not just a replacement. He was not something to fill the space that had once been occupied by your late boyfriend. He was more than just a replacement. He was something entirely new, a person you could breathe with, a person you could grow into. You still loved your late boyfriend, but you were ready to move on. It was a gentler, more transient feeling, like a memory you can touch but not hold onto forever.

Ronin was someone you could love. He was chaotic and calm, contradictory and passionate. In that quiet moment, you realised you had already begun. You had already allowed him in. Slowly but surely. The space in your heart that had once been filled with grief had, over time, made room for something else. Something living. Something was here with you in this moment, not a ghost but a presence.

The kiss was the first step. It was the breaking of something, the opening of a door that had been locked for far too long. But now, it was more than just a kiss. This was the start of something new. It wasn't about erasing the past; it was about building on it. Like roots stretching into the earth, reaching for something that will nourish you and heal you.

As you stood there with Ronin, you felt the world opening up to you, full of possibilities you'd not believed in for a long time. The pain was still there, but it didn't control you. It does not define you. It was just a part of you, and you could sit with it next to the love you were beginning to feel for him, for Ronin, without it drowning you.

You didn't need to replace or force love. It wasn't something to be filled; it was a space to grow, stretch and bend. And now, with Ronin, you can let it stretch. You can let it fill you up again, but in a way that doesn't erase the past. It will make room for the future. Ronin was not a ghost. He was not a shadow. He was real. He was here.

[hickeysgodcomplex]

Get to Know Me ( Tag Game )

Rules: answer + tag 9 people you want to get to know better and/or catch up with

Tagged by: @sthound thanks friend!!! 👋🏻👋🏻

Favorite Color -> orange

Last Song -> Hey Jealousy by Gin Blossoms

Currently Reading -> reading is a loose term here but I'm currently stuck in the middle of the third GoT book. I've kinda stalled. I love them but yeesh.

Currently Watching -> since i went to see deadpool and wolverine ive been watching anything with ryan reynolds. Literally currently watching Starship Troopers.

Currently Craving -> affection 🤣😅

Coffee or Tea -> typically neither. But i can do Chai Tea if its iced. And i do love it with pumpkin in the fall.

A hobby you would like to try -> woodworking

An AU you're working on/thought of -> i have a steddie idea about them having nightmares and the party having sleep overs and Eddie sneaking into Steve's sleeping bag/under his blanket to comfort him so he doesn't wake the kids. All of it inspired by this gif i saw years ago from the movie pride. ⬇️⬇️⬇️ they end up like that one night when Steve wakes up already wrapped up by eddie. 🥺😌

No Pressure Tags! -> @frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe @freckledjoes @friendly-jester @steddie-island @scoops-aboy86 @sidekick-hero @hotluncheddie @imsodonewiththissite @the-not-so-silent-back-up @jozstankovich

[asifyoucouldoutreadme]

Chapter 28: Fishes is up on AO3! It’s loosely inspired by The Bear episode of the same name - IYKYK

The Empress of all Maladies by AsIFYouCouldOutReadMe on AO3

THE STATS: Explicit, dual POV, 93,099 word WIP - posts every 7-10 days

THE GIST: The one with a dying Death Eater Draco who blackmails Hermione (fresh from 5 years w/o magic in witness protection) into soul bonding with him to heal damage from dark magic.

FEATURING: Forced soul bonding, sentient magic, Mad Scientist Theo & Spymaster Blaise Zabini, more morally-gray characters than you can shake a stick at, Crookshanks, experimental magic, blood rites, Death Eater political intrigue, and a proper slow SLOW burn E2L.

THE VIBES: Gothic horror wartime AU roughly inspired by Frankenstein/Bride of Frankenstein and Jane Eyre.

[starlightkun]

are you more of a plotter or pantser when you write?

ngl i did have to look this up, and i suppose im a bit of both? like, when i say i have a scene planned out, or that i have x words of planning, or that i have an outline, idk what other writers' planning/outlines look like (aside from the outlines they made us use in elememtary school you know). my word docs for a story always reserve the top part for "planning/outlining" then i have a divider, and under that is where the prose of the story actually starts. when i count word counts of drafts, i only count what's actually written in that second part, from beginning then through the scenes chronologically.

i usually don't start writing a fic until i have not only a solid idea, but also a general concept of the plot (though as my recent posts allude, i tend to have difficulties wrapping it up after the climax). sometimes a scene comes to me first and i have to then build the rest of the au and plot around that scene, but i usually don't start writing what i consider to be in that "prose" section until i have some grasp on the overall fic.

and my "planning/outlining" section usually looks like this:

- x au, a!neo, b!reader, (ft. any important side character)

- if it's majorly involved au like frankenstein complex or strawberry sunday, i'll make a short character list. like in strawbsunday it looked like:

Human!Johnny [roommates w MK]

Fairy!Jungwoo [roommates w TI, DY] ; Vampire!Jaehyun [roommates w TY]

Witch!Doyoung [roommates w TI, JW]

and so on. that one also went in descending height order (members who are officially the same height were next to each other in the list, like jaewoo), bc for a time at the beginning, i was playing with having their height be affected by their species, but that ended up not mattering in the end. i also had so many characters who were roommates bc it was a college au that i needed to be able to remember who lived with who after a while, so that went in the list too.

