﹠ ㅤ ﹙ ㅤto beat the villain you have to be the better villainㅤ ﹚
◜ •° ☥ 𝒔𝒕. 𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒐 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 [ . . . ] GIDEON MCGREGOR has been spotted in the streets of st. diablo . many say he is a HUMAN that arrived FIFTY -- TWO YEARS AGO . the 52 year old works as an OWNER OF LAST RITES in st. diablo . people say that they remind them of AN ARRAY OF NICKS , BRUISES & CALLUSES CROSS MUSCULATURE & YOUR BODY MAY AS WELL BE A TOPOGRAPHICAL MAP OF YOUR STORY ; EACH JAGGED , DISCOLORED MARK ( SOME LESS TRANSIENT THAN OTHERS ) A TALE ONLY SCOTCH CAN PRY FROM YOUR MAUDLIN MOUTH . A TENDENCY TO LATCH ON TOO TIGHTLY NOT FOR FEAR OF THE UKNOWN BUT BECAUSE YOU KNOW , BECAUSE YOU’RE AWARE , PAINFULLY AWARE ( BLISSFUL IGNORANCE HAS NEVER BEEN A LUXURY OF YOURS ) . FAMILY HEIRLOOMS DECORATING AN ANCIENT ESTATE THAT FEELS AS MUCH A MUSEUM AS A HOME .
𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 . gideon arthur mcgregor . 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 . cisgendered male . 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐒 . masculine , he / him / his . 𝐃𝐎𝐁 . april 23rd . 𝐙𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐂 . taurus . 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 . heteromantic , heterosexual . 𝐄𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 . high school graduate . 𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 . owner of last rites bar & grill . 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 . st. diablo , florida . 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 . intransigent , austere , intuitive , wry .
𝚈𝙾𝚄'𝚁𝙴 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙱𝙾𝚁𝙽 𝙰 𝚆𝙴𝙰𝙿𝙾𝙽 but you are raised as one . childish naivete malleable as soft clay ; you’re shaped & molded into a killer before you’re old enough to properly understand the weight of it . it’s a thrill to you --- a game . like an adrenaline junkie chasing a high . butterflies swirl each time dad loads the old pick up , presses a kiss to your mother’s temple with a soft goodbye & the promise to see her in a week’s time . it’s all fun & games & though there are some close calls ( you wear your battle scars with pride , touting them around & recounting each in embellished detail ) there are never any real repercussions .
you’re a boy on the cusp of manhood when the weight of what you’ve been doing sinks in . when it all becomes too real , too fast [ . . . ] A HUNT GONE WRONG ; you survive only because your father doesn’t . the weeks following your recovery are punctuated by a house that , lacking your father’s echoing footsteps & booming voice , feels too big , too silent . when the time comes you are the one to press a kiss to your mother’s brow without a promise to return . years are lost to grief & rage ; spent hunting one creature then the next til you become the ghost story whispered amongst monsters . it’s a woman ( isn’t that what it always comes down to ----- the love of a woman ? ) who at last tempers your anger , gives you the want to settle down .
try as you might you’re not the father yours was ; you’re harsh & overbearing even when you don’t mean to be & there’s anger still , simmering just below the surface . a hatred that’s hardened your heart now permanently etched into your being .
