#I am very certain the last 2 tags did not work...

[retrievablememories]

cherry bomb | part 2 | jungkook (m)

pairing: jungkook x fem reader

summary: after your town goes into lockdown because of the cherry bomb massacre, you find out that the murderer's interest is on you. eventually, you’re left with no choice but to face him.

genre: horror/slasher, angst, smut, college!au

word count: 13.7k

warnings: major character deaths, gaslighting, hallucinations, anxiety/paranoia, grief, trauma, violence (including knife and gun use), torture, blood, gore, descriptions of dead bodies, a funeral scene, fuckboy!JK, oral (fem receiving), fingering, finger-sucking, handjob, cumplay(?), hair-pulling

a/n: this part is quite rougher than the first, so heed the warnings. same notes as the last part—not meant to be entirely realistic since this *is* a slasher. block/filter as needed. i didn’t mention this in part 1 but this fic is not set in present day; more like somewhere in the 2000s? i don’t think this fic would work as well with all this advanced technology/the prevalence of social media now

...also, i had this story all written out and then decided to completely change the plot at the last minute because i figured out a way to write the original plot i had wanted to do from the beginning. 💀 yeah…just leave your thoughts below

taglist is at the very bottom of the fic—for some reason i wasn't able to tag everyone who requested, so please reblog this fic so folks can see it

sources for the fic dividers: one | two

link to part 1

you’re standing in front of some stranger’s house in the early hours of the morning, your body heavy from exhaustion as your adrenaline has run out. this is not at all how you expected your night to end when you left your dorm hours ago. it must’ve taken at least 40 minutes to get to this house, and you’re less familiar with this part of town, which you try not to feel uneasy about. you suppose the farther away from the scene of the carnage, the better.

jungkook bangs on the door, calling out the name yoongi-hyung until the porch light comes on. though it’s illogical, you’re tense with apprehension that the murderer could somehow appear at any moment, and you hope whoever yoongi is lets the both of you in soon. so much for no longer looking over your shoulder.

a man with hair just as long as jungkook’s answers the door, looking disheveled and annoyed. “why the fuck are you banging down my door at nearly 2 am—"

yoongi stops speaking as he eyes the both of you up and down, his gaze going from the bite mark bruises you left on jungkook’s neck to the dried blood on your face to the bullet holes in jungkook’s car. his expression is between surprise and curiosity. “what the fuck is going on here?”

“can we talk inside?” jungkook says, though he doesn’t wait for an invitation before pushing his way past the other man and stepping inside.

“uh…hi. sorry.” you step inside too, glad to not be out in the open anymore.

yoongi takes another look outside the door at the state of jungkook’s car before closing and locking it. “mind explaining this shit? i thought you were going to that party you told me about?

“i did,” jungkook says, his voice full of frustration. “the fucking killer showed up at the party.”

“the fuck are you talking about?”

“you know what i’m talking about. that werewolf-masked freak? he came and just started stabbing people to death. we watched him shoot a fraternity member in front of us, dude. that’s why my car looks the way it does.”

“the campus is probably dangerous,” you add. “that’s why we came here. we just need somewhere safe to stay for the night.”

yoongi goes to the window and draws back the curtain. he peeks out the small holes in the side of the blinds rather than pushing the blinds down to look outside. “and you’re certain he didn’t follow you here? i thought he only killed virgins anyway. why the hell was he shooting at you?” then yoongi turns away from the window and looks at you. “oh. is this why?”

feeling put on the spot, you blurt out: “look, i don’t think that matters much anymore. he seemed to be killing anybody who was in his way.”

“and he was on foot the whole time, so there’s no way he could’ve followed us,” jungkook adds.

yoongi shakes his head and walks away from the window. “whole town is fucked, then. come on.”

you’re relieved to be able to scrub the blood off your face and change into fresh clothes. you initially thought it was peculiar that yoongi had spare clothes ready for you to wear until he alluded to keeping them on hand for any of jungkook’s hookups that he brings over.

“sure—of course.” you’d just nodded and tried not to look embarrassed as you accepted the clothes.

even after showering you don’t feel entirely clean, though. you think it might be impossible to return to feeling anything like your former self after tonight.

the couch has a pull-out bed, so it’s not as uncomfortable as it would be just sleeping on a regular sofa, which you are grateful for. you’re still arranging the pillow and blankets when jungkook walks into the room holding his own bedding.

“i think i should sleep here,” he says.

“there’s no room on the couch for the both of us,” you protest, thinking he means to take your spot.

“i mean on the floor. earlier, you didn’t seem like you wanted to be left alone in here.”

“oh.” you try to take the edge out of your voice; it’s hard to be polite when you’re still so overwhelmed with stress. “that’ll be uncomfortable though.”

jungkook just waves his hand and dumps his pillow and blanket on the floor before going to push the coffee table out of the way. “doesn’t really matter, i think we’ve been through worse tonight than sleeping on a hard floor…”

“thanks,” you say quietly, watching him spread his blanket out on the ground. you want to say something else, but you can’t think of anything.

“it’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

after a few more moments of staring at jungkook as he arranges his sleeping area, you finally ask, “i was wondering how’d you meet yoongi? he doesn’t seem like he’s a college student. i’ve never seen him around our campus, at least.”

“he isn’t. he works as a music producer, so he’s out of town a lot, but this is his homebase. as for how we met—it’s a long story. he and my brother actually used to know each other, so…” you think he’ll explain further, but he just shakes his head. “but he’s a good friend.”

“i see. a music producer…nice. how cool for a little town like this.”

after everything is to his liking, jungkook gets under the blanket. “tonight was a lot, so try to get some sleep.”

you nod and turn the lamp off, though you’re doubting you’ll get any peace tonight. “yeah…you too.”

--

SATURDAY MORNING, NOV 4

you wake up around 11 a.m. on a strange couch wearing strange clothes in a strange room. with your brain’s half-conscious state, your terror reawakens; you think maybe you’ve been kidnapped by the murderer and the car ride with jungkook last night was a dream—until yoongi pops into your mind.

you try to regulate your breathing and settle back beneath the blanket, though you know you won’t be going back to sleep.

you haven’t gotten more than an hour of sleep in total, broken up into 20-minute intervals across the hours. every time you’ve tried to close your eyes and drift off, you see the frat member’s skull bursting apart again, shocking your entire nervous system. you can think of nothing but the piles of bodies and the deaths you witnessed. perhaps it’s better that you don’t sleep; you figure your dreams wouldn’t be any more tolerable than your thoughts.

as you shift around on the couch, your whole body screams with soreness. your arms, your ribs, your sides, your legs, and—to a lesser extent—even between your thighs where jungkook was last night.

you glance over and see that he’s still sprawled on the floor, blanket halfway kicked off. he’s actually awake, his face turned away from you as he blinks slowly and stares at nothing, but he doesn’t say anything and so neither do you. with you spending most of your night awake, you saw that he was able to get more rest than you did. lucky him.

it hurts to move, but you reach for your phone and check for any signs of lorelai. none. there is one text from camille, sent 40 minutes ago.

➤ camille: I talked to Lorelai’s sister. She went to go see about a missing persons report. The police took her information but didn’t seem very concerned about it and said she might have just stayed the night with other friends after the party. Apparently a lot of others had the same idea as you. Campus is a ghost town. They’re still identifying all the bodies, so no word yet.

➤ y/n: so we just have to sit here and wait to see if she’ll turn up alive or dead? that’s useless.

➤ camille: As per fucking usual with the pigs.

➤ camille: She also told me there’s supposed to be a lockdown or something. It’s on the news.

➤ y/n: a lockdown???

looking around the room, you spot the TV remote sitting on yoongi’s coffee table a few feet away. you try to sit up, but it takes you a couple minutes longer than you anticipate because of the pain. jungkook notices the movement from the corner of his eye and turns to look at you. “what are you doing?”

“tryna get the remote.”

jungkook grabs it and hands it to you, and you turn the TV to one of the local news channels.

➤ camille: They’re telling people not to leave their homes for anything non-essential while they search for him. Not sure how long that’s supposed to last. I guess now they wanna get serious about this fucking killer? Too late for that.

you and jungkook watch as the newscaster gives a rundown of last night’s events; to your small relief, it looks like the killer didn’t try to go to the campus after the murders at the party house. the newscaster goes on to announce that the police are instating a citywide curfew, which they’ll discuss further at a press conference in the afternoon. in the meantime, they advise everyone to only travel in groups, shelter in place if possible, and keep all windows and doors locked.

you laugh humorlessly, and jungkook glances at you again. “in groups? we were all packed into one damn house at the party, and how much did that help?”

➤ y/n: are you sure you’re okay at the uni?

➤ camille: I’m fine. My roommate brought some of her friends into our room so no one’s left alone. Either way, my dad is coming to help me move some of my things out and come back home.

➤ y/n: okay, please just stay safe.

➤ camille: You too.

“what now?” jungkook says once the newscast goes off. “everybody just stays holed up for like a month while they hunt for that guy?”

you roll your eyes. “people won’t stay in their homes for that long. i don’t know how any of this is gonna work. we wouldn’t be in this mess now if they’d cared when this first started happening.”

“you think so? students would still be getting killed. the only difference is that a good chunk of people would just be sitting at home freaking the fuck out and too scared to go anywhere while the killer would still be on the loose.”

“…damn. it’s truly bleak to assume we’d still be in the same situation. you’re an optimistic one.”

“better than deluding yourself about it.”

“whatever. where’s your family to freak out over you? somebody should be concerned about your whereabouts by now. didn’t you say you have a brother? speaking of, i’m gonna have to call my sister soon…”

jungkook turns back to the TV, and you can tell he’s become more tense than he was seconds ago. “yeah, but i’m estranged from them. yoongi’s my family.”

wrong thing to ask. you wonder about the reason for it but decide it’s probably better not to pry. “ah…that sucks.”

jungkook looks back at you like he’s irked by that response, but he makes a noise resembling a chuckle. “tell me about it.”

later that afternoon, after you’ve reassured your sister veronica on her work break that you are fine and at a “friend’s” house (because you have no clue how to refer to either of these men), you and yoongi sit at the kitchen table with brunch while jungkook goes outside to examine the damage to his car more closely.

it’s difficult to eat, but you do so anyway; you don’t want to be rude by wasting the food yoongi made. the news station still plays loudly from the living room as you wait for the press conference to come on.

“so, about you and jungkook...” yoongi starts, looking at you from over the rim of his cup of coffee.

“what about me and jungkook?”

“we both know he didn’t get those bites on his neck from a wild animal attack.”

you sit up straighter in your seat, a sudden spike of irritation hitting you. “aren’t we all grown here? who cares?” you try to sound unbothered despite feeling very green about all of this. after all, you’d only had sex for the first time last night.

“look, i don’t care. fuck him all you want. i’m just trying to advise you not to get emotionally involved, because that’s not how jungkook operates. the amount of girls i’ve had somehow coming after my neck when their situationship with him doesn’t work out is starting to get really old. it’d be best if you didn’t do the same.”

you’re simultaneously annoyed at his assumption of you and flustered because you want to prove him wrong about acting the same as the other girls. you hate both feelings. “i don’t want anything like that with him. i just needed something done and i got it. it doesn’t matter anymore.”

yoongi shrugs, and you get the sense he’s heard that before and isn’t convinced, but you can’t be bothered going back and forth with him about this.

the press conference comes on TV a few minutes later. they announce that classes at your university are cancelled indefinitely; parents and relatives will need to come move their students out, and the school will be operating with a skeleton staff and increased security presence for any students who can’t leave the campus. the citywide curfew will be at 8 p.m. every night, by which time almost everyone will need to be in their homes, and it will end at 6 a.m each morning.

“fun,” you say sarcastically. “at least i won’t have to worry about finals and trying not to get murdered at the same time.”

when jungkook comes back inside, you let him know about what he missed from the press conference.

“we should just stay here for now.” when you raise your eyebrows, jungkook says, “i basically live here when i’m not on campus for classes. plus yoongi-hyung lets me bring girls here all the time, this is nothing new.”

“if both of you are gonna be hiding out in my place, we’ll need to go to the store,” yoongi says. “more mouths to feed.”

“…or i could just go home?” you propose, your mind reeling at them already making plans. you feel awkward about staying in a stranger’s house for who knows how long. “i think we only really needed to stay here for the night. it’s fine.”

“will you have people there with you?” jungkook asks. “it’s not safe to be alone.”

you’re surprised he seems to be this concerned, but you answer: “well, i mean…my sister works 12-hour shifts as a nurse and she’s the only one living there, so…” you’d chosen your university because your older sister lived in the area, and because it was a tradition for women in your family to attend that school, but there were no other relatives you could turn to. your parents lived a couple of towns away.

yoongi comes to the conclusion so you don’t have to. “in other words, you’ll be alone most of the day.”

“…i guess. but i’m really not tryna impose on you by staying here.”

yoongi tilts his head, a small smirk on his lips. you automatically dislike the look on his face. “why don’t you take jungkook with you, then?”

you and jungkook glance at each other. “but, hyung…”

yoongi shakes his head. “you already know i can take care of myself. seriously, don’t worry about it.” and then yoongi winks at you. you don’t know for sure, but you take that to mean he’s probably packing heat like camille’s dad.

“if you’re sure.” turning to you, jungkook says, “so, how about it?”

“it’s my sister’s house, so i’ll have to ask her,” you say tentatively. “yeah…uh. let me do that now, i guess.” you pull out your phone to text her about it, though you know it’ll be a while before she gets another work break and can answer. “in the meantime…i think we’ll need to go to the store either way. and then to campus to pick our things up.”

“you’re right. let’s go then,” jungkook says.

the store is full of people panic-buying food and necessities in preparation for the curfew and effective lockdown, which you expected. you and jungkook end up going your separate ways to find the things you need because it’s quicker that way, and because you want to get in and out of the store as soon as possible. the crowdedness is too much like the party, and despite yourself, anxiety begins rising in you due to the claustrophobic atmosphere. you try to maintain even breaths as you keep searching for items. just what you need—a shiny new trauma to make your life harder.

you pass by a man in one of the less-crowded aisles before realizing he’s standing in front of what you need to get, examining one of the food packages. you wait a few moments to see if he’ll finish up soon, and when your eyes begin to wander, you see that there’s a long gray hair clinging to the back of his leather jacket, standing out clearly against the black. you probably wouldn’t have noticed this at all on any other day, except your mind has been on high alert for hours now; you find it strange that this strand clearly doesn’t match the shade or length of the hair on his head, which is short and plain brown. the shade of the hair also weirdly reminds you of something, though you can’t quite recall what; it remains just out of your mind’s reach.

you shake your head. he could’ve come to the store with somebody who has long gray hair, or hugged them before he left home, and a strand stuck to his jacket. it’s the least of your issues right now.

the man must feel your presence behind him because he turns around to look at you. you’re a little taken aback by his gaze; his expression isn’t mean per se, but very intense, as if his entire focus is trained on you.

there’s a second’s pause, like he’s thinking about something before he speaks. “am i in your way?” he asks, never breaking eye contact. his voice doesn’t portray any particular emotion.

