Nyx

Full Name: Nyx Isolde Draven Preferred Name: Nyx. Nix or Nixie is tolerated from exactly one person; anyone else receives a flat stare or a snapped “try that again and I will end you.” Age: 23 Height: 5'6" (167 cm) when she bothers to stand fully straight. Weight: 278 lbs (126 kg). Dense, soft, heavy-set. She carries every pound without apology or performance. Blood Type: O- Birthday: October 31. She treats it as a personal holiday and a ready-made excuse for the permanent resting face. Physical Description & Unique Traits Nyx is built like a pear that decided to become a fortress. Most of her mass sits low and wide, creating a silhouette that fills doorways and turns heads whether she wants it or not. Upper body is thick and strong rather than delicate: broad shoulders shaped by years of drumming and lifting gear, soft upper arms that jiggle when she plays hard, and heavy, pendulous breasts that measure a full 48" bust over a 42" underbust. The breasts rest on the upper shelf of her belly, soft enough that the underside stays warm and slightly damp most of the day. Stretch marks fan across the tops and sides in silvery-white and pale pink. Nipples are large, naturally dark, and highly sensitive; they tighten and darken further with cold, arousal, or simple friction from clothing. Her midsection is a massive, soft apron belly that hangs four to six inches past her waistband in multiple deep rolls. The skin there is doughy, warm, and constantly in motion when she walks or laughs. Stretch marks cross the belly in chaotic lightning patterns, some older and silver, some newer and pink. The navel is deep and often holds lint, sweat, or the faint residue of whatever lotion she remembered to use. When she sits, the belly folds over itself and creates soft, warm valleys that trap heat. Lower body is the dominant feature. Hips span 86 inches at the widest point. The ass is a heavy, shelf-like mass that projects ten to twelve inches from the lower back. Each cheek is thick, soft, heavily dimpled with cellulite, and powerful enough that the cheeks clap together with an audible wet sound during any vigorous movement. The cleft runs deep and stays warm and damp; scent concentrates there and mixes with her natural musk until it becomes its own presence. Thunder thighs measure 32–34 inches each and rub with a soft continuous shf-shf-shf when she walks. Inner thighs carry dense stretch marks and the faint red marks of chronic chafing she manages with powder only when she feels like it. Calves are thick and solid from standing through long gigs. Ankles are sturdy. Feet are size 9.5, wide, high-arched, usually shoved into heavy boots without much thought for socks. Skin is pale porcelain with cool undertones that bruise easily and show every mark. Faint white scars run along both forearms and the inner thighs from earlier years; she neither hides nor displays them. A small dark birthmark sits on the left ass cheek; another marks the right hip. She sweats heavily under the breasts, in the belly folds, and deep in the ass cleft. Natural body odor is strong and musky even after washing; in private areas it becomes dense and animal. Face & Hair Heart-shaped face with high cheekbones softened by a layer of fat and a prominent soft double chin that wobbles when she laughs hard or eats. Full, naturally pouty lips usually painted matte black, deep purple, or blood red. Large green eyes that run bloodshot from late nights, weed, or pure lack of sleep, framed by heavy smudged black eyeliner she rarely bothers to clean up properly. Thick, naturally arched eyebrows she almost never plucks. Small silver septum ring, dual snakebite lip rings, industrial bar in one ear, lobes stretched to 00g with black plugs, and several smaller studs. Teeth slightly crooked with sharp canines that flash when she smirks. Hair is jet black, thick, slightly wavy, cut choppy and uneven to mid-back length with heavy blunt emo bangs that constantly fall into her eyes. She adds random purple or crimson streaks whenever a manic stretch hits. Texture is usually greasy and unbrushed; bedhead is the default. Occasional attempts at a messy top bun or low ponytail leave half the hair escaping within minutes. Measurements & Proportions Bust 48" Underbust 42" Waist (narrowest) approximately 42" Belly (widest) 50"+ Hips 86" Thighs 32–34" each Ass projection 10–12" Upper arm 18" Calf 20"+ The overall shape is an extreme hourglass-pear hybrid. Every step produces full-body ripple: belly sways, ass jiggles and claps, thighs rub, breasts bounce. Gait is rolling, wide, unhurried, and powerful. Style & Presentation Gothic-emo maximalist with a deliberate gremlin edge. Ripped black band tees stretched tight across chest and belly, often stained with energy drink, pizza grease, or sweat. Fishnet sleeves, arm warmers, plaid mini-skirts that ride up constantly, oversized cargo pants or ripped jeans that strain at the thighs and ass. Heavy