- then a brief paragraph describing the major story beats

- The Scene that made me get inspired to write it, if there is one, usually all dialogue written in a big block of text like this: "Abcd ef ghijk lmn opqr st uv." YN "Wxy zabcde fg hij klm nopqr st uvw." NEO "Xyz?" YN "Xyz. Abcd, efg hijk lmnopqr. Stuv!" NEO

- more scenes, only dialogue like above

- more scenes, only dialogue like above

so that's how my "planning/outlining" can be 8k+, it's my "sketches" of upcoming scenes that i haven't gotten to yet in the "prose" portion. and while im writing, i'll usually get ideas for upcoming scenes, and add their "sketches" to my planning area at the top. sometimes i don't always know exactly how all the little pieces will fit in, and kind of have to assemble them into a little frankendraft by the end. and sometimes i find that little snippets of dialogue that i thought would be perfect ended up not fitting anywhere, or had to be minorly/majorly modified.

i often go into unexpected places, and find out a lot about my characters while i write! i have my loose outline and im flexible with it if i find that the story is headed in a different direction as i go (like, for example, in changer, i was originally imagining sungchan asking reader out at the end of the valentine's day event at the boba shop and have it be more of a second chances things, but as i wrote it i realized that my werewolf sungchan was too much of a loserboy to do that and it wouldve felt a bit forced imo)

[limefroot]

Wasn't sure if I was going to revisit this design so I decided to slap a background on it and call it done for now.

A Frankenstein/beetle juice inspired Hunter who isn't technically Hunter. He does have some loose lore and a few more designs in mind since one thing I missed from the show was more clone shenanigans. Also kicking around some thumbnails for Luz based on Lydia deeds from the cartoon and one idea for Willow I feel is really strong! Loose lore ideas for not Hunter and the au under the cut!

For this au I wanted to swap out a lot of the magic for more mad science, Halloweeny nonsense. It's set slight further back in the timeline of the Boiling Isles but not in the timeline of the human realm. Philip hasn't taken over quite yet but is highly regarded as a head scientist. This Hunter isn't actually Hunter and goes by Jasper because grimwalkers aren't quite a thing yet! Instead they are a theoretical creation, a perfect rebirth of a person using a philosopher's stone instead of a galdorstone. I'm keeping the bone of ortet for now. Belos tried and was unsuccessful in raising a grimwalker, the bodies simple wouldn't wake, but in the meantime a less ethical experiment from the medical coven was yielded interesting results... The bodies provided useful tissue samples.

An unfortunate accident would see his one and only son, Jasper Wittebane struck and killed by a run away carriage. He would be pronounced dead at the scene, and alive and talking with the doctors the next morning. Rumor has it Belos gave himself no time to mourn, jumping into resurrecting his son right away, knowing that the brain and memories of a person could only keep so long. One could argue Jasper's is a few centuries past it's expiration date in places.

Jasper doesn't remember much from before the accident and doesn't understand why his father is so insistent on keeping him out of the lime light, but Belos tells him stories and shows him pictures of who he used to be making him feel guilty for not recognizing the boy in the picture. Belos on the other hand keeps him around to wheel out in front of the reporters from time to time, having gained quite a reputation as the man who conquered Death, and doesn't want Jasper loose since he's become noticeably more chatty.

News of Jasper's Resurrection has been nothing but positive, with Belos able to put an even better spin on Jasper's "borrowed", bits by claiming they were "ethically sourced."

Fun facts (aka stuff that is not super relevant and might be subjective to more changes.)

Jasper's head can come off!!! The bolt in his neck tightens the metal wire holding his head on. If it becomes too loose his head could fall off! (He's fine tho. Eda logic.)

I might make the zipper an actual part of him! Give him a zipper for increased angst.

He can't used magic since neither half has a bile sack, however he is ambidextrous and was able to draw something resembling the runes Luz would later use soon after awakening. The doctors dismissed his drawings as his brain recovering from the accident. Debating making him see ghosts and stuff because of the borrowed brain bits, causing him to has a natural distrust of Belos.

He might not be the only one! I came up with another good starter design but it was too different to believably be the same person so Belos may figure out that grimwalker problem eventually...

He might be a student at Hexside, but one with a reputation for sporadic attendance.

It's hard to tell but he has little fangs!

[pagesnotebook]

I need everyone to know just how insane I am about the Horizon games.

1) I bought a PS4 just so I could play Zero Dawn and Forbidden West. Nothing else. No other games. I’m good, thanks.

2) I spent over an hour geeking out over the world building in Horizon- specifically, the tribes and how fascinating and unique they each are, the way their cultures and clothing is informed by where they live (and then that took me onto a tangent about the Picts, who are very cool and work as great inspiration for Number 3).

3) Thinking up ideas about new tribes- what is there religion (if any) like? What relationship do they have with the Old Ones? Where do they live and how has that informed their culture? (I am a big fan of world building, y’all).

4) Even before I started playing Horizon: Zero Dawn, I was brainstorming ideas about how a ttrpg based on Horizon would work. There are some people who are also investigating this idea, and I honestly think that’s awesome. Also…

5) Purchased all of Modiphius’ Dreams and Machines ttrpg books because

a) It looks cool as fuck (although I will agree with other reviewers in that it is strangely aimed at quite young people and a little childish in some of its presentation (specifically, the “characters within the world annotating the book” sections)).

b) I like the easy style of the Starter Set (literally open the box and just start playing. I also like the use of cards to create your character).

c) Just from loose skimming, it looks like it would be pretty easy to re-skin as Horizon (although it is practically guaranteed that I’m going to mess about and Frankenstein the system a bit).