“i just have to get something really quick.” he steps aside and gestures to the rows of food without a word. you slip in beside him and grab what you need before moving away again. “thanks.” you think about telling him about the hair on his jacket but decide against it; your decision is solidified when you spot a wolf figurine keychain on his keys, faded from time but still distinguishable. it makes your breath catch.

there’s no way it could be him. it was kind of dark in the party house with nothing but string lights and lamps illuminating it, and everything happened so quickly…but you do remember the colors of that mask. red, yellow, black—and that dark gray for the fur.

but maybe it’s really all just a coincidence; how much sense would it make to turn every person with wolf paraphernalia and random stray hairs into a suspect?

you walk down the rest of the aisle and away from the man with growing unease. maybe it’s time to find jungkook so you can get out of here; you can hardly keep yourself together, and despite your best attempts at logic, you can’t stop yourself from getting more frantic about those two things.

speeding up your walk and weaving through people, you look down every aisle in search for jungkook before you find him, rushing over to him as you breathe heavily.

“whoa, what the hell is wrong? did somebody do something?”

“no, i…”

“what happened?”

“it’s the…well, the…i saw, uh…”

“y/n.”

“i saw—the mask. the fur from the mask. do you remember it?”

“…you mean that stupid ass werewolf mask?” you gesture for jungkook to lower his voice. “wait, you’re saying you saw it in here?”

“no, i saw a man who had a strand of hair on his jacket…” it starts sounding ridiculous to your own ears the more you speak, but you continue. “the strand—it was the same color as that fur. the same length! and he—he had some weird wolf keychain…”

jungkook stares at you for a long moment before sighing. “you’re not serious? a random strand of hair that could be from anybody or anything? that could be from someone’s fucking grandma for all we know. plus a keychain…maybe he just likes wolves, y/n.”

you already know that saying i just feel like something is off won’t be enough to convince him. you sigh with a deep sense of defeat, considering that he’s probably right. maybe your initial assumption was the more sensible answer. “…right. i think i’m just really fucked up right now after everything that happened. can we finish up here?”

“yeah, we will. because you definitely need to lay down soon or something. you haven’t had any sleep all night, right?” the way jungkook eyes you with concern as if you’ve lost your mind annoys you. you’re about to give a smart remark when you notice something in the carrying-basket he has.

“…a baseball bat?”

“if the killer comes after us again, duh. we’ll be prepared this time. or at least i will.”

“good luck with that if he happens to have another gun.” rolling your eyes, you brush past jungkook to go to one of the checkout counters.

in the parking lot, you see that the man from earlier has also come out and is putting the last of his grocery bags into his car trunk. there’s really nothing spectacular about his appearance that would make him stand out in a crowd, with his average height and average looks, let alone incriminate him as a serial killer. yet that familiar unease won’t leave.

he sees you and jungkook walking towards the car together, and his eyes dart to the bullet holes in jungkook’s car. then he makes eye contact with you. you give a half-hearted wave, unsure what else to do with his eyes stuck on you. for a moment, his lips turn up into the faintest smile before he shakes his head and gets into his own car.

--

MONDAY, NOV 6

you’ve spent half of saturday and all of sunday trying to get used to living in your sister’s house with jungkook. veronica had been surprisingly okay with having him stay over, though most of it was her being relieved you finally found “a potential boyfriend who’s actually cute.” you didn’t have the energy to argue with her.

you’ve also been constantly checking on camille (to her eventual annoyance) and seeing if there are any more updates on lorelai. still nothing. your dread grows the further away you get from that bloody friday, but you try to keep your thoughts from straying too darkly.

right now, you, veronica, and jungkook all sit on the couch together in a neat little row, a bowl of popcorn in front of you on the coffee table and some science-fiction B-movie playing on the TV. your sister proposed the idea to distract yourselves from everything going on, but so far, you feel like it isn’t very effective. at least not for you. your mind keeps wandering to other things every 5 minutes.

eventually, veronica yawns widely, stretching her arms and legs before rising off the couch. “okay, i’m getting tired as fuck. i need to go to sleep for work tomorrow anyway. you guys enjoy the rest of the movie, okay?” she pats your shoulder as she passes by you on her way out of the room.

jungkook waves. “oh, sure. goodnight.”

“night, sis.”

when jungkook’s attention goes back to the movie, your sister makes eye contact with you and points her finger at you menacingly. you give her a shocked look while she mouths you know what i mean and swirls her finger in jungkook’s direction. embarrassed at the implication, you roll your eyes and turn your head back to the TV screen. having sex with jungkook on your sister’s couch is not high on your list of priorities tonight.

after your sister is gone, jungkook spreads out on the couch like it’s his own living room, placing his legs right over your lap. you sigh, looking over at him—and hoping that your eyes don’t linger too obviously on the expanse of thigh muscle that’s now on display from his shorts riding up higher.

“…really? i don’t want your big ole legs in my lap.”

jungkook just grins. “you should lay down too, it’s more comfortable this way.” you stare at him, and he tries to egg you on by pulling the sleeve of your shirt. “come on.”

“i’m not laying down on top of you, if that’s what you’re after.”

you do end up lying down, but on the opposite side of the couch so that your legs are tangled together, which really just increases the amount of contact between you either way—but whatever.

this makes jungkook laugh more. “ha, it’s like we’re scissoring.”

“so damn corny.”

you two continue watching the rest of the movie, but by the end of it you don’t remember half of what happened. taking the remote, you flip through the channels and try to find something else to look at. there isn’t much interesting to watch on a random monday night—which would be a school night anyway, if not for the current context.

as you search for a channel, jungkook asks: “what would you do if you found out who the killer was?”

you squint your eyes at his odd question. maybe the obvious answer would be to alert the police. but after days of having your anger stoked like a fire, that’s not exactly the answer you’d choose. “maybe i’d kill him.” the words leave your lips easily, and you hardly think twice about them once they’re out.

neither of you speak for a few long moments.

“does that scare you?” you ask, after the silence starts annoying you. you want to laugh, but there’s nothing really funny about the situation.

“…not really. angry women are kinda sexy. so are dangerous ones.”

you scoff. “i’m not tryna be sexy, you fool. and how many dangerous women have you dealt with? seems to me you only have a thing for the innocents.”

“it’s not like i only fuck virgins. you don’t even know me like that.” he nudges your leg with his foot like he’s also annoyed, but his expression doesn’t show any actual irritation.

“…if you want to go back and forth about it, go outside and argue with the wall or something. i’m in no mood, jungkook.” you shove his foot off of you. “just, holy shit. i wish i could have just one hour where i don’t have to think about any of this shit. my mind can’t even breathe.”

he’s actually quiet for a couple minutes after. you think he’s moved on from the conversation until he finally says, “i can give you an hour.”

your body becomes alert at that. the insinuation in his tone is obvious. you glance backwards as if your sister could hear you from upstairs, though you know that’s illogical. “i got what i wanted from you already,” you whisper.

“so? what if i wanted to give you more? you know you’re allowed to have sex with a person more than once, yeah?” he chuckles.

here he is making you this offer, and once again you feel like you’ve been reduced to the state of a confused lamb in front of a hungry wolf. you realize that the idea of letting yourself get more physically entangled with jungkook scares you. he is not someone you can turn into a boyfriend, who wants to be a boyfriend, and you are only looking to save yourself from any potential hurt. “it would just be sex—right? you have to know i’m not looking for anything deeper from you.”

jungkook smirks. like with yoongi, you don’t know if he believes you. “i know.”

you want to undo almost everything from the past few days. you can’t forget, but for a while, you want to just exist outside of the timeline where there’s a killer on the loose and one of your friends is missing. it’s too much to handle; your body is approaching its limits for the amount of stress it can take. you need a balm to numb the pain and the fear, and you dislike that you are giving into your base instincts to do so. you feel guilty, somehow. but pleasure is easy. at least it has been whenever you sought it on your own—and now you have someone else to give it to you. someone who is in front of you now, proposing it with all the willingness in the world. maybe there’s really nothing wrong with saying yes.

“jungkook…”

“hm?”

“please just shut the fuck up and don’t say another word about the outside world right now. i don’t want to think about anything but your…” you falter, still trying to get used to expressing what you want sexually.

jungkook sits up, his hands sliding up your legs and to your hips. “but my what?”

“um, your…” your thoughts end when he leans down and pulls the hem of your sweater up, planting a kiss on your waist where your skin meets the waistband of your sweatpants. one kiss turns into a second, and a third. the fourth becomes an open-mouthed embrace of his lips on your skin, and you make a small noise of pleasure when his tongue gets involved.

“careful. don’t want veronica to come down here, remember?”

you huff. “that isn’t happening any time soon, believe me.”

his kisses continue as he begins to slide your sweatpants down, revealing the waistband of your panties. once they’re fully on display, he leans forward to nuzzle his face between your thighs, his mouth and nose pressing into the seat of your underwear. his actions take you off guard. you actually give a brief chuckle from surprise, though you are also somewhat embarrassed. “now what the hell are you doing?”

“let me savor my meal before i eat it.” his warm breaths tickle your inner thighs as he speaks.

“ugh, don’t turn me off.”

“that’s funny, because i seem to have an easy time getting you wet.” to prove it, his fingers press into the seat of your underwear to feel the wetness that’s seeped into them; you sigh from the brief pleasure his fingers’ movements afford you before he pulls them away.

jungkook drags your panties down next, his lips trailing down your lower abdomen and across the curls of hair covering your pubic mound. your body fills with anticipation at the gradual pace of his actions and the purposeful, wet caresses of his mouth.

when he uses his thumbs to press your lower lips apart and expose you more fully to him, you have half a mind to be self-conscious about it until he places his mouth on you in earnest.

jungkook eats like someone who hasn’t done so in a while and doesn’t know when he’ll get to do it again. his mouth sucks at your clit like he’s desperate for you to come, tongue rolling over the swollen nub in an unrelenting pattern that has your stomach tensing, and you quickly realize you do have to try to silence yourself even if you know it won’t wake veronica up. you twist your hands into the sleeves of your sweater and lean your head back on the couch’s armrest as you arch your hips up closer to jungkook’s face, uncaring about how vulnerable you feel completely offering yourself up to him like this; right now, all you want is to feel good.

“gonna come quick again? maybe we can set a new record?” jungkook pins your knee against the couch with his elbow to keep your legs open as he slides two fingers inside, diving straight in instead of working you up this time. your body breaks out in a sweat and you know you really won’t last long once he does this, the tips of his fingers aiming for that dreadful, wonderful, and overpowering place inside you. you don’t know how people do this—you feel like you’re going to die when he stimulates that spot, and all you want to do is scream even though you can’t.

“a r-record? fuck off…” you choke out, though you begin to rock your hips into the rhythm of his fingers, needing so badly for him to take you over the edge again.

he chuckles. “i don’t think you want me to fuck off right now.”

you have no words for a good comeback when he buries his head between your legs and slurps at your pussy again and crooks his fingers repeatedly to where your orgasm is unexpectedly rushing down upon you, causing your body to tense as you gasp and stifle any sounds that escape with your sweater sleeve.

jungkook doesn’t stop there and you don’t really expect him to, because you’re beginning to learn he isn’t a one-and-done type of man. he keeps sucking and stroking you right into another releasewhile you push the beanie off his head, fist your fingers into his strands, and tremble over the sight of his pitch-black mess of hair between your thighs. something about the visual is so appealing to you.

after he has made you come for the third time, you watch him sit up on his knees to reach into his shorts and pull his dick out, his darkened tip slick with precum. his long hair falls into his face as he glances downward, using the hand he’d been fingering you with to lube himself up with your cum.

“come here,” you tell him, your voice coming out sharper than you intended; but he doesn’t care, because he follows your request without a word and presses himself into your side. the couch is just big enough to accommodate both of you in this position, but it’s still a tight fit, and your bodies are once again tangled together.

“let me touch you,” you say, your palm pressed to his stomach, feeling the firmness of the muscle.

he raises his eyebrows, like you didn’t even need to ask. “of course.”

“no, i mean…” he realizes what you actually mean as you brush his hand away from his shaft and wrap your fingers around it instead.

“should i teach you how?” jungkook brings his hand to overlap yours, though his breath becomes a bit strained when you slide your hand to the base of his cock and back to the tip again, the pads of your fingers rubbing over the sensitive head. seeing your fingers around him turns him on more than he thought it could, and it’s just a simple fucking handjob.

you roll your eyes. “stroking a dickshouldn’t be that hard.”

“everyone likes it differently, though. fast, slow, soft, or rough…just the tip, or the whole shaft.” you can’t deny that—or the way you find yourself throbbing at his words, his voice husky from the pleasure. which is why you let jungkook close his hand more fully around yours and guide your movements.

it’s captivating to observe his reactions from your hand on his skin—the heavy breaths he lets out and the soft moans and even softer whimpers that come in between the exhales. whenever you squeeze his shaft more firmly or rub your thumb against his leaking tip, you find yourself grinning at the rise and fall of his chest and the tongue that darts out of his mouth to lick at his lips. but mostly, your eyes are drawn back to the sight of your hand working him over, his thighs and stomach tensing sporadically.

eventually, you both look away from your joined hands and at each other’s faces. your eyes dart to his lips and back to his gaze again, and you shift your face forward to signal your desire for a kiss. he meets you there by pressing his lips to yours, and it isn’t hard for him to get lost in the meeting of your mouths and the heat from your palm on his shaft.

your free hand returns to his soft hair to tug on it as your tongues slide against each other. he grunts at the burn of his roots being pulled but doesn’t stop you; on the contrary, his body responds favorably as more precum swells from his tip and his nipples poke against the material of his shirt.

“do you like that, jungkook?” you mumble against his mouth.

“you know i do.” at some point, his hand falls away and he lets you stroke him on your own.

jungkook gives a shuddering moan into your mouth when he climaxes minutes later, thick streams of his cum shooting onto his shirt and dripping down your hand. he tries to keep quiet and doesn’t entirely succeed, but it doesn’t much matter.

you squeeze the few remaining drops of cum from his cockhead, trying to make sure you don’t grip hard enough to actually hurt him. you pull your sticky hand away from jungkook when you think he’s finally emptied, but he grabs your wrist and you look at him questioningly. you watch with shocked eyes as jungkook brings your hand up and takes your messy fingers into his mouth, sucking his cum from them. you know instinctively it isn’t the first time he’s done this—not with the look of pure satisfaction on his features as he licks his own seed off your fingers.

his enthusiastic pleasure is part of the reason why you accept when jungkook gives you a crushing kiss, passing his cum from his tongue to yours. you don’t know what you expected it to taste like, but it isn’t gross like you’ve heard others complain about when sharing their sex tales; despite being salty, the overall taste is neutral. still, it takes some getting used to.

when you pull away from each other, noses brushing and lips wet from each other’s spit, you look into his dark brown eyes and get the sudden desire to say something that’s been buried in the back of your mind for days now.

“why did you come straight to me that night?” you whisper. “like you already knew who you were there for.”

jungkook stares back, his lips curving up slightly. “i just wanted to. or i wanted you, more specifically.”

“that’s not an answer.”

“well, it’s my answer.”

“was i another one to knock off your list?”

“you think i have a list?”

“i’m not stupid. it’s not unusual for guys to have a list. plus, plenty of rumors go around.”

jungkook taps his fingers underneath your chin and kisses you on the lips again, though it is brief. “stop believing everything you hear.”

you clearly won’t be getting a straight answer from him tonight. with the moment broken, you sigh and begin pulling your bottoms back on. “…whatever you say, dude.” once you’re dressed, you climb over his body to get off the couch. you poke him in the chest as your eyes roam over him in his disheveled state, his shorts pulled down and his cum staining his black shirt. “might wanna clean yourself up, huh? i’m going to sleep. and, yeah…thanks for the distraction.”