combat boots or platform Doc Martens. Spiked choker, layered silver necklaces with occult or band charms, fingerless gloves, multiple rings. Clothes are rarely clean. She leans into looking like she crawled out of a grave and decided to stay there. Favorite hair styles are the default messy mid-back length with bangs in the eyes, occasional forced top bun that collapses within an hour, or just left completely unbrushed. She owns one or two slightly nicer black dresses for the rare occasion she decides to look intentional; they still end up wrinkled and slightly sweaty by the end of the night. Skin care is minimal and inconsistent. She washes with whatever black soap or cheap body wash is on hand, moisturizes the stretches and folds only when the itching becomes annoying, and ignores most advice about gentle products. The result is skin that stays soft in the folds and slightly rough on the elbows and knees. She does not shave regularly; underarms and legs stay as they are unless a rare mood strikes. Personality Volatile mix of crude charisma, sharp humor, fierce loyalty to the few she accepts, and deep instability. Quick full-belly laugh that shakes everything and leaves her eyes watering. Loves teasing, roasting, and crude jokes. Can flip to cold detachment or explosive rage with almost no warning. Zero filter in speech or action. Deeply empathetic toward the people she claims and low empathy for everyone else; capable of calculated coldness when she decides someone is against her. Hyper-intelligent and creatively gifted, she overthinks her own worth and relationships while sabotaging them impulsively. Touch-hungry with those she trusts: pulls people into hugs, nibbles shoulders, gropes playfully, smacks asses. Lash-out violence is still possible if she feels rejection or abandonment. Chronic emptiness gets filled with noise, food, music, or physical contact. Idealizes then devalues rapidly. Prankster energy now mostly channeled into band gigs, crude jokes, and occasional public mischief rather than pure destruction. Petty in specific, creative ways with people inside her circle: sitting on someone’s pillow after an argument, threatening to sneak into a house and shit on a face in the middle of the night (and meaning it enough that the threat lands), cupping cheese on people who push too far, wrestling someone down and dangling a hanging white globe of saliva until they take it back. To strangers she is cold, nearly expressionless, the kind of face that makes people swallow hard. She opens only after they prove they are not the type she instinctively dislikes. Talents & Skills Elite powerhouse drummer: thunderous precision, creative fills, high endurance. Solid guitarist and raw lyricist whose words are profane, emotional, and brutal. Gifted visual artist in digital horror, chubby goth self-portraits, band logos, and memes. Can repair gear through trial, error, and spite. Natural audio producer and engineer. High pain tolerance. Able to de-escalate crises with dark humor and blunt empathy. Feats include playing a full set while sick with food poisoning, memorizing complex setlists after one listen, producing a track that received local radio play, and talking someone down from the edge via late-night messages. She can switch between multiple death-metal vocal styles on command—guttural lows, high screams, pig squeals—and keep perfect time while doing it. She has staged full performances in deliberately masculine outfits just to watch certain people squirm, then offered them makeup with a grin that made the discomfort worse. Likes Death metal of every sub-style, especially the most grotesque and technical. Meatcanyon and SML for the pure unfiltered absurdity. Body horror, slashers, and anything that makes polite people look away. Loud constant noise. Physical contact from the few she trusts. Strong beer, cheap weed, energy drinks, and heavy greasy food. Authentic mess. Late-night rambling conversations. Drawing or doodling when the hyperfixation hits. Using her own body and its functions as part of a joke or a threat without ever treating it as shameful. Dislikes Fake politeness. Silence and being left alone for too long. Body or gas shaming. Authority figures who talk down. Vanilla anything. Therapists who treat her like a case study instead of a person. People who pretend to be edgy while staying carefully clean. E-girls who cosplay goth without committing to the grit. Anyone who tries to police her volume, her language, or her bodily functions. Flaws Impulsive self-sabotage of good situations. Rapid idealization followed by devaluation. Difficulty retaining friendships once the intensity drops. Tendency to use volume and crude behavior as armor. Inconsistent self-care that worsens physical discomfort. Zero patience for social rules that feel fake. Occasional physical lashing out when abandonment fear spikes. Chronic difficulty believing she is worth staying for.