6) I am planning on running a Horizon mini-campaign for my parents using the Dreams and Machines system (they do not know much of Horizon except that the graphics are exceptional, I am madly in love with the games and anything I have gushed about to them. Unfortunately, I live with them currently, so they are my Guinea pigs. Alas).

7) So many AUs in my head. So many. Will I write them? Who knows. Least of all me.

If I could, I would spend my whole day playing these games. As it is, I manage about an average 2 hours a day (note: I am not a gamer. Horizon is literally the first non-Pokemon Nintendo game I have ever played).

Am I playing on Easy Mode? Yes. I want to explore and not frustrate myself and burn out my excitement of these games. Also, hand tremors and a processing disorder suck.

Have I only just started Forbidden West? Yes, and I am having the time of my life running around the Daunt ignoring the main plot for now. Although I am excited to go see Erend again soon. (Also, I am crying inside at not getting to spend more time in Meridian).

Will I be posting a lot of random things about Horizon? Probably. But I am notorious for not posting original stuff, so at least a lot of reblogs.

[hongssami]

SKZ (literal) Fic Exchange Collab Call

» Welcome to Mai's Writing Camp! Loosely inspired by Dr. Frankenstein's monster (and in extension, Stray Kids' Oddinary era), this fic exchange collab requires participants to add on each others' works in progress to create a mutated chimera-monster of a fic for everyone! Collab details are under the cut! «

» How does it work? «

Each writer/participant will start off with their own wips or prompt ideas, depending on what they would like to share with the others in the collab. Essentially, you will have a general plot for your fic, a setting (if you are particular about that, e.g. post-apocalypse, college au, reincarnation au, etc.), and however long or short you would like to write the intro or beginning. (This is just to let others know what kind of feel you are going for, it's your fic after all!)

Your wip will have to be on Google Docs for easy access and editing for the assigned participants; simultaneously, another writer's wip (via Google Docs link) will be assigned to you for 3 days before a reassignment/switching will be done again.

Everyone will get the chance to add on to each others' wips until your own wip will circle back to you. From then on, you get to decide if you want to keep it and publish your monster fic as it is or tweak it here and there before posting!

Please note that participants are not to finish each other's wips, but only to add on.

» How to Join «

1. Reblog to spread the word! 2. If you are joining without a prior wip, a prompt list will be given to you in the form below. 3. Fill out this form until June 5, 2022; 12 PM KST. 4. Ready your wip in a Google Doc to submit here before the start of the event. Late submissions will not be accepted. (Please allow viewing before you submit) 5. Event will officially start at June 5 and fics will be exchanged by then as well. (may be subject to change based on available participants)

» Rules «

1. Anyone can join, however this collab is entirely SFW and all participants are only allowed to join with SFW wips (suggestive at most). 2. You are given 3 days to add on to your co-writer's wip, please make the most out of it! 3. Respect the warnings/triggers on each wip and don't be afraid to reach out to the wip's author if they allow. 4. After the 3 days, please refrain from viewing (and especially editing) the previous wip assigned to you. 5. Participants are encouraged to check their own wip link to ensure only one co-writer is editing per 3 days. 6. Once your wip returns to you, you are free to remove your Google Doc link in the drive and publish or edit it as much as you like!

Happy writing!

[helenazbmrskai]

Puppet Master: KTH (M)

note. It’s a dark fic so make sure to read the warnings before you proceed! I’ve been experimenting with different concepts but I’m aware it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Please remember that this is fiction!

Pairing – puppet master! reader x taehyung;

Genre – mystery, smut, gore, middle ages, supernatural, (flower shop au);

Summary – (Taehyung’s death shook the town to the core, squeezing everyone’s heart but the townspeople had no idea of the scattered pieces the news left your heart.);

Warnings – gore, main and minor character death (but he’s not dead for long), mind control (?) kind of, digging up corpses, kinda crazy scientist vibes, very loosely inspired by Frankenstein, unfulfilled love, grieving, unhealthy obsession of a deceased person, smut, sloppy kisses, fingering, the reader having sex for the first time, oral (m), unprotected sex, crying during sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, sub-y taehyung, dom taehyung, creampie;

Word Count – (4k);

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Your father was a cast out. He had a fascination with the dead, he used to stay up late he always filled notebooks with his writing, the number of the pages only grew as he documented his experiments. People sometimes knocked on the door but no one stayed for long, the purpose of their visit was to get your father to stop digging up the skeletons from the local cemetery.

”Dad, what does a freak means?” You asked him once after you overheard two older males whispering into each other’s ears in town on your daily stock run. From a young girl’s perspective, you never realised the glances you got from the people. Ever since your mother left you and your dad for another man you took care of the household. Always making sure your father got his filling breakfast before he retired to his study and kept an eye on your family savings. It wasn’t easy to find a job at your age but the old couple who owned a cosy flower shop in your town took pity on you and taught you how to care for their garden and often paid you to pick weeds and water the vegetables.

Your question deepened the creases on his forehead, it made you regret mentioning it but he wasn’t angry, no, he looked sad. Your father beckoned you to sit on his lap and simply answered. ”It means that you’re special.” You often thought about what falls under that category.