--

TUESDAY, NOV 7

with the weather being as cold as it is and heading toward winter in another month or so, lorelai is surprised by how quickly the bodies began to smell.

she doesn’t know much of anything about bodily decomposition—because, to her parents’ disappointment, she wasn’t about to be a biology major and have to be around cadavers in a dissection lab—but if this were a movie or something, she would’ve thought it would take longer than just one day. the smell started to hit her the saturday after the party.

but ultimately, this isn’t a movie, and the fact that she’s trapped in a decrepit house in some remote part of town is her present reality.

she doesn’t remember anything about how she got to this house; she thinks she must have been concussed before she was brought here. her head has been hurting badly for days, and not even the simple relief of a painkiller is available.

what she does know is that she’s being kept in a dirty living room on an equally dirty mattress, her hands and legs tied by rope and zip-ties. if there were any miniscule chance of her escaping, it would be impossible to go anywhere considering both her ankles are broken, only adding to the amount of physical pain she’s been in for days.

the living room is mostly empty except for the bodies of some other students from the party, which have been scattered around the room. lorelai tries not to look at them—especially not at the ones she knows—but it’s difficult. they become even more terrifying to her when night falls, turning into dark, rotting shadows in the corners of the room. there has been nothing but the company of these corpses for days, and a couple of visits from the killer.

he's never once taken off his wolf mask or his gloves, and every other part of his body stays covered in all black. she doesn’t have the first idea of what he looks like underneath it all. he has spoken to her a few times, but the voice isn’t one she recognizes. his words when she first awoke inside this house still knock around in her mind, filling her with dread.

he’d crouched in front of her, watching her move around on the mattress and try to orient herself. he had the casual air of someone observing a flipped-up bug struggle on the sidewalk before crushing it underfoot. “you aren’t y/n, but you’ll do for now. we’ll have some real fun later on. you’ll help me give her a good scare.”

“how the fuck do you know y/n?” lorelai had struggled against her restraints, but this only made her newly broken ankles hurt worse. tears began to fall from her eyes from the pain and fear.

the killer had said nothing to that—only tilted his head curiously and stared at her, which was unnerving even if she couldn’t see his eyes.

“you have no fucking reason to go after her, she’s not even a virgin anymore you dumb fuck—” with those words, the killer had backhanded her, sending her already injured head into a fresh wave of agony.

“things would’ve been different if not for that fucking party. you students think you’re so fucking clever, yeah? and look how you paid for it.” it was impossible to see any facial expression, but his body language spoke of anger. “no matter, though. virgin or not, i’ll see this through to the end.”

now it’s yet another morning, and he has returned. he has a lot of debris in his hands—stuff like sticks and dry moss and foliage. he’s also carrying a small bag, the contents of it a mystery. everything he does causes alarm for lorelai, but now confusion joins in.

“ready to have some fun?” he asks. with duct tape over her mouth, she can’t answer back. she watches as he arranges the debris on the ground in front of her, her anxiety mounting as he takes a lighter out of his pocket and sets fire to the foliage.

leaning forward, he rips part of the duct tape away from her mouth with his gloved hand, causing her face to sting. “got anything to say?”

“wh-what the fuck are you doing?”

“i’m gonna stoke a nice fire here…get this knife hot enough to hurt.” he brings out his knife then, and lorelai shrinks away from the blade as he drags the flat of it across her throat—but there’s nowhere else to go, as she’s sitting up against the wall. “then i’ll just cut this pretty little body up a bit. the finishing touch…i think i’ll slice your throat open. how does that sound?” he takes the knife away from her neck to hold the blade over the flames.

lorelai’s breath hitches, and her stomach begins to physically hurt from the outpouring of anxiety flowing through her. she starts to sob, trying to speak through the tears and snot and drool. the only question she can muster up is, “wh-why?”

“this is for y/n—remember? i hope that concussion hasn’t fucked with your memory.” the killer watches the reflection of the flames on the blade as it grows hotter. “and…i’m doing someone a favor.” he doesn’t wait for her to speak again before putting the duct tape back in place over her mouth, leaving her to cry to herself and face her rising distress as he heats the knife until it’s burning hot. internally, she wishes there was any way in the world to get out of this situation.

it isn’t much longer before he’s finished. lorelai screams as he approaches her with the knife, and then at the feeling of the red-hot blade scorching her skin, though the sounds are stifled by the duct tape.

“now, be still while i fix you up.”

--

WEDNESDAY, NOV 8

you go outside that afternoon to check the mail and have an excuse to get out of the house; it doesn’t matter if it’s only for a few moments. you’re not used to staying cooped up in one place for so long with absolutely nothing to do, and you feel like you’re not too far off from going mad with cabin fever. it hasn’t even been a week since everything happened.

you open the mailbox, and there are the usual bills along with something strange: a blank envelope with no return address. even your sister’s address isn’t written on it. flipping it over, you see that the envelope was never sealed. someone must’ve just come up and put it inside the mailbox. but who the hell would do that, and for what reason? whenever any of your neighbors have something to give you or your sister, they come straight up to the house to do it.

inside the envelope is a set of polaroids. their content makes you drop the rest of the mail. your legs grow weak, and you end up sitting down hard on the end of the driveway, some of the polaroids slipping from your hands. the pictures show the bodies of some of the students from your university, their corpses posed in odd positions and some bare of clothing—all dead.

you struggle to breathe as you frantically flip through the rest of the pictures. in the center of all the group photos is lorelai, her neck torn open and her wrists and ankles tied. she’s still dressed the way she was the night of the party, though her dress is stained with dark brown blood. there are open cuts all over her bare skin, their appearance rough-looking and uneven as if they’ve been cauterized.

there are several group polaroids, several of lorelai alone, and several angles of the outside of a house, which must be the same one the bodies are being kept in. one photo of lorelai slips out of your shaking hands, and you see there’s barely legible handwriting on the back of it, which reads, “this is just the teaser, y/n.”

you scream and don’t stop screaming until jungkook comes running out of the house holding the baseball bat, as if the killer might’ve gotten bold enough to attack in daylight. a couple of your neighbors peek out of their houses and make their way over with concern on their faces once they see you sitting on the ground, your exclamations ringing through the street.

there’s a disarrayed group of people around you grabbing at your shoulders and asking what’s wrong, what happened, and then gasps and exclamations of shock when they see the polaroids. you feel yourself being pulled to your feet and then lifted up—maybe it’s jungkook, because it smells like him—but you’re too disoriented to make proper sense of anything right now. you can only think of how much time has been wasted, and how little time lorelai actually had left.

--

SUNDAY, NOV 12

in the main lobby of the funeral home, you sit in a chair next to camille, staring into empty space while the other girl tries to cry as quietly as she can. she cries as if she’s ashamed of it, and you wish you could comfort her, but you don’t know what to say or do. for the past few days, you’ve mostly just felt numb.

you’re waiting for veronica to come back out so you can leave, as she’d stayed behind after the service to talk to lorelai’s family for a little longer.

lorelai’s family had opted to have her cremated after seeing the state of her body. a lot of other families did the same after the events of cherry bomb, not even wanting to entertain the idea of a closed-casket funeral. you can understand their feelings about it if you push through the haze in your mind to consider it for long enough. though the morticians have done the best they can over the past week, sometimes knowing that your loved one has multiple stab wounds and eviscerated organs beneath all the makeup and fancy clothing is too much to handle.

when veronica finally comes out, the three of you walk outside to join the rest of the people who’ve started getting in their cars. some still linger in small huddles, shaking their heads and wiping their faces.

jungkook, who’d driven you and veronica to the memorial, waits outside for you all, leaning on the side of the building. you both thought it was probably better for him not to attend the service considering lorelai was never fond of him and he didn’t know her that well.

“is it finished?” he asks.

“it is.” veronica sighs. “god, funerals are so damn…bleak.”

you notice a man waving at your group from the other side of the parking lot and realize it’s camille’s dad. her posture straightens when she catches sight of him, and she hurriedly tries to wipe the rest of her tears before shoving her tissue into her pocket. “i-i think my dad is waiting for me. i…i’ll see you guys later, alright?”

“okay, camille.” the strange absence of emotion that you’ve been trapped in for the past few days suddenly cracks open when you notice camille’s anxious demeanor as she speed-walks away from the rest of you. intense sorrow overtakes you; you don’t want her to leave, but she has to go.

you are crying before you fully understand what’s happening. veronica puts her arms around you and squeezes you against the side of her body. jungkook reaches a thumb up to wipe away your tears, though you don’t let him get very far before turning your head away and into veronica’s shoulder.

“y/n…”

“how am i supposed to go on?” you exclaim, catching the attention of a few people nearby. “the police said maybe she’s just staying with friends. and now look. plus, the killer knows where me and my sister live now…maybe he always knew.”

“we don’t even have a clue who the killer is…” jungkook mumbles. “there’s no one you know of who might have a grudge against you?”

“no, jungkook. the police already gave me all that questioning. and it doesn’t help me feel any better to think maybe all these deaths are somehow my fault.” you scoff.

“y/n, nothing’s your fault because some freak decided to go around killing people; that was his decision.” jungkook argues.

you nod slightly to his words but say nothing else, not wanting to go further into that topic. you don’t know if you can believe him about that.

the parking lot is emptying out now, so you try to pull yourself together so the three of you can leave. “well…you don’t need to keep staying with us if you don’t want to. we have those assigned bodyguards now, so…” you glance in the direction of one other car sitting beside jungkook’s—inside it are two men the police force appointed after the polaroids of the bodies were planted in your sister’s mailbox.

jungkook looks at you as if he’s trying to gauge your expression; he himself looks surprised, though he attempts to play it off. veronica glances between you both, recognizing the awkward shift in the air.

“you don’t want me there anymore? i mean it is your house—” he glances at veronica “—so that’s fine with me if—"

“what? i didn’t say i don’t want you there, neither did veronica, it’s just if you don’t want to be there—"

“i never said i didn’t want to be there, though?”

you both become quiet, jungkook looking at you and you returning his gaze for a few seconds before looking off to the side. veronica is still standing between you both like she’d rather be anywhere else on earth.

“i just figured that maybe…” why are you being so concerned about me? isn’t this the part where we go our separate ways? is what you really want to ask. you have seen and learned enough from your friends’ and even your acquaintances’ experiences to realize that any other one night stand would not have cared so much. that’s how these things go, right? but he isn’t really a one night stand anymore, either.

you don’t even know if you’re considered friends with benefits, but what would that change? you’d still seen others tossed aside without much thought by their FWBs while in times of need. considering his history, you don’t understand why jungkook isn’t following the same template now, and you don’t think you should ask why for fear of breaking the illusion.

fed up with your own confusion, you decide now isn’t the time to lament on your lack of knowledge about these things. “nevermind. that’s fine. so you’ll stay?”

the corner of his mouth lifts in a brief smile. “i’ll stay as long as you won’t try to kick me out.”

you aren’t in the mood to attempt to smile back, but he seems to understand that. “right, well...good.”

“…now that you two have figured that shit out, can we leave?”

--

FRIDAY, NOV 17

jungkook thought that getting outside a bit more would help you feel better and prevent you from developing a complete fear of leaving the house, which is why you’re sitting in this claustrophobic little diner now with him, yoongi, and camille—and of course, your ever-present bodyguards in the booth behind you all. but this outing isn’t doing anything to mitigate your fears.

nearly 10 minutes in, you have to ask jungkook to switch seats with you so you’re not on the outside of the booth, as you’re afraid that it’s too easy-access if anyone—say, the killer, though you’ve been trying not to think so obsessively about him—were to come in and start stabbing you to death right where you sit. being on the inside calms you for a little while until you become anxious about the window beside you; what if he has a gun again and simply shoots through the glass? all he’d have to do is stand on the sidewalk and aim, his werewolf mask laughing at you with its eternally frozen growling expression, and your brains would be all over the table just like that frat guy’s.

your meal sits half-eaten as you get increasingly lost in your anxieties. the others are talking about something, but you can’t hear what. it’s like some of your senses have shut down or begun working incorrectly. the strawberry sauce in camille’s sundae looks too much like blood and even smells like it from the occasional whiffs you get, and you find yourself staring at the sundae dish and wanting to throw it across the restaurant.

jungkook’s hand touches you on the back, and the tension in your body increases. he feels it and draws away, though he keeps trying to meet your eyes. “are you okay?” he whispers.

“why ask that? she obviously isn’t,” yoongi says, like he’s annoyed with the obviousness of jungkook’s question.

“hyung, i’m just trying to help.”

“it was your great idea to come out here when she didn’t want to, though.”

“y/n—” camille starts.

“can’t you throw that out? it smells like blood.” your mouth feels useless and hard to maneuver, but you manage to say those words.

“what?”

“the…that. that thing.” everyone looks at camille’s melting sundae. yoongi raises his eyebrows.

“blood?”

“do you mean it—looks like blood?” jungkook suggests.

you raise your voice in irritation, not understanding how everyone else is unable to perceive the same scent that you do. “no, i-it does, but it smells like blood too! just get rid of it!”

one of the waitresses comes over to the table. “is everything okay over here?”

“um, we’re fine! i’m finished with this though.” camille hurriedly hands the sundae off to her, trying to keep the situation calm.

“oh, well—the rest of you too? that’ll be it, then?” she gathers everyone’s plates and leaves with a smile that attempts to be cordial but is still colored with unease.

her departure leaves a stiff silence in which you all spare glances at each other but try to avoid directly meeting eyes. camille is the first to break it.

“i’ll ask my dad if i can stay over with you,” she suggests. she suddenly sounds much more tired. jungkook’s eyebrows furrow slightly at her words; yoongi silently glances at the younger man. “just, you know…maybe the extra company would help? he’s been treating me like a kid again, but we should be safe with the bodyguards there, so…”

“you don’t have to do that,” you say, though you’re too exhausted to truly argue.

“you’re in shambles, y/n. and it’s not just for your benefit. i’m feeling pretty fucking alone right now, and it’s hard for my dad to understand the emotional side of it, so…” camille plays with her fingers and doesn’t look at anyone as she speaks; you know talking about her father can be a sore spot for her sometimes. “uh, anyway. not to trauma-dump or anything. just let me do this.”

you sigh. “fine…okay. do whatever you have to. can we just leave?”

as you’re all walking outside, jungkook pulls you aside.

“i still worry about you after that incident at the store, you know?” he admits.

you shrug his hand off your arm and glare at him. “you think i’m crazy.”

“i don’t. i just want you to be able to relax and not feel like you’re being hunted 24/7. i don’t think the killer is constantly waiting around the nearest corner for you, y/n.”

“you don’t know how close the killer could be. he knows where i go to sleep at night. so stop the bullshit, jungkook.”

“you’ll be okay. you have me, remember? i protected you that night…i can do it again.”

you examine his face for a long moment and find that you are too overwhelmed with stress and fear to be moved by his words. “i’d like to trust you…but the killer might just murder you too. then who’ll save me?” you don’t wait for his response before walking away to catch up with the other two.