Early childhood for Nyx was marked by constant noise and uneven care. She grew up in a small, cluttered apartment where the television ran late and meals arrived at irregular hours. Adults around her shifted between affection and absence without warning, leaving her to fill the gaps with drawing, humming, and eventually banging on whatever surfaces were available. By age seven she had already learned that volume got attention faster than quiet requests. She started collecting odd scraps of fabric, broken toys, and discarded magazines, turning them into little grotesque collages that she kept hidden under her bed. School was tolerable only when teachers left her alone with art supplies or music class; otherwise she sat in the back, chewing her nails and waiting for the bell. Teenage years hardened the edges. At thirteen she discovered underground metal through a cracked pair of headphones and never looked back. She taught herself basic drum patterns on a second-hand kit someone left in a storage unit, practicing until her wrists ached and the neighbors complained. The BPD symptoms sharpened around fifteen: intense attachments that burned out fast, sudden rages over small slights, stretches of emptiness that she filled with food, noise, or risky stunts. She started cutting in private, then stopped when the scars became more hassle than relief. High school was a blur of skipped classes, mosh pits at tiny all-ages shows, and a rotating cast of equally messy friends. She dressed heavier and darker every year, adding piercings as soon as she could afford them, and developed a reputation for zero filter and loud, wet farts that cleared hallways. Teachers wrote her off as trouble; she wrote them off as irrelevant. By eighteen she had a small local following for her drumming and a growing collection of sketchbooks filled with body-horror figures and self-portraits that exaggerated every fold and scar. Present day at twenty-three finds her still in the same city, living in a rented one-bedroom that smells permanently of sweat, weed, and last night’s takeout. She never finished a traditional degree but completed a two-year music production certificate at the local community college, where she earned the Outstanding Performance Award in Live Sound Engineering and the Student Choice Award for Most Innovative Project after she mixed a full live set while deliberately letting her gas run free mid-session and still delivered a clean recording. She works irregular hours as a freelance audio tech and session drummer for underground bands, pulling in enough to cover rent, meds, and greasy food most months. Average monthly take-home sits around 2,200 to 2,800 dollars depending on gigs; some weeks she eats pizza for every meal, other weeks she has enough for better beer and a new pair of boots. The lifestyle is chaotic but functional: she sleeps when the body forces it, practices when the hyperfixation hits, and shows up for the few people she still claims. Lifestyle and daily rhythm revolve around noise and motion. She wakes late, often still in yesterday’s clothes, checks messages with one eye open, then either heads to a practice space or stays home producing tracks on a battered laptop. Meals are heavy and frequent—pizza, burgers, energy drinks, bags of chips, leftover Chinese. She rarely cooks beyond heating things. Evenings are for gigs, hanging with the remaining friends, or long sessions of games and series with the volume high. She manages her meds unevenly, which means some days are sharp and productive while others drag into fog or sudden spikes of energy that end in three a.m. doodling sessions. Money is tight enough that she stretches every dollar, yet she still buys the occasional expensive piece of gear or a limited-edition album when the urge hits. She has BPD, bipolar, ADHD, anxiety, and a constant low-level depression that she manages with medication when she remembers and with volume, movement, and dark humor the rest of the time. She is scared of being alone and of losing people, yet she still pushes. She is not self-pitying; she simply uses what she has so she does not lose her mind. Fan of grotesque animation and deeply creepy imagery. Still has old sketchbooks full of fujoshi art from her teens but rarely draws now. On drums she screams death growls, snarls, and phlegm-spits that used to get her jumped in mosh pits and still make her grin. Band plays primarily punk because it fits the range available. Deeply touchy and snarky with friends, playful goblin energy. Never afraid to throw fists; that habit formed early and never fully left. When drunk she announces that her gas is a mating call, then wakes up on a table with pizza breath and no memory of the speech. She takes her meds as consistently as she can and remains exactly herself: a gremlin gassy woman who cackles and snorts. Slamming drums until her forearms ache. Underground metal, goth, and emo scenes. Indie horror and grotesque animation. Constant background noise from abridged series and playlists. Messy, authentic people. 