On the day you reached your 16th birthday you had to bury your father. No one came to the funeral just you and the priest were the ones who sent him away for his long journey to the other side, heaven or hell you don’t have the knowledge of the choice. He left you his research and shelves of books about the human anatomy. They hid detailed pictures displaying parts of the human body that was forbidden to talk about. You spent the daylight working and the concealing darkness of the night to flip through the pages of your father’s handwritten notes speaking to no one about your discoveries.

Despite your father’s words you never felt special in your life. In a traditional sense, you should have been already wedded and bearing children by the time you reached your 18th birthday but the boys around you were never interested. They went for the rosy cheeks and soft-spoken words.

There was only one person who listened to your stories with stars in his eyes and slotted his feverish lips against your inexperienced ones. Teeth and tongue but oh so sweet. You remember him like it was yesterday that he offered you his greetings. Later he offered you more than just his name. Taehyung, your lover.

He informed you of his family’s migration to the house a few kilometres down the road, being far from town you were the only house nearby. He asked for directions and like a good host, you showed him the right path. You didn’t think much of the encounter at first, just like any other time it requires an encounter of a villager to later stay clear out of your way. It happened to all of your suitors before, you didn’t think this will be any different no matter if he showed mild interest, the heart can shift after a minute or so. You were not blind to the townspeople’s accusations. Your father is 6 feet under the dirt, nothing left of him but clothes and bones but his life shadows you.

The old couple grew fond of you throughout the years, they gifted you their flower shop before they died in their sleep due to old age. To thank their kindness you bring to their graves a fresh bouquet at the end of the week. People were reluctant to accept the change but considering the lack of an alternative, they do buy their bouquets from you. Some call it irony. Your father’s past time was to dig up corpses while you sell flowers to their graves. Life is indeed, full of surprises.

The next surprise was the boy who crossed your threshold, you recognised him immediately from the other day. His beauty is unmatched by anything you laid your eyes on. From his curly ebony hair to his elegant style, everything was perfect on him. He was perfect.

”Welcome. What can I do for you?” You didn’t think you will see him again this soon. The smile that brightened up his face is the same from the afternoon he kissed your hand and revealed his birth name to you. Oddly enough while you were laying on your bed that night you thought of the way his mouth curved around each syllable. Your lower region stirred for the first time without you have to force it, unspeakable images filling your head as you recalled the shape of his mouth. It’s not normal for you to blush simply from a charming smile.

”I was exploring your beautiful town when I caught a glimpse of your petite form and I wanted to say hi.” Hiding the evidence of your flustered complex you arrange the roses in the vase, the new flowers that arrived in the morning are still waiting for their arrangements. Cemetery season is up ahead. This time of the year you get a lot of commissioned flower arrangements from the townfolks.

”The town is nothing near mine. I’m merely a girl who sell flowers.” Your attempts at shutting down the conversation appear to be futile. The young man is determined and cunning, waltzing around words.

”Please excuse me if I’m being too straightforward but would you like to accompany me to the dance tomorrow?”

He is straightforward, alright. Eyes wide in surprise your expression softens after catching his restless fingers curling behind his torso. His offer is sweet but his infatuation with you cannot be anything but short-lived in the end. Letting him down easy you give him a courtesy smile, tight-lipped.

”Unfortunate that I had to decline your offer kind Sir. These kinds of events are not made for me.”

He’s disappointed at your refusal but accepts it with a nod. You thought that will be the last time you saw Kim Taehyung.

There’s a storm outside preventing you from getting a ride back home as all the carriages seek shelter from the weather. You closed the shop half an hour ago but the rain doesn’t seem to stop anytime soon.

”Miss Y/N. Can I offer you a ride home?” That boxy grin is unmistakable and he’s elegant as ever. Even before he rolled down the window you could tell who it was. The people in town can’t afford a vehicle like this.

”I’m alright. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.” After he insists that he cannot let a young woman stay in a weather like that without a shelter if he can help it, you agree to get into his car. He reassures you that your home is in the same direction, it will not cost him much of a detour. Taehyung fills the void by asking about your day and you don’t have a reason not to answer. You realise that he’s a pleasant person to converse with once you’re a willing participant, you learn about him as well. Deflowering the fact that he’s the current duke and duchess’ only son, the future holder of that title. Their reason to move into your little no-name town was to get away from the city’s luxurious and buzzing life. The Duchess is pregnant with a baby and the doctor advised a more reserved environment for the sake of the child’s healthy development.  

The rain gets heavier, loudly banging on the metal roof of the car blurring the treelines until it’s unsafe for further travel. Taehyung’s forced to pull over but the conversation continues. You don’t remember who crave in first but the thought lost its significance as his lips met yours. The kiss ended as soon as it started, you pulled away and like the real gentleman Taehyung is, he apologised for taking advantage of your kindness. Shy but determined to get your feelings across you grabbed his right hand and cradled it to your chest, watching as red taints his ears.