--

LYING IN WAIT...

it’s strange to see the police bodyguards in veronica’s driveway and backyard everyday. it’s not the same two all day—they switch off so that there are two doing a day shift and two doing a night shift.

the security team at the hospital where your sister works is aware of the situation, so you try not to get too worried about her safety when she’s away from the house—but it’s difficult.

there have been no more kills connected to your university since lorelai. it seems like half the town has forgotten their fears and tried to go back to some sense of normalcy while the other half still hides away and lives in perpetual panic, including you. the former group of people has started muddying the waters for the police, with some teenagers getting brave enough to sneak around in wolf masks and vandalize buildings with red-lettered virgin graffiti just to fuck with the cops. there have even been a few people who turned themselves in claiming to be the killer—only their supposed confessions never matched the details of the case.

reporters have tried to hound lorelai’s family and your family several times for any speculations or answers on the killer’s identity, but none of you are willing to spread misinformation just to give them something to write about. however, that hasn’t stopped other residents of your town from sharing their speculations and even implicating their own relatives or neighbors—whether as a fucked-up joke or as genuine revenge just depends on whoever’s speaking. with all of these false leads, the police are still no closer to finding the killer than they’d initially been.

everyday feels like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, though the chances of any more kills are starting to seem improbable; the university is practically empty. but it doesn’t matter to you if the school is nearly deserted, because the killer has his aims set on you now, and you only wish you knew why.

up in your room, you and camille sit on your bed gazing out the window—the window that must always remain locked now, for fear of unwanted ingress. you’ve never been uncomfortable in your sister’s house, but lately you’ve been feeling like you’re boxed in with every wall pressing towards you.

sitting up from your lying-down position, you have to find the appropriate words for a moment before speaking. “camille—i can’t stop feeling like maybe we aren’t entirely safe,” you murmur.

camille raises her eyebrows. “why not? those guys stay outside all day, and we keep everything locked up day and night. literally, the only time the front door opens is for veronica to leave and come back from work everyday.”

“i don’t know. there’s no particular reason for it…it just seems like we’re waiting for something.”

“…yeah? for the killer to be caught.”

“but he’s made no moves recently. you remember the policeman’s daughter, right? i even texted her and she hasn’t heard anything new that we don’t already know. seems like things have slowed down at the police station. it’s not like that abandoned house was in the killer’s name or anything, so what leads would they have?”

camille frowns and rubs her eyes like something’s in them, but when she looks at you directly, you see her eyes are red from unshed tears. “…i want things to be okay, though. i’m tired of living like this. you know how i had to beg just to get my dad to let me leave the house. he’s constantly on edge.” you feel even more unsettled to see camille so distressed lately, as she’s always been the only one able to pull something funny out of a terrible situation—something enough to distract you from the horrors. “all i know is they’ll have to dig his ass out of some hole in the ground at some point. he can’t hide in this town forever.”

“yeah…i guess you’re right.” you still don’t feel reassured, but you don’t voice your doubts.

--

WEDNESDAY, NOV 22

“i think i might go mad,” camille says from her position on the armchair, her limbs splayed haphazardly across it and one hand stuck in a bag of chips.

you sigh. “you’re the one who wanted to watch this thanksgiving movie marathon.”

“the most mid holiday of the season,” jungkook adds.

“no one cares what either of you think, thanks.” it isn’t long before the program is over and the ending credits are rolling. with an exaggerated exhale, camille gets up from the chair and crunches the bag of chips in her hand. “i’m going to your room, y/n. you two just do whatever it is you do down here, since you hate my movie choices so much!”

“means we can finally turn the channel.” jungkook snatches the remote off the coffee table and does just that.

camille goes into the kitchen to throw out the chip bag and wash her hands. your focus returns to the TV. a few seconds later, you hear the upstairs flooring creak above the noise of the water pouring from the tap.

“what’s up, sis? i thought you were sleeping.” veronica is known to be a deep sleeper, so it’s not common for her to be getting up in the middle of the night. there’s no answer to your question. you glance upstairs, but your sister isn’t standing there; she isn’t standing at all, instead being carried by someone wearing an all-too familiar mask.

you scream as the killer tosses your sister over the stair railing. her torso has been sliced open from collarbone to navel, her body leaving a large splatter of blood on the floor where she lands. jungkook jumps to his feet but is momentarily immobilized as he gazes at your sister’s body crumpled on the floor. you slide off the couch and crawl over to her, still crying out, but there’s no life left to try and salvage.

the screaming brings camille rushing to the kitchen doorway. she can barely vocalize what’s wrong? before spotting veronica’s body and stopping in her tracks. in a moment that feels like it takes forever to pass, the killer pulls a gun from his waistband—you recognize it as one of the guns the policemen carry and realize he must’ve killed the bodyguard posted in the backyard—and shoots her in the chest twice.

“camille!” when you go over to where she’s lying on the ground, she is still alive but bleeding intensely and struggling to breathe. your knees slip in the blood that begins pooling around her. “shit, camille…p-please don’t die…” you press your hand against the wounds, but they’re bleeding so much that your efforts don’t help, and the pressure of your hand causes her more pain.

there’s the sound of a gunshot at the front door as the lock is blown off, and the door is banged open a few seconds later by the remaining bodyguard. he has virtually no time to fire off another shot before the killer is shooting him in the head first.

the killer throws the gun aside, taking his knife in his other hand and making his way down the stairs. “your sister left her window cracked open. i waited for days for a slip-up like that. see how much harm can come from a simple mistake? well, she was collateral damage anyway.”

even in your panic, it’s as if all your bodily functions freeze when you recognize the familiarity of the killer’s voice. camille reacts with a rattling gasp, but her body is becoming too weak for her to utter anything; all she can do is watch as the man stops at the bottom of the stairs and pulls his mask off.

“yoongi…” your voice breaks as you try to speak again, but nothing coherent comes out.

he drops the mask on the floor and brushes a hand through his hair. “i guess you weren’t expecting that. good. we kept it up ‘til the end.”

your lips form around the word we, but your vocal cords won’t cooperate. you twist around to look at jungkook, who is still standing by the couch.

the man who you’d gotten too close to for your own good and done so many firsts with, who’d promised you that he’d protect you and was even there for you on the day of lorelai’s memorial, looks at you now with eyes glowing from the thrill as his mouth twitches into a smile—small at first but growing into a full grin. “i almost can’t believe we staged all that shit and it actually worked. you really believed it all, y/n.

not all of those kills were hyung’s, of course...there’s no way i’d miss out on the best parts. you don’t know what it’s like until you kill a person for the first time. crashing cherry bomb was his idea, though. and lorelai was mine. that bitch would’ve kept you away from me, and i needed her gone for this kill to work.”

through tears, you finally muster up the strength to ask, “wh-why have you done this? that night…y-you mean to tell me none of that was real? being shot at—why would you—” your voice rises until you’re shouting. “you-you’ve killed so many people. what was the purpose?!”

jungkook’s smile fades somewhat as he pretends to think about it, acting like he’s reminiscing on wistful memories. “i realized that killing and fucking aren’t that different, y/n. the real ecstasy of it is in taking someone pure…and doing something to them that has never been done before, and can never be done again. there’s a certain eroticism in killing someone, stabbing them, entering them…it’s like sex in the most profane sense.”

“you’re disgusting,” you mutter, glaring at him through your tears. you can’t help but feel shame to think of the times you’d had sex with him. had he simply been imagining murdering you during those moments? it makes you want to throw up.

yoongi steps closer until he’s right in front of you and camille. “and as for me…i just enjoy it. practice really does make perfect. you wouldn’t believe how entertaining it can be to see someone beg for their life.” his lips turn upwards in a dark smile resembling jungkook’s. “but instead of raging at us, i think you have bigger matters to be concerned with.” yoongi gestures his knife hand to camille, and when you look down at her body, you realize she’s no longer moving.

you lift camille’s head up with your hands as if that could make her return your gaze, though you can find no sign of breathing or pulse. “god, no…” you scream in frustration, your hands slipping in her blood. you check once more and again for any signs of life, because there is just no possible way this could’ve happened, but there are none present. “please—i’m sorry…”

“time’s up.” yoongi grabs your arm and yanks you away from camille, jostling you to try to get you on your feet. you flail around in his grip, fruitlessly scratching at his arms that are covered by his thick jacket, before managing to elbow him in the groin with your frantic movements. “shit!” this causes him to loosen his grip, which is enough for you to scramble away from him, slipping in the blood as you go.

you make it to the other side of the room where the officer lies facedown—though there isn’t much left of his face from yoongi’s shot. you snatch the gun from the dead officer’s hand and point it in the direction of both men. the safety is already off; all you’d have to do is pull the trigger and kill either one of them right now. before you can act, yoongi uses his free hand to pull another gun from his waistband—his own.

“as i said before, i know how to take care of myself,” he says, flicking the safety off and aiming for you, though his stance shows he’s still in pain. “please don’t assume it’ll be that easy. do you even know how to shoot a gun?”

you and yoongi are at an impasse as you both point your guns at each other, jungkook looking on with casual amusement coloring his face. “fuck you,” you spit out. you remain hesitant to fire on him, knowing that even if you succeed, he could fatally shoot you at the same time.

“let’s not do it this way,” yoongi says, his voice low and soft in an attempt to be persuasive, though you just find it disturbing. “you were supposed to be a clean kill. a few stabs and it’d all be over. i’ll even let jungkook do it, since you seem to like each other so much. do you really want to be shot down like a dog like camille over there?”

“you and him can both fry in hell!” you shout.

yoongi glances over at jungkook. they both nod before yoongi hands the knife to him, and the younger man takes a few steps in your direction. you don’t know whether to point the gun at him or keep it trained on yoongi; your head is pounding with a headache that you’ve only just realized you have. “don’t come over here. stay away from me!”

you press your back to the wall as jungkook comes closer, inching towards your right side with his knife at the ready. you slide away from him as you keep your back against the wall. “hand it over, y/n. it doesn’t have to be like this.”

“hand it over and let you kill me? are you insane? you lied to me this whole time, you fucking piece of shit.”

jungkook scoffs and looks at yoongi as if to say can you believe this? “why wouldn’t i lie to you? you were always meant to die.”

he won’t stop coming towards you, and you’re running out of room to slide away from him. you grasp for anything to try to reason with him, though you know it’s futile. “you realize that if you kill me now and you conveniently survive, everyone will know it’s you? you’ve been living here for weeks, you jackass!”

“hyung and i have that covered. it’s not for you to worry about, considering you won’t be worrying about anything soon.”

jungkook lunges for you with the knife, thinking he can catch you off guard and overpower you. you scream and pull the trigger in your frenzied state of mind, shooting yoongi. the next few things seem to happen almost simultaneously:

you hear the crash of yoongi’s body hitting the TV stand and the TV falling to the floor.

you feel jungkook’s knife piercing your shoulder, causing you to fire a stray round into the wall from the unexpected burst of pain.

you hear another gunshot that’s not from you; you see and feel jungkook stumble into you, the knife sliding from his fingers and to the floor.

you realize that he’s been shot when his hand flies to the bullet wound on his lower back; he’d been standing in front of you, and yoongi meant to hit you, not him.

“jungkook!” yoongi’s shout is furious and regretful as he steadies himself on the TV stand.

trying to push the pain into the back of your mind, you clumsily grasp jungkook’s fallen knife and run for the stairs. more shots follow you and most of them miss but one, which strikes you in the thigh.  while you cling to the stair railing and try to regain your footing, you are suddenly staring mortality in the face and understanding with a freezing-cold clarity that you will die right now if you don’t do something.

your nervous system vibrates with fear and adrenaline as you tighten your grip on the police officer’s gun and shoot yoongi with it twice—in the same area he’d shot camille.

these last two bullets finish him off immediately. you don’t think it’s fair, with how camille suffered and bled and died in your arms. for a moment, you’re so outraged that you wish he’d come back to life so that you could kill him again. you’re torn from these thoughts by jungkook.

“you bitch…he was my only family after everyone else threw me away. do you understand? i’ll fucking kill you!” jungkook is nearly writhing in the ground from his upset and from the hurt of his injury; it frightens you that this same man is someone you once thought you could grow fond of.

you aim the gun for jungkook next, but the chamber is empty. either way, he currently has no weapon, which leaves you with a small chance to get away before he re-arms himself. throwing the gun away, you stagger up the rest of the steps while his screams continue echoing up to you.

you give no thought to the blood trail you’re leaving behind as you rush to veronica’s room and to the window yoongi had entered through. you begin squeezing yourself through, keeping your grip on your knife all the while, but your injuries make it difficult to move. a few more tears slip out as you try to balance your injured leg on the tree branch beneath the window, and the desperation of wanting to give up clings to you.

you hear jungkook’s heavy and limping footsteps coming up the stairs, and you attempt to hurry, but you’re only halfway out of the window. when he crashes into the room, it’s unnervingly easy for him to grab your arm and yank your body back through the window, uncaring of how you get scraped up in the process.

he jams you up against the nightstand with one of the kitchen knives to your neck to stop your movements; his harsh maneuver causes the objects on the nightstand to rattle. the nightstand’s edge digs into the backs of your thighs, the pressure causing your wounded thigh to hurt more.

“you want to know why i picked you?” jungkook hisses, the knife’s blade stinging your throat as it begins to break skin. “you were just another choice out of many, but i decided you’d be the first one that i’d fuck and kill.”

it’s painful to hear, but it angers you at the same time. “fuck you!” in your rage, you spit in his eyes. jungkook jerks back and the knife shifts from its previous position at your neck; you take those few seconds to grasp the alarm clock off the nightstand and crash it against his head.

“shit—!” he cries out, stumbling and grasping the side of his head. he tries to grab for you again, but you jump onto the bed and crawl away from him, your stomach lurching at all of veronica’s blood soaked into the sheets. you spot a small decorative glass bowl on the dresser—the one filled with little candies that you’d always teased veronica for, saying she was so much like a grandma handing out treats to her grandchildren. when your feet touch the ground again, you clasp your hand around it like it’s a lifeline and fling it at jungkook’s head as hard as you can, just as he makes it around the bed to your side. the shards cut his face when it breaks, slowing him down further as he grabs his slashed and bleeding face. one of his eyes is blinded from the blood and glass.

this will probably be your only chance while he’s struggling to gather himself. you rush towards him with the knife handle tight in both of your hands and drive the blade into the middle of his chest, putting all your strength into that movement—just as his own knife impales your abdomen.

you are both simultaneously struck from the shock of being stabbed, and it takes you a few long moments to piece your mind back together as the pain radiates throughout your body. jungkook groans when you shift the knife around in his wound as you pull it out, letting his blood flow out freely. his breaths become wet and rattling as he chokes on his own blood, the red fluid staining his mouth and dripping down to his neck. he jams his knife further into your wound in retaliation so that the handle is flush against your body, causing your head to spin.

“i-if i die, i’m taking you w-with me.” jungkook gasps with his remaining effort. his body starts to sag from its standing position as he weakens, his hand slipping from the knife handle. he loosely grasps the comforter with one hand as he collapses to his knees, his torso becoming soaked with blood and his head bleeding from your earlier hits.

you drop your knife and lean against the bed too, shifting your body to find a position that could lessen the pain, but it’s impossible with a knife lodged in your abdomen. you know enough to understand that you’ll bleed out faster if you remove it, though, so you resist the urge. “you can rot in hell alone, jungkook.” you watch him struggle for what feels like minutes before his breaths stop altogether and his body slumps to the floor. he is just a blur of clothes and blood through your tears. you’ve never felt so lonely in your life.

you have a thought to call 911, but you’re becoming more and more lightheaded from the blood loss, and you can already hear sirens approaching on your street. you figure one of your neighbors must’ve called after hearing the gunshots; perhaps the bodyguard sent for backup before he was shot. your rescue has come much later than you would’ve preferred—or maybe everything just happened much faster than it seemed. you can’t tell anymore.

you can’t tell anymore, and you no longer want to look at the carnage around you, and nothing makes any sense. so, you close your eyes to it all; and when you feel someone lifting you in their arms—this sensation is so familiar—and maneuvering you onto a stretcher, you allow yourself to relent to it and empty your mind of everything.