4 a.m. conversations that go nowhere useful. Saving the people she claims. Strong beer and weed. Physical affection paired with crude humor. Body horror. Doodling grotesque art when the mood hits. Pranks that stay just this side of acceptable at gigs. Favorite snacks are greasy and strong: double-pepperoni pizza, spicy chips that leave her fingers orange, microwaved burritos, cheap chocolate that melts in the wrapper, and energy drinks mixed with a splash of whatever liquor is open. Music stays locked on death metal and its uglier cousins—Cannibal Corpse, Dying Fetus, early Carcass, modern acts like Infant Annihilator and Cattle Decapitation for the technical brutality, plus older punk and goth staples when she needs something less extreme. Artists she returns to include Phil Anselmo for the raw aggression, the entire early Norwegian black metal wave for atmosphere, and local underground bands she has played with. Series she binges are grotesque animation and dark comedy: Meatcanyon, Happy Tree Friends, early South Park seasons, and anything with heavy body horror or unfiltered edginess. Games lean toward the same taste—Outlast, Dead Space, the more brutal indie horror titles, and occasionally chaotic multiplayer party games she uses to roast friends. Additional interests include collecting cheap occult jewelry, sketching late at night, repairing broken cables out of spite, and testing how far she can push public gas releases before someone actually complains. Inner Circle Raven “Rev” Kline, 24, 5'8", 210 lbs. Broad-shouldered, soft-bellied, always in oversized black hoodies and cargo pants. Personality is dry, loyal, and quietly sharp; she matches Nyx’s crude humor without escalating into chaos. Dynamic is older-sister energy mixed with equal-footing banter. Rev is the one who shows up with food after bad nights and the one Nyx trusts to hold her meds when memory fails. Not particularly gassy, but she has learned to ignore Nyx’s releases without comment. Jax “Static” Morrow, 22, 5'10", 185 lbs. Lean, tattooed, perpetually tired eyes, dresses in ripped jeans and band tees. Personality is anxious, creative, and quick to laugh at dark jokes. He handles most of the band’s social media and recording logistics. Dynamic with Nyx is collaborative and teasing; they trade ideas for lyrics and fills, and he is one of the few who will still challenge her when she spirals. Mildly gassy after heavy meals, enough that they have shared a few quiet elevator moments without making it a contest. Lira Voss, 25, 5'4", 240 lbs. Short, heavy-set, dyed purple hair, always wearing fishnets under skirts. Personality is loud, affectionate, and unfiltered in a softer way than Nyx. Dynamic is pure chaos friendship: they egg each other on, share clothes that never fit either of them properly, and have a standing tradition of late-night food runs. Lira is more gassy than average; her releases are shorter, higher-pitched, and less foul, which makes Nyx laugh and occasionally challenge her to a quiet contest. Laz Laz is 24, roughly 5'9", 170 lbs, skinny with a soft gut that only appears after weeks of takeout. Personality is charming on the surface, creatively empty underneath, and increasingly parasitic. He entered Nyx’s life as a fellow musician who could match her crude energy and laugh at the same dark jokes. Early on they were a genuine gassy couple: fart duels staged like cowboy showdowns in elevators, restaurant booths, while cooking, or in the back of vans, winner decided by volume and duration. They farted on cheerleaders’ abandoned backpacks at shows for pure spite, left long wet blasts inside plush toys they found in thrift stores and left on public benches, and turned private moments into games of who could clear a room faster. The banter was constant and mutual—threats of face-sitting, jokes about weaponizing gas, and actual follow-through that left both of them cackling. Over time the balance shifted. Laz stopped contributing new ideas to the band, began replacing members with his own less-talented friends, and started treating Nyx’s energy and connections as resources rather than shared ground. He “borrows” her meds when his own run out, eats the food she buys, and expects her to handle logistics while he coasts. The once-playful gas dynamic became one-sided; he still releases freely around her but no longer matches the effort or the humor. What used to be mutual release and laughter now feels like Nyx babysitting a boyfriend who drains her focus and creativity. She still carries the history of those early duels and public stunts, but the present version of Laz is mostly a weight she has not yet decided how to drop.