”Don’t apologise. It’s just that I’ve never been with a man before.” Understanding your hesitance Taehyung nods, asking for permission to kiss you again and you grant it. This time you press against his plump lips with greater force that knocks the air out of your lungs. Taehyung is patient, he waits till you’re ready to explore. His fingers are gentle when he angles your face to get deeper, pulling your jaw with his thumb finger to part your lips and let his tongue lick into your mouth. It’s messy and uncoordinated there’s a string of saliva connecting your lips when they part but you don’t have time to feel embarrassed about your inexperience when Taehyung kisses down your neck. You heard of stories from passing that sex is addicting once you get a taste. The space in Taehyung’s car is cramped you could barely tilt your spine until you’re flush against the seat but the man in front of you is hungry. Impatient fingers are crumpling your dress until the material is around your waist exposing your panties to the cold air. Long digits caressing your folds watching your expression turn into a blissful one.

”Gods, you’re sensitive.” Taehyung grunts slipping a finger under the damp material of your underwear to feel your bare skin. There’s a slick noise as he parts your pussy lips searching for the little protrusion that will make you mewl. He finds the swollen nub easily, coating it with the slick that oozes out of your hole he draws attentive circles around the sensitive area, pinching it between his index and middle finger that forces your hips to buck into his intruding hands.

Taehyung continues to give his attention to your clit but your hole impatiently clenches around nothing, your body knows better what she needs before you could voice your desires out. Taehyung knows too as he sinks his forefinger into your core, the intrusion makes you tense up but you melt against his lips as they provide you with a sweet distraction. At the same time, Taehyung slips his tongue into your mouth his finger moves in and out of your virgin pussy, slowly but reaching deeper each time he pushes it in. He keeps his movements slow until you get familiar with the stretch. He doesn’t want to scare you with a second finger yet.

His cock is throbbing inside his pants, Taehyung wants to lift you by your hips and pull you on his cock but he’s thinking further ahead, thinking of far more important matters than just the desire to have you split open by his massive length. He needs to make this encounter pleasant enough that you would want to do this again with him. Taehyung is an unmarried man, it’s hard to find a beautiful young lady like yourself who’s not bound by a man. With you, there’s no danger of possible infidelity standing in the way of your fun, he had his fair share of angry men back in the city demanding his head for tainting their wives purity. From the first time he laid his eyes on you Taehyung knew you would be the perfect girl to soothe his desires and the townspeople confirmed his suspicions that you’re an outcast. Perfect as no one will question his intentions.

You’re more prepared this time to receive his second finger push through your folds, you relax faster and Taehyung is able to reach the speed he desires as he pumps the digits in and out, your walls clamping down on his fingers every time he withdraws. Your arousal runs down his fingers when the sticky warm liquid reaches the inner side of his palm Taehyung deems your pussy is stretched out and lubricated enough for him to penetrate. The warm air around you fogged up the windows, your hazy mind couldn’t tell if it’s still raining or not as Taehyung guided your body to straddle his hips, the only position that he can do with you considering the limited space inside his car.

”I’ll be gentle, I promise.” Taehyung kisses your nose affectionately, calming your wildly beating heart. Nothing could prepare you for the pain when he eases his length inside you but you silently bear it. Taking deep breaths as Taehyung tosses his head back in pleasure feeling your tight virgin walls after the forced abstinence he had to endure. He guides your hips, aware that your arousal is mixed slightly with blood, apparently, he didn’t prepare you well like he thought he did. He asks if you’re ok, stilling until he gets your verbal consent to continue the slow rocks of his hips. You��re so pretty sitting on his cock, taking his gritty length without a complaint.

Focusing on Taehyung’s beautiful face you find pleasure in his bliss. The pain ebbed into a dull ache, left unsatisfied while he released his load inside of you. Aware of the risk that he could get you pregnant. Taehyung curses when he realises his mistake, in the middle of him chasing his end he forgot about pulling out but he hides the grimace under a smile caressing your heated cheeks, telling you how good you felt.

It becomes a reoccurring thing between the two of you. He starts driving you home once you finish at the flower shop after that rainy day, taking advantage of you living alone to take you in your bed.

Your affair continues until news travel around the small town that Taehyung is getting married. You don’t want to believe in that nonsense until you question the man and he confirms that his parents found a suitable partner for him, a convenience of marriage was always the plan. You were just foolish to not see it coming so soon. He tries to comfort you, feeding you lies that this thing you two have going on can continue even after he becomes a married man. The next time he shows up at the shop you send him away. Your heart is broken and the worst thing about it is that you could only blame yourself for falling for his act.

It’s a continuation of unfortunate events that his fiance finds Kim Taehyung dead on the morning before the wedding. It’s been months since you last saw him and now he’s pale and lying lifeless inside a casket, you arranged the flowers that his fiance places on top of the freshly dug ground.

You’re restless throughout the night. You heard that it was a robbery gone wrong. His father was on a trip to the city with his wife to the doctors when the break-in happened only heard about the news after the successful labour of their second child, another boy. Kim Taehyung broke your heart but the pain you felt cannot measure to the absence he left behind now that you know he’s gone.

You promised at your late father’s grave that you won’t continue his research, that you’ll live a normal life after his death but Taehyung was so young. He would have so many years up ahead. He never got to experience the cry of his firstborn child, the bells going off on his wedding day.

The shovel is heavy in your hands, it’s raining again that reminds you of the first night you spent with him, making love to each other in his car, the first and last time he came inside of you. It’s easy to dig him up the soil is still soft as it’s fresh. Dragging him into your home is what appears to be challenging, it takes a lot of effort, sweat and tears and an abandoned carriage to finally secure his body into your bathtub. To get rid of the smell of rotting flesh you bathe him in rose water. Muddy water flows down the drain, leaves from the cemetery trees are getting caught by the bottom of the tub. You comb his hair and change his clothes, opening your father’s research next to his lifeless head you prepare to do everything it takes for him to open his eyes again.