@ihatemen55 @cottoncandyclouds-stuff @yunhofingers @heybabesposts @twilight-loveer @whipwhoops @mrsminho @junecat18 @hoshi-is-ult-bbg @okayiamkassandra @witchbitxhxx @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad @thaiika @goldentea10 @iloverubberduckiez-blog @katie-tibo @ohsweetmimosa @dream-cvtcher @hoseokteardrop @lpgirl2324 @vanillacupcakefrosting @gukiemochi @jkslaugh97 @ahgasegotarmy116 @jeonjklibs @bangtans-momma @screamertannie @kenzietaetae @han-nah-banana @00frenchfries00 @taiwan0618 @laurynne5 @monvante @ynisthatyou @thiccthighs19 @jeonwiixard

[littlemissmentallyunstable]

there’s been lots of requests and comments so here it is PART 3!!! (SHE’S HERE first anon, hope you survived this long second anon and it was not a dream third anon, I’m posting/making it now fourth and fifth anon)

some of you were going feral for part 2 so I hope this lives up the expectation 😭😭 if not I’m severely sorry

title: the dancer and the angel part 3

pairing: grayson hawthorne x reader

synopsis: grayson has just admitted to kissing lyra kane, the girl you’d been worried about, the girl that was stunning, the girl he said didn’t matter… he chose her over you so now what??

parts: part 1 part 2

warnings: swearing, SPOILERS FOR TGG

a/n: okay so I hate switching POVs but I felt it was necessary here and I know the start is the same as the part 2 but in Gray’s POV but trust me there is lot more

tag list: @tornqdowarnings @whatsamongus @wish-i-were-heather @inmyheaddd @never-enough-novels @sweetlikeanangel @midiosaamor @sweetreveriee @emelia07 @f4iry-bell @zaraaaabear @thoughtdaughter3 @benny1989fredd @elysianwayy77 @maybxlle @sheisntyou @anintellectualintellectual @aleatorio1234 @adalia-jaycee @off-to-the-r4ces @lyra-kane @reminiscentreader @lyrakanefanatic @imaseabear @elizaa31

GRAYSON’S POV

Guilt has chewed me up and spat me out the whole walk back to our shared room. There’s a pulsating lump in my throat that aches relentlessly, reminding me of what I’ve done. I am a terrible person. I never deserved her and now I’ve done the worst thing I could’ve possibly done, that anyone on this whole planet could’ve ever done. And she will never forgive me for it. I wish there was a way to turn back time and alter certain events. As soon as the time machine is invented, no doubt by my very own brother Xander, I’m coming back to moments before now to stop my idiot brain from-

I can’t even think it. Maybe it’s because it makes it more real. It’s like the last few moments of my life have been erased from my brain, it’s a blank canvas and I have no paints. I know what I did but I can’t remember exact details. Still, I can taste her on my lips, an over sweet taste that was almost too sickly has now morphed into something bitter. Her perfume lingers on my clothes and adds to my ever growing headache. I don’t want to smell her, I don’t want the reminder of the awful human I have become. The monster that now inhabits my body, lives in my skin, breathes my air and poisons the people I love. The ones I truly love.

Y/n. At one point she was the only reason I was still existing, still carrying on. She somehow managed to give me the fight to keep carrying on. I got up most days because I knew I would get to see her face. And now I’m going to throw everything away, our whole relationship. Everything we’ve been through or planned to go through together. It will reduced to nothing in a few minutes.

I’m outside the door, my feet have carried me here through muscle memory. I must go in, I must face her I’m aware but I’m afraid. I’ve never felt so pathetic. I wonder if she is still asleep. Though, I can’t work out whether I’d rather she be awake or asleep. I don’t think I could bear to look at her angelic feature either way. Those wide eyes, round lips, heavenly- I can’t bear it, I’m going to lose her, all of her.

I fiddle around with the key, hoping the door will just never unlock so I don’t have to face this. The mechanism clicks, mocking me. I step in silently and face the door to lock back up again. I don’t understand why, I know I’ll be kicked out in a matter of seconds, what good will a locked door be? And yet I’m still facing the door, fumbling with the key, my back towards her. Though I can hear her getting out of bed. She’s awake. My body’s immediate response is to go into a state of paralysis. I can’t move as the guilt ridden cement hardens over my body, creating an outer shell of the cruel creature I’ve become. Her body is behind mine. I can feel her bright presence radiating her usual tentative nature.

“Are you okay?” I hear her whisper as she touches my arm so gently it stings.

It stings so sharply because I know what I’ve done. The shameful crime I’ve committed. I jerk away suddenly.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, deep concern in her tone.

It kills me. It’s a poisoned dagger wedged deep within my heart, hitting every vital artery. Her voice is so soft, so melodic. She cares so much, too much and I’m about to destroy it all. And as much as I could not say a word I couldn’t live a lie, the guilt would eat me alive. How could I look her in the eye and tell her she’d always been the only one when I know she hadn’t? She’d already noticed earlier today my distant mood. She had always been observant, vigilant about those things concerning me and I’d always been grateful. I wouldn’t have that anymore. Lyra had been on my mind earlier and I couldn’t tell her. Now she would realise.

“No,” I reply.

My voice is unfamiliar to myself, it’s sharp and blunt. It sounds horribly harsh. I could feel it hurt her, the air ripples with a touch of dimness when I hurt her. Even with my back to her it’s obvious to me. I know her so well, too well and from this day on we might drift to perfect strangers. That thought hurts me more than anything.

“Where have you been?” she says. Her voice so sweet, so innocent, cruelly naïve.

I don’t want to break her, I don’t want to do it. It would be like smashing a glass ballerina. Something so beautiful, something so delicate should be preserved not purposely broken. I force my eyes to meet hers. I immediately regret it. The soft mellow colour all melts into one, clawing at my heartstrings and ripping the organ to shreds. She’s so beautiful. How had I ever looked at any other? How had I let myself?

Suddenly I’m drowning in guilt. I don’t know how, it just comes over me suddenly. Like a tidal wave I had my back to. I’ve been swept under by an endless ocean of shame. My lungs swollen full of my own black sin. I don’t know how but I manage to choke out two shaky words.

“I’m sorry.”

My voice cracks. My voice never cracks. She knows that. I’m sturdy, I’m strong, I’m the rock that never breaks and here I am. Here I am crumbling into dust. She’s too smart to miss the signs, she’s too clever not to immediately know something so horribly wrong, her mind is too sharp not to have worked half of it out. She’d already been suspicious of Lyra. She’d already seen what might happen between us even before I did, before it did actually happen.

“Gray?” she asks, my name sounding too sweet on her tongue. The next time she says it will taste bitter, I’m sure of it. She barely whispers the word but I hear her, it rings in my mind. It forever will.

I’m full of pure regret and guilt, it wracks my soul, shaking me relentlessly back and forth until I’m dizzy with it. Remorse’s doors suddenly burst wide open, ready for my grand entrance. My hopes and dreams snicker and smirk smugly as I walk down the runway, my head hanging in embarrassment.

I need to tell her. My heart races in my chest and there’s a lump stuck in my throat, so large it’s started to block my airways. I don’t know how to get the words out, I don’t know how to talk. I feel like I’m suffering some sort of aneurysm. She looks at me, her eyebrows pinched in and eyes narrowed and then I see it. Her eyebrows part and slowly sink. She knows already.

“Tell me,” she murmurs, her voice of an angel shaking.

I close my eyes, trying to suppress the tears. I haven’t cried in years I’ve forgotten this feeling, this heavy weighted agony that ripples through me causing water to infiltrate my eyes. I bite the inside of my cheek and still my shaking hands.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, an uninvited raw desperation ripping through my voice, “I never wanted to hurt you, I never meant for it to happen, I-“

“Tell me,” she grits through her teeth sharply, her eyes glitter so beautifully fierce and fiery, like she wants to kill.

But I know she’s trying to steady her rising sadness by covering up with her fury. I can see through her, like she can see through me. I freeze and the pause elongates. The aching silence is deadly, it’s fatal. I wish she didn’t have to make me say it.

“I kissed her,” I murmur, the words making me feel sick as I say them.

“Who?” she asks, he tone low and ferocious, “who did you kiss? I want to hear you say it.”

I’m twisting a knife into her heart and I know it. But she wants me to cut deeper. She’s a woman of principle, I’ve already hurt her, I might as well do the job properly in her eyes. And I can’t deny her this. Not I’ve stripped her of her dignity, her trust, her love, her everything.

“I kissed Lyra,” I whisper, suddenly aware of the dampness on my cheeks.

A sour taste fills my mouth. The words send lightning sparks across my jaw, sending ribbons of agony down the sides of my face. The truth hurts. Literally. Tears are rolling the side of my face, but I don’t bring my hand to wipe them and nor do I stop them. I’ve never felt more broken.

But she doesn’t care, there is not pity in her eyes. Good. I don’t want he to pity me. She should hate me. She should want me to miserable and hope for me to have a lifetime of the torture I’ve just forced her to endure.

“Get out,” she murmurs, the anger bringing out her natural stunning features. A flicker of boldness in her eyes, the striking angles of her eyebrows, her strong thick lashes and her full lips.

“I’m sorry.” they’re the only words I remember how to say, through my internal fit of torment.

I expect her to hit me around the face, a good strong punch I know she can make or a sharp smack that’ll leave a red hand mark pressed against my cheek. I imagine she might scream at me and ask me all the questions I wish I had answers to. But she does none of that. She only looks at me darkly and utters two last words.

“Leave Grayson.”

I can hear the tears she’s trying to hold back, through the numb façade. I know her better than she’ll ever realise. But it’s not fair for me to stay, not after this. She’s only asking one thing of me when she should be doing so much more. So I do. I turn my back on her again. And I leave.

***

Tears pummel down my cheeks like never before. I can’t remember the last time I cried. I don’t think I’ve ever cried like this. I’m blinded by them as I stumble sideways. I don’t know where I’m going. I stand on the edge of the cliff and sink to my knees, letting out a loud guttural scream. I’m there until my throat is so raw I can’t feel it. I bite my lip so hard it draws blood. And then I’m up again and running, following a path my footsteps are dragging me towards. I can’t think straight, I’m dizzy with pain. Before I know it I’m outside the safe house on the island. My hands tremor on the handle and I swing open the door, falling to the floor for my sobs to take me over. My chest aches and burns and tightens. That’s when I realise I can’t breathe properly. I fumble around for my phone, a tear splashing into the illuminated screen. With uncontrollably shaking hands, I typed no words. Just three numbers.

911

***

The wait feels like years, maybe even decades. Each second taunts me, with a mocking tick. I’d crumbled into the corner of the room at some point and stayed there, curled up and choking on my own sorry sobs. What had I done? What had I done? What had I done?

The question circles around my head like the nostalgia of a distorted tune of a merry go round. I’ve never made such a big mistake and my life and deep down there’s a sinking sensation that is telling me I’m not going to be able to make this better. I sob, loud harsh sobs that hurt my lungs and knock the air out of my stomach. My whole being shakes with every strangled noise that escapes my lips. Grieving. I’m grieving over something I chose to throw away. It’s cruelly ironic. But I think part of me is also grieving the good man I once thought myself to be, that she made me believe I could be.

I turned my back on the one and only person in this world who just cared about me, took me for who I am and believed I could do anything. She only wanted the best, she only wanted happiness and she deserved so much more and here I am, stabbing her in the back and dancing in her blood like a madman. She was my everything and I managed to mess it up, just like everything else in my life. I can’t have normal relationships, I can’t do something without messing it up. I’m one big screw up the opposite of how the old man raised me to be. He’s looking down on me now and I can feel his disappointment, like an infection coursing through my bloodstream. I failed him, I failed my brothers, I’ve failed her, I’ve failed myself.

She thought I was better, she believed I could be more than his expectation. And I was stupid enough to believe it, encourage it and let her belive the lie too. We’re all idiots.

I can recite her favourite song, her favourite flower, her favourite food and favourite colour. I can tell you all about her favourite novels and how she orders her books on an endless bookshelf. I know that she tells people her favourite film is ‘it’s a wonderful life’ but it’s actually secretly ‘tangled’. I know she prefers to stay inside and cuddle under blankets rather than have a night out. I know she’d rather reason a thousand books than watch a thousand movies. I know she wanted a library in her dream house and two, maybe three children with her husband and I know she’d sometimes debate about getting a cat as well. I know how she loves brownie batter more than the actual brownies and can’t sleep with any lights on. I know she still uses the bunny rhyme to tie her shoelaces and how she fiddles with her collarbone when she’s nervous. I know exactly what diamond she wanted in her engagement ring and her favourite country. I know what people she despises and I know what people she adores. I know every inch of her face, every hair on her head, every sparkle in her eyes and every cell on her skin.

I know her.

I know her, but that can’t help me now. Pain ripples across the left side of my chest and my hand clamps over it as I grit my teeth to try and bear it. I hear the door creek open and can’t tell whether it comforts me or not.

“Grayson pookie!” Xander calls out, “we’re here.”

His cheerful voice doesn’t provide me with the cushion to this pain I thought it might.

“And we have some in incredibly strong whisky,” Jameson adds, I can here the mischievous grin in his voice, it’s been the same all of his life.

“My nose hairs are officially burnt off,” Xander agrees.

I can’t speak. I try to call out for them but the words die in my swollen throat.

“Where are you Gray?” Nash calls out, he sounds a little more worried than the other two but is concealing it well.

“Here,” my voice is hoarse and laboured, even I can’t recognise it.

The mood immediately shifts, you can feel it. The air becomes tainted with concern as their footsteps approach my cowering figure. The case of whiskey is dropped as there is an audible thunk as it hits the floor. I can feel their bodies enveloping around mine creating something of a circle of safety. I look up to worried face and shiny eyes.

“Help me,” I gasp for air, greedily trying to gulp down the oxygen that I feel so deprived of, “please.”

“We’re here to help you Gray,” Nash murmurs softly. His voice had always been something comforting, especially when I was younger. I wonder if he will be so kind when I tell him what I’ve done. He’s going to hate me, there’s nothing he despises more than a man who can’t respect a woman.

I shake my head and choke out another struggling sob, instead of the words I don’t know how to say. Jameson’s eyes flit between mine and Nash’s, the concern rippling across his features. He’s never looked this concerned for me in his life. I think to all the times as children I’d helped him settle after a nightmare and wiped his tears that he hated falling when the old man had humiliated him. Oh how the tables had turned. Now it was my little brother wiping my tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his touch so gentle it shocks me.

“I can’t-“ I barely get out, wrapping my hands around my neck.

“Gray…” he trails off, unmasked emotion hitting his face like a train.

“I can’t breathe,” I wheeze as the invisible blanket that was set out to suffocate me tightens over my nose and mouth.

“Hey, Gray, look at me,” Nash says, his voice smooth and reassuring, “in and out okay, in and out.”

“I can’t,” I pant, my limbs shaking embarrassingly uncontrollably.

Xander takes both of my hands into his and squeezes them until they still, “yes you can, follow Nash’s instructions okay?”

“Slowly, do it with me,” Nash nods, “in through your nose and out through your mouth.”