There’s something sinister running through your family’s bloodline. No wonder your mother left you and your father to tend to yourselves. For the first time in your life, you realise what they meant by calling you a freak but for Kim Taehyung you would do far more that would earn you the title of a monster and you would do it gladly if it means he’ll come back to you. Kim Taehyung will be yours now, only yours. No one can take him away from you. You let him go once but this time he’ll be your side until your death due you apart, not even his own death could separate you from him. Carding your fingers through his fading hair gently, you wait. You don’t remember when your eyes closed on their own accord as the clock struck midnight but he’s awake once you regain your consciousness. It's daytime and Taehyung is alive.

”Taehyung!” Tossing away the honorifics, you cup his face with your fingers gentle not to cause any damage to the skin. It doesn’t matter who he was before you, he’s no longer the duke’s son with a fiance waiting for him at the altar, right from the moment he opened his dead eyes, he’s your Taehyung.

The man who rose from the dead watches the woman in front of him cry happy tears, it stirs something in his stomach but his mind is under a thick fog that doesn’t seem to clear no matter how much he tries. His motor skills are developing again after the deterioration, muscles are weak and shaky as he places a hand over yours still holding his face. His skin is a lot paler than yours and there’s dirt under his fingernails.

You help him up, changing him out of his dirty clothes before you guide him to lay down on your bed. It’s hard for him to be awake for more than a couple of minutes at first, his body is getting used to working again, his beating heart is an illusion but you let yourself believe that he’s alive it’s easy to forget the fact he died once after he gets better and acts more human. It takes him a couple of months but he’s gaining back his weight and his sounds from grunts turn to actual words and sentences with your daily lessons to learn the alphabet and write.

You often read a book to him as a bedtime story it helps him sleep at night when nightmares used to keep him awake. He dreams of the attack, figments of his memory slowly seeping back to his mind, the fog thins around his brain as he regains himself more and more over time. You’re afraid of how it will affect his current self if he fully remembers his past but there’s nothing you could do besides staying by his side. You let him cry into your shoulder clinging to your form like a lifeline after he dreams of the day he was brutally murdered in his home, you soak up his tears with your blouse and caress his sweaty back until his breathing slows down to reach a dreamless slumber. After a while he starts smiling more, helping you around the garden behind the house where no eyes can reach you two. You let him out if you’re home but you can’t risk the others discover him so you keep him locked while you leave for work each morning. You’re no longer open every day as you spend more time with Taehyung rather than in the shop. No one really uses the road next to the main route as there’s nothing else just your humble home that way and people normally stay clear of your way. However, you like to be better safe than sorry. Taehyung is obedient but nothing like the cheerful man you fell in love with. You know technically it’s him but after he was resurrected by you he began developing a different personality. He got more dependent on you. When you’re away he waits for your return, he never leaves your side until you leave the house every other day to go to work. You asked him about his memories but he told you it hurts to remember so he tries not to. Over time his body started changing adapting more to his current state, he gained his weight back by eating and blood started to circulate in his veins.

Taehyung was an active man in his life, he visited you frequently to get his dick wet and as he got better each day his other needs came to the surface as well. It has been a while since you indulged in your desires so wrapped up to make sure Taehyung developed well that you neglected your other needs. Your mind wandered back to the rainy day when Taehyung offered to drop you off at your house but it led to you giving yourself over to the man who only played with your feelings. It's ironic how the tables have turned. You’re not the one who’s played while you might be on your knees, this time the control is yours, and yours alone.

Taehyung grips the bedcovers till the fabric tears whilst you take his member down your throat. Helplessly whimpering your name once you lick over the tip, rhythmically bobbing your head inflicting numbing pleasure on him that makes his toes curl. His body is adjusting to the familiar feeling building in his abdomen, his mind recognises the act while his body is shivering with the new sensation. You cruelly take his cock all the way down till your nose reaches his stomach even when he pleads you to stop you keep swallowing, fat teardrops are streaming down his face while he cums in your mouth. You don’t stop there until you force a dry but equally as powerful orgasm out of his body. His cock is throbbing, red and wet from your saliva when you pull away with a pop. Taehyung lets you kiss him deeply, messy and uncoordinated like before just like he taught you but neither of you cares as you invite his tongue to a sensual dance, open-mouthed and sloppy. You don’t listen when he tells you it hurts to have his cock played with. He doesn’t remember the times when he had you bent over your dining table fucking you from behind until your cum pooled around your feet dripping down your legs from taking his mouth and fingers before he thrust his big cock into your used pussy fucking you for hours to the brink of passing out but he didn’t stop once to wipe your tears as you do. You kiss his tear-stained cheeks positioning his half hard length to rest against your opening. Despite him telling you no between hiccups Taehyung rolls his hips, desperately fucking up into you from the position under you, the pain soon turning to pleasure.

You smile when he cums deep inside your swollen pussy. To show him your appreciation you prepare him a bath and pamper him with kisses and soft caresses on his cheeks, kissing his eyelids once he drapes his arms around your torso to let exhaustion lull him into a deep sleep, dreaming about you.

”I love you.” You whisper the words into his hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo pulling his unconscious body closer to your body heat.

[bansheeoftheforest]

Yet another au has ascended upon mine braincells like God throwing rocks at me. Which is a perfect segue because this au is heavily religious *finger guns*

This au was inspired by a horror movie I watched a few days ago (against my will, mind you). It was Ouija: rise of evil but this au is very very very very loosely based on that au. Now with that out of the way, lets begin!

Welcome to the Demon AU! A demon au... With a twist 👀

TW: Heavy religious themes, self destruction, possession, demons, slight mentions of self harm. 

This au has a handful of branches that don’t really greatly impact the story, and considering the fact that this is the first au post I've made in two months, this might be messy so bear with me!

To start off: Jekyll gets possessed by a demon as a child. Perhaps it was his friends playing Ouija games or doing seances, perhaps it was just an unfortunate child being manipulated by a demon from hell, perhaps it was the unfortune to have a reckless or naive seer as a mother, but he gets possessed and violent, demonic.  A branch of this involves Henry killing his parents before getting exorcised, for example, however he does get exorcised by a priest who gives him a specific cross to prevent him from being possessed again, as the demon now will follow Henry for any and all chances to possess him again, or until Henry dies so it can steal his life force. In the branch where Henry kills his parents, he is sent off to a specific “catholic school” where he and the demon are metaphorically beaten into submission by the priests, beating it into Henry’s head that if he “doesn’t accept god” or wear crosses, the demon will kill him, starting Henry’s paranoia. The more “Main-ish” branch of this au includes Henry’s mother being some sort of seer who accidentally got Henry possessed, but Henry didn’t kill his parents, got exorcised, and could barely remember any of the actual possession more than to never ever take his cross off.

Later, he moves to London and tries to have a normal life. He doesn’t display his religiousness but the hints of it is always there. He meets Lanyon, and the plot follows TGS up until “the modern day”. From here on we get two new main branches:

A) At some point, curious Lodgers begin to poke through Maijabi’s stuff until they find ouija boards/other things to summon spirits and demons with. The demon pose as the spirit of a shy but friendly child to win over the Lodgers who doesn’t know better, and manipulates them into helping it. The Lodgers, noticing that the “spirit” is more interested in Henry than any of them, invite Henry to partake in a seance with the spirit. Henry refuses at first, but perhaps the Lodgers trick him into partaking in the seance, Henry gives in to peer pressure, or he just doesn’t think it’s that big of a deal. In the seance however, Henry gets freaked out sooner or later and disrespects the rules of the seance. The lodgers try to stop him from leaving the circle and grabs ahold on the first thing they get their hands on- his cross, tearing the chain. Without the cross on him, Henry gets possessed by the demon. Henry being possessed by the demon can become the Murder “mystery” au where he goes on a killing spree, for example.

B)  After the stress with a new Lodger joining, Moreau attacking, Frankenstein causing havoc, and everything else going on, Henry cracks under the pressure and the demon takes advantage of it. He gets more haunted, he gets nightmares, the demon tries to tempt and manipulate him by taking the form of people he loves to trick him into taking his holy regalia off (shaming him, “seducing him” into taking it off, etc). Henry doesn’t fall for it and wears more crosses and decorates his office and the society in more holy relics, refusing to let the demon win. It’s not until now that the Lodgers notice that Henry is... Becoming weird. Religiously paranoid, so to speak, and they start getting concerned for him. Henry, constantly seeing the demon taking the form of the Lodgers, doesn’t trust anyone anymore in fear that they would be the demon in disguise, especially when they question him about his religious artifacts. It goes to the point where Henry slowly lose his grip around himself, becomes insane and unhinged. He becomes obsessed and paranoid, using his relics to hurt himself in hope that it will somehow keep the demon away. Once the Lodgers confront him about it, they notice that Henry’s office either A) is practically perfect, nothing seeming out of place, but a scary amount of holy relics dotting the office, or B) his office is trashed, there is blood on the walls, and other general evidence that Henry has snapped and gone somewhat insane. When the Lodgers get to Henry himself, regardless of the state of his office, he is completely fine and dandy... Until the Lodgers question him, or try to take away his crosses. He fights them over it until his Main CrossTM is pulled off of him. For a moment, it looks like he gets pulled out of a trance... Until he is possessed again. Either the Lodgers manage to exorcise Henry... Or they have to flee from the demon with the help of the holy relics Henry hid around the society.

During the exorcises, there is the routes where Henry dies due to the exorcism tearing on his body but destroying the demon, leading to the ghost au. In most of the routes Henry survives them, though.

This is messy! And I have probably missed points bc i rambled about this on the discord server (SHAMELESS PLUG: THERE IS A LINK ON MY BLOG PAGE GO CHECK IT OUT)

Some trivia:

Sage/Clock anon suggested a summoner au crossover, where Henry gets dumped by his parents after getting possessed, and Dadritch and his cult takes Henry in. In this au branch, they also transform the demon into Hyde.

In the more extreme branches where Henry is incredibly religious, he becomes somewhat of a make-shift priest. Not an official one, but becomes the apprentice of the local priest to feel “extra safe”.

The demon being the dead spirit of a friend or relative of Henry’s who doesn’t realize that they are hurting Henry and the people around him.