I do. In and out, a rhythmic pattern. Each time Nash reminds me how to breathe. There’s an aura of calmness about his voice that lulls my panic into a narcoleptic sleep. Once my breathing is halfway regulated I look at him, dead in the eye, with shaking sorrowful lips.

“I fucked up,” I sob, “I fucked up and I don’t know what to do.”

They all share a look, this is the worst state they’ve seen me and we all know it. I begin to pathetically sob uncontrollably once again, the feelings building up in my chest and tearing me apart from the inside out. It’s like a rabid pack of wolves had been set loose to feed on my internal organs. I don’t know how to stop the ocean of tears, I don’t know how to shut my mind off, I don’t know how to help myself. Reel myself in from this abominable mess I’ve become. I’m hyperventilating, my chest throbbing up and down unevenly. Nash nods towards Jameson, a short, soft, sharp nod of approval.

“Hey! Calm down!” Jameson snaps, giving me a hard slap around the face, “snap out of this!”

The shock shuts me up and the sting stops my tears. I’m back to reality instead of a wallowing mess. Nash must’ve been approving the slap I realise in the sudden cleared head I’d obtained

“Sorry,” Jameson mumbles at me, looking a little guilty.

I massage my jaw, “no I think I needed that.”

He grimaces and then softens his tone, “what happened Gray?”

I tense, growing very still, “I can’t say it out loud, I can’t, I’m awful, I’m horrible-“

“What happened?” Nash drawls.

I choke out yet another unnatural sound. Seems the slap didn’t snap me hard enough into reality. I exhale slowly. I have to say it, now or never.

“I kissed Lyra.”

The words hurt even more this time, that they did when I’d admitted it to y/n. Neither one of my brothers can mask their honest reaction.

“Oh fuck,” Jameson blurts out, “you cheated?”

Anger. He’s fuming with me. I can see the rage trailing through his eyes and blossoming into his expression.

“I didn’t mean to,” I reply, feeling like a small child.

Jameson’s eyes widen and fury flashes across his face, “how can you not mean-“

Nash shoots him a look and his mouth glues shut. Then he turns to me and I can’t quite read him yet. I gulp.

“No one does that kind of thing for no reason,” he says sternly, “I never thought you’d be the one of the four of us to ever do that, seems I was mistaken little brother.”

Disappointment. He’s disappointed. A horrible sinking feeling settles in my stomach. Nash is disappointed in me. It’s one of the worst feelings imaginable. There had only been few times in my life when he had been and I remember the feeling all too well. Shame has me in a chokehold an it’s succeeding in strangling me. I can‘t bring myself to meet his eyes, I don’t want to see that look I can feel is on his face, that look of pure disapproval.

“How did she find out?” Xander asks quietly.

Shock. He hadn’t said anything until now, but his lips had been slightly parted and he’d paled a little. He never thought I’d do this to anyone, he’s yet another person I’ve let down.

“I told her,” I murmur, “the guilt was consuming me.”

“As it should,” Jameson snaps, twitching with a fiery ferocity.

“Jamie,” Nash says, trying to keep some kind of diplomacy.

“No,” he growls, “you don’t do that to a girl, your girl, you can’t do that!”

“Don’t take the moral highground now,” I spit.

“When you’ve cheated on your girlfirend? Yeah I think I will,” he replies, the bitterness rolling off of his tongue like a deadly poison. He doesn’t know I’ve already poisoned myself with my own actions, his words can’t hurt me.

“I didn’t mean to,” I falter.

“Bullshit,” he grits through his teeth, in two definitive and threatening symbols.

“Careful Jamie,” Nash warns.

“All this is your fault anyway,” I continue, ignoring the warning.

“So it’s my fault, you kissed another girl, yeah, okay Gray,” he nods his head with a sarcastic smile.

“It is!” I exclaim, throwing my hands in the air, “if you hadn’t locked me in a room with her-“

“So it’s my fault you couldn’t keep up dick under control,” he quips, interrupting me.

“You could’ve locked me with my one of my sisters but of course you just had choose the only girl who isn’t related to me,” I seethe.

“Odette isnt related to you,” Xander pipes up. I’d forgotten he was there, that anyone besides me and Jameson were there.

“Odette is old enough to be my grandmother,” I scowl at him, immediately feeling bad as the words leave my lips, but don’t dwell on it as I turn back to Jameson, “why did you make me a player in your sick excuse of a game?”

“You can’t use the game as an excuse,” he laughs darkly.

“I will,” I reply sharply, “this is your fault and Avery’s fault too.”

“Avery? Don’t make me laugh,” he rolls his eyes.

“The game never should’ve been created by her,” I yell, “that’s why I’m in this mess!”

“No, you’re in this mess because of you,” he shouts back, “but don’t you dare bring Avery in to this it’s not her fault.”

I feel like I’m one of those circus acts, the ones that lay on a spinning board and get knives hurled at them. Only in my case the knives are the truth and they actually hit me.

“Why did you make me a player?” I ask quieter now, my voice hoarse, “why?”

“I didn’t know making you a player would result in this,” he says.

“It was so irreverent,” I snap becoming angrier by the second, a sudden burst of red overriding any rational sense in my head, “I never needed to play.”

“You can’t pin this on me Gray, if it didn’t happen with Lyra, who knows who else it would’ve happened with,” he hisses.

“So you think I’m just like this? You think this is me?” I ask him, prodding the hollow space where my heart used to be.

“I didn’t before….” he trails off, sighing, “but now I don’t know what the fucking think of you.”

“Jamie,” Nash repeats again, in the same warning tone as before. We both ignore him.

“Just because you and Avery are all peaches and roses-“

“Leave Avery out of your anger issues,” he roars defensively.

“No,” I counter, raising an eyebrow, mirroring his usual argument demeanour, “you think you’re so perfect now you’ve got your dream girl and the two of you are so much better off than the rest of us, because your love is undeniable or whatever bullshit people feed you about it-“

Jameson’s features twitch for a split second. He’s hurt, but won’t show it. He’ll refuse but I know that it hit a nerve that won’t heal for a long time. I stop mid-sentence.

“I am far from perfect, I think we both know that,” he says, in a low voice, “look you’re hurting, I get it, but I’m not going to mollycoddle you and tell you it’s okay when it’s not. I’m not going to stand here and lie to your face because as your brother that would be the worst possible thing for me to do to you.”

“My brother would try and understand what it’s like from my side,” I say, desperation clawing at my voice.

“You’re looking for a fight Grayson and it’s not going to end well, not with me,” he warns, shaking his head.

“Maybe I do want a fight, but you know you do too,” I growl rolling up my sleeves, “so fine, I’ll give you a fight Jamie.”

“I don’t want a fight, I want some justice for y/n,” he states simply, “she did nothing to deserve that Gray, she’s been so good to you, the sweetest soul on this earth and she’s helped you through a lot of shit and this is how you’re repaying her?”

“Jameson,” Nash says.

He ignores him for the third time and I can see his calm facade beginning to drop, “you think because you called a 911 and you’re here crying that I should feel sorry for you?”

“I thought you were going to be here for me,” I reply numbly, my tone dead, “clearly I’m mistaken.”

“I can’t be there for someone with no morals,” he replies, “you cheated and you’re the one who’s upset about it, how do you think she feels?”

“You think I don’t know her?” I fire back, my throat burning, “you think I don’t know exactly what she’s doing right now? I hate myself, I hate myself for doing what I did!”

“Good you should!” he screams back.

Before I know it I feel myself charges towards him, ready to throw a good punch but Nash and Xander launch onto me to quickly and managing to hold me back. Nash’s grip is so tight I don’t dare try and budge.

“Out. Now.” Nash says sharply to Jameson, “go and cool off.”

His tone sends a shiver down my spine that I won’t admit to. Jameson opens his mouth to argue.

“Jameson.”

He skulks away, with a sullen face. We all wait frozen until the door has been slammed shut. Nash lets my arm go, dropping it harshly and Xander follows suit.

“And you’re no better,” he turns to me, placing his cowboy hat on a nearby surface, “I’m only sending him away because you can’t be left alone in this mess and so the two of you don’t rip each other to pieces.”

Silence stills the room. His voice echoes but makes no sound all at the same time.

“Take a second, take a breath and we’re going to talk this through like adults,” he says, “if you want to carry on being a child then leave. Calm down, you’re not a toddler having a tantrum, you’re a grown man, act like it.”

Nash has a way of snapping me back to reality. I nod shakily.

“Talk.”

I begin, “I don’t even know why I kissed her, I didn’t mean to it just-“

“Happened?” he guesses, “no little brother, that doesn’t just happen.”

“The I don’t know Nash,” I say, tipping my head back and resting it on the wall behind me.

I hadn’t meant for it to happen. I didn’t want it to happen. It just did. She was there, just stood there. Her hands looped naturally around the back of my neck, warm and gentle, “someone sent me that ticket Grayson. I thought it was Avery but if it wasn’t…”

She trails off, her voice small and tentative. Her golden eyes filled with the utmost worry. I wanted her to know she’d be okay, that she’d have someone to keep her safe. Her arms get more comfortable around my neck. She’d felt it too, the electrifying spark between us. It was exhilarating but something about it was off, synthetic.

“Then who the hell was it?” I questioned, my hands magnetised to her cheek all of a sudden.

Lyra didn’t pull away and neither did I. I lower my head and she raised onto her toes and titled hers back a little. She was graceful, like a dancer. My lips brushed over hers. They were sweet like honey. For the first few moments it was bliss and the realisation hit, like a stone to my stomach. I jerked backwards suddenly, shaking my head.

“I can’t do this,” I said, my fingers trying to wipe her taste off of my lips, “I don’t- this isn’t-“

I was tongue-tied, not able to explain to her how wrong it was. The words wouldn’t work the way I wanted them to.

“Gray?” Lyra murmurs, a tender voice. Her amber eyes are widened and slightly confused.

“No,” I yell. She flinches and another wave of horribly strong emotion rushes over me, drowning me. “No I’m in love with someone else. I don’t know what that was. I can’t-“

I stumbled backward a few steps and the turned around and ran. Like the coward that I am.

“It did just happen,” I murmur, lifting my head from the wall to look my older brother in eye, “I swear to god, I didn’t intend for it to happen, I didn’t even know I had feelings for her.”

I can see he disagrees still and isn’t convinced. I don’t know how to prove it to him.

“Let’s establish one thing here, who do you like?” Xander asks me.

“I like Lyra,” I say slowly, “but I love y/n.”

Nash shakes his head, “if you loved her you wouldn’t have done that.”

“I made a mistake,” I press on.

“And you will pay for it and regret it for the rest of your life,” he shrugs, “it’s not what you wanted to hear but it’s the truth. Listen, I love Libby and loving someone means so many things. One of those things is that I don’t even look at other women, to me they don’t even really exist. Libby is my world and no one else even comes into the equation, so the fact is someone else came into the equation for you, meaning the love wasn’t there.”

“But it was, I felt it,” I say, my voice breaking as I press my chest.

“What do you feel for Lyra?” he asks plainly.

“I don’t know, she’s intriguing and smart and beautiful,” I murmur, “and I like her, but I don’t know if I have romantic feelings for her.”

“Then why did you kiss her?”

“Comfort? Lust? Greed? Selfishness? I don’t know it just happened,” I repeat for what feels like the hundredth time.

“Stop using that phrase as a get out clause,” Nash shakes his head, “you have to admit to yourself more than anyone that this didn’t just happen.”

“I leaned in and I put my lips of hers, and I didn’t stop it, it didn’t feel wrong straight away,” I admit out loud finally.

“It didn’t?” Xander says, looking wounded.

“No, it didn’t feel wrong until I realised what I’d done,” I say, looking down, suddenly finding my shoelaces to be the most interesting thing in the world.

No one replies for a long while. That’s when I realise how exhausted I truly am and how much I crave sleep.

“I vouched for you,” Xander says quietly, “I told her that you’d never do that, that you weren’t that guy.”

“I’m not,” I say, in denial at first. I take a moment to analyse his sentence and then come to a sickening realisation, “oh my god I am…”

“She was already anxious about where your loyalties were Gray,” he winces.

“I proved her right, I proved every worry she had right, I just proved to her that she shouldn’t have trusted me,” I spiral, hating that I hadn’t seen it sooner.

Xander looks to Nash for support for a reply.

“Yeah,” Nash sighs, “you did.”

“I need to fix this, there has to be a way-“

“Grayson,” the acuteness of his voice cuts through my sentence like a machete.

I freeze and clamp my mouth firmly shut.

“This isn’t a broken vase, you can’t glue it back together or buy a new one,” he tells me softly.

He was referring to a time where Jameson and I had been seven and eights years old. We’d been brawling of course, Hawthorne style and accidentally smashed a vase. Usually it wouldn’t matter, there were vases all over Hawthorne House and they were smashed frequently. But this wasn’t just any vase. It was nan’s priceless vase that had belonged to her daughter, our grandmother, Alice. We were never allowed within a five mile radius of it, but like the rebellious children we were, we didn’t listen. Through our fight we’d smashed the whole thing, it was truly destroyed. The two of us stayed up for nights on need gluing together the pieces only to realise it was never going to look like the original again. So we’d hunted to buy another, problem was, this vase was one of a kind. It turned out after four weeks or trying to ship a similar one in that nan had known the whole time. She didn’t speak to either of us for a good few months.

“This is real life, she is a real person and you hurt her,” he explains, “fixing this isn’t an option. There isn’t a way to fix it, there are no pieces to our back together, okay?”

I’m silent but it’s the loudest voice in the room. My face pinches together in agony. For the first time, a little of the disappointment fades and my brother’s face softens. He wraps a strong arm around me and I flop into him like a lifeless bag of nothingness. I bury my head into his shoulder and try to cry but there seems to be no tears left. He understands and holds me for a moment. Suddenly I’m six years old again and crying in Nash’s in my arms over Jameson hiding my favourite teddy bear at the time, then I’m eleven in his arms with pneumonia after being stupid enough to get caught in the rapids un the dead of winter wanting a good photograph of a rare fish, then I’m seventeen, crying over a redheaded girl who I thought I’d managed to murder. And now here I am, at twenty-two years old in his grasp once again, having made the greatest mistake of my life.

Suddenly I feel another set of arms wrap around the both of us.

“Group hug!” a familiar voice sings.

Leave it to Xander to make me crack a half smile in the darkest moments I’ve ever experienced. After a while I pull away and sigh.

“Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?” I ask, pulling away.

“Honestly?” Xander asks.

I nod

“No,” he says. I wish I could see that little glimmer of a lie in his eyes, but I can’t. And it kills me.

“Think about it like this,” he sighs, “would you forgive Eve for what she did?”

“This is not the same thing,” I reply coldly.

“Eve cheated your trust, she betrayed you,” he explains gently, “that’s exactly how she feels.”

Dread fills my every pore as I murmur lifelessly, “I’m as bad as Eve.”

“No wait,” he says, looking guilty and panicked all at the same time, “that’s not what I meant!”

“I know,” I reassure him so some of his guilt subsides, “but it’s true and now I’ve just realised.”

“Look Gray, you aren’t Eve. You’re never going to be Eve, but think of how you felt then. That’s how y/n feels,” Nash soothes, “she’s not going to just forgive you, that’s not how it works.”

“You just broke her heart Gray,” Xander adds, careful to keep his tone as light as a feather, “for a girl you just met.”