Henry is open about being haunted by a demon, but Frankenstein, who describes Creature as a demon in the OG book, thinks that he made a Creature, too, since he was a Frankie Fanboy, and tries to guide him through corpse parenting.

[soysaucevictim]

[TSS] Fic/Art Masterlist

I suppose it’s due time I made one of these...

Mind the tags/descriptions/ratings!

Gymrat AU

Human / Slice of Life. The Sides workout at the same gym, with different histories and motivations to hit the mat. (Lots of platonic DLAMPR stuff to be expected here!)

Playlist - “Body Movin“ [ YouTube ]

[ Ao3 Series | Tumblr Tag ]

[ Master Post ]

iZombie AU

“Human” / Horror. You don’t need to be super familiar with the show to follow along! (Body horror heavy.)

Playlist - “He Who Fights Monsters“ [ Spotify | YouTube ]

[ Ao3 Series | Tumblr Tag ]

[ Master Post ]  

Begotten AU

“Human” / Cosmic Horror. Loosely referencing World of Darkness’s “Beast: The Primordial” setting. So, this got pretty weird... (Also Body Horror heavy.)

Playlists 

“A Tale of Twin Beasts“ (Book 1) [ Spotify ]

“Threat of The Pied Piper“ (Book 2) [ YouTube ]

[ Ao3 Series | Tumblr Tag ]

Writing

Book 1: “todo da vueltas como un carrusel” (Teen+) - [ Ao3 | Tumblr ] - Roman and Remus always had nightmares… but Roman never wanted to believe what they could really mean. (Roman and Remus centric)

Book 2: “it feels like my brain (was floating in a fishtank)” (Unrated) - [ Ao3 | Tumblr ] - Weirdness tends to follow supernatural creatures, creatures like Roman and Remus. Here, they meet kindred spirits… and very much otherwise. (Roman and Remus centric, still.)

Art

[More TBD and/or not highlighted...]

The Espinozas’ Pixel Busts - The Twins and their parents (Carrie & Vic).

Janus’s Brood Pixel Busts - Janus, Logan, Virgil and Patton

The Beasts’ Horrors - Remus, Roman, Janus, and Virgil

The Beasts’ Devourings - The Twins, Janus, and Virgil

Promethean AU

Body horror heavy. The Sides are constructs made from pieces of the dead, of whom either hold no souls or mere fragments thereof. (Inspired by “Promethean: The Created”, which was spun off of Shelley’s “Frankenstein”.)

Playlist - “forever i will live a lie“ [ YouTube ]

[ Ao3 Series | Tumblr Tag ]

Writing

"forever i will live a lie" (Unrated) - [ Ao3 ] - Affronts to nature can hide for only so long. Here lies a collection of stories about the consequences of existence as such.

Art

Full Photoset - Mind the following descriptions...

Roman - Galateid/Muse. (He looks like a mannequin.)

Logan - Osiran/Nepri. (Gore, missing leg.)

Remus - Frankenstein/Wretched. (Look like Frankenstein’s Monster. Potential eye strain from lightning/fire elements.)

Virgil - Tammuz/Golem. (Crystal growth, cracks on skin, parts “melting”.)

Janus - Hollow/Skeleton. (Bones visible, emaciated in appearance, lots of blood.)

Patton - Galateid/Muse. (Looks like a Ken doll. [Candy/Pastel] gore, he’s been stabbed and guts are visible.)

Canon / Adjacent

[Will add on request! Especially given I have a LOT of pages worth of posts for this fandom as it is... some tenuously related to tag. Take care there, since I do make horror art!]

[purplehoodiesimon]

Ahh yes it is such a good idea! Same, I like it when it can be a bit of both worlds! Ahh Wille doing the “prince lessons” love it! Also just having iconic scenes from the movie but with my comfort characters makes me feel a certain way. And if it’s a mix of both universes I wonder how it would change the story and make it grow into its own thing? Sadly my writing skills are very lacking but having this be a reality would make me cry. I would love to hear your thoughts too! 😊

Wille doing prince lessons is literally the entire reason I decided to post about it lol, I love the idea.

I will admit, I was thinking of basing it more on the books because I was so attached to them in middle school and the plot would basically taking the first 3 and skipping large sections of 4-8 and then finangling the last 2 around as I want. Given that the first movie is based on the first 3, I think it could work pretty well meshing movie and book canon with my own ideas into one giant Frankenstein "inspired by" story. I'll be going to the library after work to get them and make notes on what I want to keep from the books. I have no idea if I'll actually get around to writing this, I have so many WIPs (namely continuing iridescent rainbow, and then two drafts I'm currently working on about trans Simon and the lawyer AU) but yea, I really do want to see it this. Maybe I'll draw up a whole list of ideas after I make all my notes and throw it out into the void for someone else to write.

Also @grizviser mentioned on the other post that Simon should be Michael and yes! 100% agree. Michael is a musician, Simon is a musician, it works so perfectly. And I have some ideas about how his and Wille's relationship could develop, especially because I'm considering who would take Lilly's role in the story and what would work there. Currently I've kinda got Wille as Mia, Simon as Michael, Erik as Philippe, Kristina as Grandmere (book version), and maybe August being a twisted canon meshed up 'I'm doing my own thing now' version of Lilly, and same with Felice as Lana. Like "loosely based on but I'm doing my thing now" sorta deal.