“Why am I horrible person? Why do I always find a way to mess to something good?” I groan, smacking my head on the wall behind me. There’s an audible thump as pain spreads through the back of my skull. I wonder if I can concuss myself to forget all of this, but I don’t attempt the idea.

“You don’t-“

“No I do,” I say firmly, cutting him off, “I’m not meant for love, to love or to be loved, I’m not built for it. I’m not a good enough person for it. I’m never going to find my Libby or my Max or my Avery.“

“Grayson-“ Nash begins.

“Emily knew it and now so does y/n,” I snap.

My brothers still at her name, not moving a muscle. I never bring up Emily.

“Listen to me,” Nash says sharply, getting my attention, “you are meant to be loved. You are meant to love. I love you, Xander loves you, Jameson loves you and y/n loved you too…”

The change of tense makes my soul ache.

“…but this time around, you made a mistake, a costly mistake. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve love.”

I nod numbly, robotically.

“What can I do to make it up to her?” I ask, my voice beginning to tremble, “to show her I’m sorry? Something there has to be something.”

Nash gives me a grim look and Xander’s face remains blank, they’re the only answers I need. My head sinks into my hands. The door reopens and I look back up. Jameson has returned.

He meets my eyes, “Avery’s with her.”

Blood surges through my heart and I can almost smile. He checked on her. For me.

“Is she okay?” I ask quickly.

Jameson looks at me and for a split second I almost see the ghost concern is his eyes. He shakes his head softly, “no, but she will be,” he replies, it’s an attempt to comfort me and I am grateful.

“Thank you,” I mumble.

“I’m not apologising for what I said, because I still stand by it and you won’t change my mind,” Jameson says, “but I am sorry for being so angry about it.”

“You were right,” I whisper, “you were right about me. I never deserved her, so was nothing but an angel to me and I just turned around and threw it all away. I abused the luxury I had, I stabbed her in the back and then gifted another with the knife, I’m a horrible person.”

“What you did was wrong, but that’s doesn’t make you a horrible person,” he sighs, “you need time Gray, this is going to take a lot of healing. On both sides.”

“I don’t deserve to heal, I deserve to be in pain,” I murmur, the dullness in my tone echos around the empty walls.

“Oh no, we’re not going back to emo Grayson,” Xander says quickly, shaking his head.

“I agree with Xander on this one,” Nash nods, readjusting his cowboy hat.

“I don’t want to hear you blasting my chemical romance at three a.m and then denying it later again, you came out of that phase we’re not going back there,” Jameson tells me.

I bark out a laugh that thaws my icy chest. I then bite the inside of my cheek.

“I can’t fix this, can I?” I say, looking at the ground,

Nash shakes his head softly.

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t be fixed,” Xander says.

“You’ll get through this Gray,” Jamie agrees, “I know it.”

The room grows still.

“Can we drink that whiskey now?” I ask, to cut through the silence. I feel like getting drunk, I feel like I need some relief.

“Big brother,” Xander nods at Nash handing him the bottle.

“Little brother,” he tips his cowboy hat in reply before taking the bottle into his hands and cracking it open.

“Let me pour these things properly,” Nash grins, “Jamie, come help.”

“Wait me too!” Xander jumps up,

“Stay with Gray,” he shakes his head.

“I don’t need to be babysat,” I grumble, annoyance written all over my face.

“I want to watch them pour whiskey properly,” Xander explains, “so I can impress Max.”

My eyebrows fly to my forehead, “Max drinks?”

“No I want to impress her though,” he grins.

‘You’re an odd human,” I almost laugh, tilting my head to the side.

“Why ta very much!” he says, almost skipping away.

Once I know they’re all gone, I lean back on the wall, my heart feeling a tiny bit less heavy. The pain isn’t gone. I think I’ve just gone numb. I feel hollow, empty, nothingness. Guilt is still gnawing at my insides but slower. A satifying clink against the fragile rim of the glass takes me out of my own head for a split second. There are hushed voices from the kitchen, I notice. I walk over to the door that lay ajar, I lean in to listen.

“We need to tell him,” it sounds like Jameson.

“Not now,” the accent indicates Nash.

“Then when?” Xander’s voice asks, “how long can we prolong it.”

“I can hear you,” I tell them, raising my voice a little.

They turn to face me, awkwardly remaining silent. The expressions on their faces don’t offer me comfort.

“Whatever it is, spit it out,” I say, “it’s not like tonight could get any worse.”

They share a look. Apparently it can. I feel sick to my stomach.

I can barely breathe, “who died?”

“No one has died,” Xander says quickly, “yet.”

“What?” I say, my tone deadly,

Nash glares at him, then turns back to me. There’s sorrow laced delicately, deep within his hazel irises.

“Gray,” he says gently, “Gray we hate to do this but…”

“What? What is it?” I ask urgently.

“Gigi’s missing.”

The words shock me to my core. I feel my throat begin the close up as panic returns with a smirk and triumphant greeting. My whole world has collapsed in less than 24 hours.

***

YOUR POV

I don’t hate him. Call me naive or call me stupid. But I don’t. I don’t think I ever could. The kind of love I have for him is unconditional, irrevocable. Time can’t heal a wound this deep and although it is still fresh now, I can tell. But if he were to say sorry I think I would forgive him every time. And if he asked me back I’d fall into his arms into an instant. And I hate myself for it, it’s stupid and it’s a little cruel. How easily I would take him back after what he did. I know I shouldn’t but something inside of me is drawn to him. Like an invisible magnet has been planted in our hearts. I wish I didn’t love so hard, fall so deeply, maybe I wouldn’t get hurt so badly. But it’s in my nature, it’s who I am. I wonder if he knows how much pain I’m in, the rippling agony that rolls across my chest relentlessly with no hint as to when it will cease. I’m tired of being the second choice but unfortunately I wouldn’t mind being his. And I know it’s completely stupid of me to think that way, completely wrong but love makes you do stupid things so they say. I sit on the beach, by the sea in a state of numbness. Silent tears roll down my tears as the waves lap my feet. Deja vu washes over me and the memories of Grayson and I the night of the game flash through my mind.

I grip his hand and run with him as he guides me the just beyond the shore. He sits down swiftly on the sand and pulls me down to sit between his legs. I lean my back onto his chest and let him nuzzle his face into my collarbone.

“I love you,” he whispers, kissing my neck, “only you.”

Only me, huh? Only me…

The waves crash against the rocks, hurtling a salty spray towards me. I hear footsteps and turn around. Avery stands there, a mournful expression over her delicate face. She knows. I stumble towards her and collapse into her arms in a fit of uncontrollable sobs now and she holds me. Her touch is gentle and warm but it’s nothing compared to his. I realise he might never hold me in his arms again and I cry even harder.

***

I don’t hold Lyra accountable. She is not to blame. Some girls in my position might dream about different ways to brutally murder her but I can only ask what comfort would it bring me? My feelings are already dead, what good is more pain doing?

There was a choice that Grayson Hawthorne was given: his dancer or his angel. He chose his dancer and I hope he’s happy. Because angels have wings and we rise up stronger.

idk guys I think I wrote Grayson’s POV really awfully to be honest… also I feel like the 911 meet up was not like their normal ones where they try and like do something (e.g drink or dare) and then talk about the pain but that’s bc Grayson was in such a mess and then they had to drop the bomb that Gigi was missing. so anywayyyss…

I am sorry this took so long and I hope it lived up to any expectation you wanted it too (sorry if it didn’t) and I hope you enjoyed 🤍🤍 thanks for reading as always

TIG masterlist

[cheralith]

to a heart's content — 「 single father!miguel o'hara x reader (part iii) 」

content warnings ; fem!reader, implied fem bodied!reader, use of she/her pronouns, reader wears dresses and makeup, mild violence mention

contains ; single father!miguel o'hara, boss!miguel o'hara, assistant!reader, angst, angst with some comfort, unedited/not beta read as of 2/24

word count ; 8.5k

notes ; we're so back. am i severely late to posting this? very. did i at least get it done after too many months? also yes. i also apologize in advance to those i tagged that are no longer interested in the series, as i merely tagged people that had commented regardless of time. lmk if you no longer want to be tagged in the last part, i promise i won't take offense at all!

parts ; one two three four (tba)

THREE YEARS AGO

“My name is (Y/N) (L/N), it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. O’Hara. Please let me assist you at any need possible.”

Miguel peered at you through his reading glasses, averting his attention from his laptop to fully examine the stranger that stood in his office. Dark hazelnut eyes scan the appearance of a young woman dressed in black slacks and an ironed white blouse standing stiffly next to his superiors that eyed him with more eagerness than he liked. He could already tell that you were a shy one, a person that wasn’t too accustomed to the outside world and its people; you stood with stiff posture; it was one that exemplified nerve rather than confidence from the way that you almost seem paralyzed in your place. 

Caldworth, one of the superiors that stood by your side, placed a wrinkly and veiny hand on your shoulder and showed you off to him as if you were a painting up for bidding. “We choose a sharp one for you. (Y/N) here is rather attentive, so don’t be shy about letting her get to know you better, Miguel.”

Miguel stayed quiet, still skeptical about this sudden new arrangement for him that was brought up at the last minute. He lacked a certain sort of anticipation that would usually behold anyone else in his position—a new person entering their work life would usually be an exciting, rousing meeting seeing as how it would be a new addition to what the higher-ups would refer to as “family.” A loose term, Miguel often thought… very loose, even. To even have the courage to compare coworkers to something as intimate as family was something that didn’t sit well with Miguel. Blame it on the certain circumstances on his own familial life, but even anyone else that had their brain in the somewhat of the right spot would understand that mere coworkers were nothing compared to family.

At least in his case.

“I’ve greatly admired your work in the past,” you said almost robotically, “so I hope I can be of any help in your future accomplishments—no matter how big or small.”

Miguel cocked his head. He fought the urge to raise an eyebrow at what he began to concur was something scripted via his superiors. Something about your tone of voice seemed… flat; devoid of any actual enthusiasm. 

Caldworth and his partner began to see themselves out, leaving him to babysit you. “Well, you two have at it! Maybe go out for a cup of coffee to familiarize yourselves, get to know each other better since you both are essentially going to be around each other all the time,” Caldworth stated, making Miguel twitch from the last part. 

Just before they left, Caldworth offered the glint of his eye over his shoulder, the peek of a tight-lipped grin ever so slightly visible.

“And don’t forget, we’re all family here!” he cheered before the slam of a door shut you and Miguel in.

Immediately, Miugel noticed that your shoulders caved inward, indicating that you were finally able to breathe properly without the surveillance of people that were essentially in charge of your life. He eyed you again from the top of his glasses before he took them off and rested them in between his fingers, letting them dangle lazily. 

“Did they tell you to say that?”

You jolted in your spot. Nerves seemingly reshocked with the same anxiety from before, you turned yourself to face your new boss again with a much more paled, yet evident expression—wide-eyed, pursed-lipped, gritted jaw—and swallowed thickly. Almost in a shameful manner, you silently nodded your head. 

“W-was…” you started, “was it that obvious?”

“Somewhat,” Miguel murmured simply and closed his laptop. “Don’t listen to what they say, just make yourself as comfortable as possible. I’m sure neither of us want to be that comfortable with each other.”

Your lips pressed themselves into a tight line, hitching a sharp breath before it’s replaced with another stiff nod. There was no user’s manual of sorts that was given to you by your superiors. They merely told you to do exactly what Miguel needed, so if this is what he wanted—for you two to maintain distance—then so be it. If anything, it’s easier to breathe this way for both parties. 

And it was like that for a rather long time; the both of you never came too close to the other person. It was strictly a professional workplace relationship, one that didn’t issue any room for intimacy because it wasn’t needed. There were no lunch or dinner get-togethers outside work hours, there was barely any small talk between you both, and you and he didn’t even bother getting each others’ personal numbers despite being consistently around the other like air—both parties thought the work phones were more than enough. There was no need for you to learn about his likes, his dislikes, his favorite foods, and Miguel couldn’t certainly be bothered with your own slices of life. To each their own, if you minded your business about him, he’d do the same to you. 

It was a fair trade and a sufficient barter that satisfied you and him; there need not be any excess of the unnecessary.

That was, until a certain day that Miguel was held back during his usual hours to continue working on lab reports—work that didn’t allow him freedom from this hell of a company to see his own salvation.

“If it’s an urgent matter, Mr. O’Hara, I don’t mind taking on some of the workload,” you had said softly as you placed the last stack of packets on his desk that needed proper annotation. “I’m your assistant, after all. It’s my job to help you out.”

Miguel rubbed his forehead out of exhaustion and shook his head, “You’re my assistant from 9 to 5 only. I’m not gonna be like those shocking pricks and work you longer than needed,” he muttered and stretched out his neck, joints crackling. “Go clock out, (Y/N). I’m sure there’s someone waiting for you at home that needs attending to.”

Suddenly, the atmosphere had gone awkwardly quiet. The tension was only broken by the scritching of your shuffling feet before you coughed. 

“Um, there’s no one in particular like that for me, unfortunately,” you whispered through a forced laugh that quickly dissolved. “So again, I don’t mind staying late…”

Miguel stiffened in his seat and mumbled an apology for his blatant inconsideration. Right… you were still rather young and didn’t seem the type to have a family yet. “No boyfriend? Or girlfriend… I’m not one to judge.”

“No, Mr. O’Hara.”

“No parents?”

“I moved out, so no.”

“Not even pets?”

“None.”

“... perhaps friends of sorts?”

“...”

Another sigh heaves itself from his aching lungs. What he’d do for a cigarette right now to kill this awkward tension. You were a rather shy person that isolated herself from most people, but Miguel didn’t think you’d detach yourself this much from the crowd. 

You proposed your assistance once more, as third times always a charm. “Please let me assist you, Mr. O’Hara. I truly do not mind staying overtime if needed.”

Miguel, at first, thought you might be kissing his ass for a possible raise, but the thought quickly disappears when you genuinely appear concerned for his well-being given the fact he looked ultimately much more disgruntled than usual. Despite your timidity, you could be a stubborn one, so Miguel gave in before he tired himself even more with mild arguments that he was sure would drain whatever life he had left in him.

He inhales sharply and fiddles with his bag for a bit before he pulls out an array of keys, gently detaching a pair of them. One of them is his car key. The other—his house key. 

“Take these,” he said and gestured them to you. “I’ve trusted you enough to drive my car on multiple occasions, so now I’m entrusting you to my daughter.”

Your eyes widened briefly, brows raising to new heights. Blinking in the alikeness of an owl, you repeated, “Your… your daughter?”

Miguel supposes this is what succumbs to him after not revealing even the most personal, yet basic parts of himself to a coworker. He hasn’t even revealed his birthday to you, let alone his family, so he can’t say he’s too surprised at your reaction. 

“Yes, my daughter,” he repeats and starts scribbling on a post-it. “Her name is Gabriella, she just turned five and is in kindergarten. I’m gonna call up the daycare and tell them that you’ll be picking her up from school. After that, drop her off at the house and just… just kind of stay there until I come home. There should be leftovers in the fridge if she gets hungry. I’ll take a cab home… I dunno.”

Miguel sticks out the post-it note containing both the address of the daycare and his apartment number. With caution, you take and examine them closely with a mild surprise still on your face of the new information about your boss that you thought you should’ve learned a while ago. You begin to see yourself out of his office with an evident nervousness in your being before Miguel spontaneously gets up and grabs your wrist tightly, forcing you to look at him.

A chill goes down your spine when you see a menacing and unusual red glint in those pools of mahogany. His once-drained face is suddenly stony and rugged with his teeth bitten back to avoid any unnecessary threats. The physical contact makes your nerves go cold and paralyzes you into place to force you to stare into those eyes that you’re not sure aren’t even human, a sort of malicious crimson tint gleaming over brown hues.

“Do not… let anything happen to her,” he hisses under his breath, his tone jaggedly sharp, “Not a single scratch, yes?”

It takes a while for air to breathe itself back into your lungs, yet only a partial amount of it revives your body because all you can reply is a choked out, 

“Yes.”

Miguel lets go of your wrist like it’s a heated iron rod, the burn of it stinging his hand with the aftertaste of your skin still damped on his palm. You quickly leave after that, leaving him to sigh and stare into nothing before clutching the picture frame of his daughter that sits on his desk—praying that you’ll live up to his expectations and arrive home to an unscathed Gabriella.

And throughout the duration of the three years you and Miguel have spent side by side, with each repeated question he’d contritely ask again and again, he did each and every single time you had to take care of her. The hours became longer, more strenuous, and created a blockage between Miguel and Gabriella that only you were able to bridge between. Gabriella—whose particular shyness reminded Miguel of a certain someone—eventually warmed up to you and began to treat you much more familiarly as time passed, growing accustomed to wrapping her body around your legs when she saw you during pick up and always asking what was for dinner that evening as if you’ve been there since her birth.

Gabriella grew very fond of you, Miguel noticed. There was some sort of mimicry in her actions at times that mirrored your own habits like how she’d tilt her head and purse her lips to the left when she was confused like you did or she’d randomly walk briskly in the same fashion you marched. She’d slip in a mention of your name during small discussions here and there, a praise never failing to tail her words. 

“Miss. (Y/N) bought this headband for me! Isn’t it pretty?” 

“Oh, Miss. (Y/N) taught me how to solve that problem yesterday.”

“Can you make cookies like how Miss. (Y/N) does? Yours taste weird.”

While you weren’t always present around the O’Haras, Gabriella made sure it seemed like you were. 

There was a particular time that Miguel was helping her on some homework assigned over the weekend. The assignment had discussed different careers that children might be interested in the future and when Miguel had asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up, Gabriella, who couldn’t have been more than six or seven around the time, replied all too simply, 

“I want to be like Miss. (Y/N).”

Miguel was astonished. He had expected an answer like a professional soccer player due to her love of the sport or a scientist like her father, but to aspire to be someone that seemingly was just an occasional companion? To him, it didn’t make sense.

“Like, do you wanna work for Daddy when you’re older?” Miguel asked, attempting to clarify what she meant since she knew enough to understand you were associated with her father. 

Gabriella shook her head and mindlessly continued to draw what seemed to be a portrait of you in… a pink dress? “Nuh uh. I wanna be a princess like her.”

Through furrowed brows, Miguel chuckled a little aimlessly. Of course she’d still believe fantasy and magical things—she was just seven after all. Initially, he wanted to merely correct his daughter, but was a little curious as to what sort of silly information you had been feeding her. “Miss. (Y/N) is a princess?” 

“Yep, she told me herself!” Gabriella exclaimed, her hand fisting a yellow marker that scribbled on a crown on the drawing. “She said she used to be a princess, but she ran away ‘cause a giant, fire-breathing lizard tried to kidnap her!” 

“I think it might’ve been a dragon, mijita,” Miguel corrected gently, trying to go along with the usual trope fairy tales portrayed.

“Nuh uh, it was a big and creepy lizard, she said!” she retaliated stubbornly.

“Well,” he started again, attempting to choose his words a little more carefully this time around. “How come you don’t wanna be like Ariel? Or Tiana? They’re princesses, too, right?” 

She shrugged. “I like them. But they’re not Miss. (Y/N).”

Something unnatural began to seep into Miguel’s chest. He knew that Gabriella liked you quite so, but he didn’t expect for her to almost admire you in such a fashion that inspired her to be like you. In his eyes, you were nothing but the assistant that loyally stood by his side and abided by his every word—to him, it seemed like you were more of a butler or servant than a princess. 

But in his daughter’s eyes… 

“Why? What’s so special about (Y/N)?” Miguel inquired with a growing curiosity to try and see you in the same light as Gabriella. 

She shook her head, displeased with the informality given to you by her father. “You gotta say Princess (Y/N). I don’t have to ‘cause she said it’s okay.”

He sighed, “Okay, fine. What’s so special about Princess (Y/N)?”

Gabriella set her marker down carefully and thought for a little while. Her eyes suddenly lit up with delight, an affirmative grin set on her lips. 

“Well, she’s really pretty… like reallyyy pretty. I wanna be just as beautiful as her one day,” she praised, making Miguel’s brows rise at the sudden compliment. “She’s really nice, too. She never shouts at me like the teachers or coaches do… and she always lets me have extra dessert when I do a good job on my homework.”

Miguel fell silent. Perhaps it was more than mere admiration, but idolization for Gabriella. She viewed you in a way that Miguel hadn’t even thought of because he only viewed you as his coworker. But in Gabriella’s eyes, you were more than just her babysitter—you were literal royalty to her. He shouldn’t be one to complain though—he’d take his daughter following in your footsteps over some others that might lead her astray. You were… sufficient enough, he supposes, even if Gabriella didn’t think so.

“She’s super smart too—like you, Papá! Maybe even smarter,” she retorts, making Miguel twitch. “And I like her voice a lot. I really like it when she reads me a story because her voice is pretty. Sometimes she sings this song to me to help me sleep.”

“Oh?” Miguel questioned, “¿Y, qué canción es esa?”

“I keep forgetting the name and words of it…” Gabriella pouted after a moment of attempted concentration. “But it went somethin’ like…”

She began humming an off-tune melody that struck a dissonant, yet familiar chord within Miguel, but it was impossible for him to find why it was so eerily familiar to him. Was it perhaps from an old song? Or a film he’d seen before? It was a calming song, one that was perfectly suited for a child’s lullaby, but something about it seemed almost so customary to him. 

“Ya gotta marry her,” his daughter said plainly and began to resume her artistry, ignoring the sudden startle she gave her father. “So that way, I can become a princess, too.”

Miguel helped himself to the nearby cup of water to soothe his choked throat after the scare she gave him. “Sweetheart, I’m not a prince, though.”

“Yeah, I know,” his daughter replied without missing a beat. “But you know what you are, though?” 

Dare he say that Gabriella had grown akin to you the same way she had with her father. Something about her praise and regard for you seemed to mirror the way that reflected alike to her father, yet Miguel couldn’t tell if she had managed to draw a line between the images of you and him. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if Gabriella could even define a difference in her adulation between you and him besides the fact one was her parent. 

But when the thought of Gabriella potentially viewing you as sharing the same title as him—a parent—something seeds inside Miguel. He doesn’t know what it is or what it will grow into, but there’s one thing he knows for sure. 

The seed of you in his life and hers is here to stay, whether he likes it or not. 

Gabriella’s smile grew wide before she happily announced,

“You’re her knight in shining armor!"

PRESENT

If he squinted properly and took a closer look, perhaps Miguel could make himself hallucinate enough to try and visualize the golden chandelier above your head as your haloing tiara. It was the main light source nearly the entirety of the venue, but something about the way the light glistened around you made you seem almost holy, like you were a divinity gracing your presence on the wretchedness they called Earth.

Blame it on the wine, but Miguel couldn’t help but notice that you looked more celestial tonight; a unique sort of ethereal that he’s only seen in the finest of paintings. The banquet hall is covered in layers of silkened gold, only emphasizing your best features in the spotlights of reflecting amber. 

You’re talking idly (per usual, unfortunately) with a coworker from Human Resources that he’s seen you often have mild conversations with on the weekly, a rare familiarity that he only knows he’s been graced with in full; so it’s truly no surprise that there’s a placid stir of envy growing within Miguel as you’ve decided to not give your semi-cold shoulder a break even tonight, even with the rarity of a compliment given by him. At least there’s been somewhat of an improvement—you’re actually holding miniscule conversations with him every now and then as you both chatter with the crowd as long as there’s a third party.

Yet he still hasn’t been granted mercy of having a proper one-on-one with you, yet.

But beggars can’t be choosers, so Miguel must make do with what he’s offered.

The coworker, finally, is called by one of his project managers and politely excuses himself, leaving you to Miguel’s devices at long last. Like a flower’s petals given little to no care, your smiling face wilts into the solemn countenance that Miguel has grown accustomed to seeing for the past week when you turn your gaze back towards the table, a sliver of Miguel caught in the corner of your eye. In time, he just barely catches a glimpse of your eyes flickering toward his figure before they return to stare at the nearly empty plate of food with a slight dismal.

A choice of what words to say jumble in his mouth. They toss and jump about while not giving him full comprehension of what they mean and Miguel grows frustrated at his lack of intelligibleness because it wasn’t every day that his resolve could be so cowardly in front of someone. Usually he was the one that made egos shrink, but upon your grace, his own could only grow so small. 

You can tell there’s an awkward silence amongst you both despite the audible chatter throughout the banquet hall and the idle conversations among your tablemates, so you break it first but stiffly shuffling out your phone and dialing Gabriella’s babysitter for tonight—a blue moon occasion since neither you nor Miguel could be present. Gabriel is out of town and because there were only so many people in the world that Miguel could trust with his beloved, the elderly next-door-neighbor was the last resort. 

“I should probably check up on how Mrs. Darcie is doing,” you splutter with a dry mouth. “I forgot to teach her how the TV remote works and I’m sure she must be bored out of her—”

Unconsciously, Miguel gently pries the phone out of your shaking hands, the connection between skin and skin electrifying his nerves more than he liked. He takes notice of the size difference between your hand and his own and eyes carefully at how easily your fingers would be able to slip into the gaps of his all too easily; like two connecting puzzle pieces. 

He places it face down on the table to avoid further distractions. “I’m sure Mrs. Darcie is alright,” he attempts to soothe as he places his hand over your own, nearly caging it between his fingers. Miguel struggles with fighting the urge to squeeze it delicately—he doesn’t know if he’s earned that privilege, or if he ever did. “Gabi is most likely preparing for bed, we shouldn’t distract her.”

Eyes flickering toward your covered hand, the warmth that envelopes it from Miguel’s makes you swallow thickly. 

“Ah,” you murmur and timidly pull back your hand to place back on your lap to Miguel’s disappointment. “Right… Never mind then.”

And suddenly, he’s back to square one. Silence plagues the air again between you and him, only this time, it’s thicker and grimier almost. Perhaps it was the oddity that was the physical contact that added to the musk of it; Miguel prays that you didn’t find it uncomfortable. 

A fork is plucked between your fingers and you go to idly poke at your food to fidget with something other than your hands. “I hope she’s okay. Gabi, I mean. I-It feels a little odd leaving her with someone other than you. 

Rays of hope and enthrallment embellish Miguel’s being from the fact that finally… finally you’re the one attempting a conversation with him after much too long. And not only that, you’re beginning with something bold, even if you don’t realize it. Despite the fact you’re rather unconscious of what you’re saying, something within Miguel perks up at the fact that you’re worried about Gabriella in the same sense… that he is.  

That a parent is.

He fights the urge to physically shake his head to brush the thought off. Miguel hums, a semi-sorry attempt at being suede and casual. “Mrs. Darcie has had eight children in her lifetime, I’m sure that she’s definitely had her experience of taking care of kids,” he says seemingly nonchalantly. “Gabi, if anything, is lightwork to her.”

A soft delight pings in his chest again when you reply almost instantaneously, “She is indeed a good girl, very well-behaved.”

“She has her moments,” Miguel snorts, fondly remembering a few of younger Gabriella’s temper tantrums and outbursts of tears.

Something golden, something bright blossoms within him when he hears you let out a soft chuckle at his reply. It’s abrupt, but it’s short and sweet enough that he feels accomplished, enough for him to savor the taste of it. “All children do from time to time. But she’s definitely one of the better apples of the bunch.”

Miguel thinks you’re right; it wasn’t often that parents, new ones especially, were granted with the privilege of having obedient children, so he’s one of the lucky ones. Perhaps Gabriella being a good kid was the universe giving him mercy as a single parent, as society often thinks it takes two to tango when it comes to childcare most of the time. 

But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Even if Miguel wasn’t aware of it, some of the responsibility was lifted off his shoulders when you entered the picture, as the duties of nurturing a young child were now in your favor the moment you had signed your work contract. For that, he harbors guilt from time to time when he thinks that you never exactly signed up to be a babysitter, let alone a parent figure to his kin that you were still unaware of. 

And then it hits him.

It comes all of a sudden—his senses downpouring from the cloud of his daydreams and thoughts.

It’s not a good realization by far. If anything, it’s the very opposite, one that’s one the other end of the spectrum. It’s a deathly epiphany and one that he doesn’t like to acknowledge but is forced to.

Miguel stares blankly at the tablecloth, eyes droning into the satin folds of it as they mimicked the waves of a crashing ocean. A sort of paleness infects his face, the color of it draining slowly and he goes still when he feels his heartbeat thundering in his ears. 

You’re quick to take notice of your boss’s current disposition, growing wary of his wide, blank eyes and gritted jaw, along with his knuckles growing white as they fist his slacks. A shallow breath is echoed from him; you furrow your brows.

“Mr. O’Hara?” you murmur, leaning toward his figure. 

Miguel’s mind stirs. If Gabriella views you as a parent-figure, what exactly would you think of it? You’re not much younger than Miguel is, only falling behind a mere four or five years, but you’re still significantly young that you’ve got your whole life ahead of you that you’d need to experience by yourself. The remnants of youth are still planted onto you despite being well-adjusted to the adult world, so to put the responsibility of a child on your shoulders? Miguel feels contrition flood into him.

What if you didn’t even want children? 

It’s a fact that you care for Gabriella, but do you harbor the same type of love for her that she has for you? Does she even understand what your role is in her life and that there’s a strict boundary between you and Miguel and Gabriella? He knows he can’t just shackle you onto a weighing responsibility, but when Gabriella is a part of this dilemma, the complication increases tenfold.

Your boss seems to be frozen in time, seeing as how not a muscle in his limbs nor his face were moving, but his eyes were wide open, almost glazed with fear. A feathery hand goes to place itself over his tightened fist before you ask again, “Mr. O’Hara, are you okay?”

It’s a fact that you care for Gabriella, but do you harbor the same type of love for her that she has for you? Does she even understand what your role is in her life and that there’s a strict boundary between you and Miguel and Gabriella? He knows he can’t just shackle you onto a weighing responsibility, but when Gabriella is a part of this dilemma, the complication increases tenfold.

The worst case scenario infects Miguel’s thoughts—you standing in the same shadow of his ex, exiting through the same door she had walked through just a few days after his daughter’s birth and breaking his entire being into little pathetic pieces.

This time, however? He wouldn’t be the only one with a shattered heart.

A thick swallow goes down your throat. You gently shake his hand with your own to attempt to break him out of his frigid state, a worry beginning to settle itself in your stomach. “Mr. O’Hara? Can you hear me?” you declare a little louder than the first two times.

Your voice makes him blink and he clears his throat, feeling his cheeks warm at the sudden loss of composure. “Yes, I-I’m fine…” he mutters as he tugs at the tight collar of his dress shirt.

You nod with visible skepticism. Miguel turns away from your gaze to avoid further questioning, since he knows you’ve been at his side long enough to know his behaviors. “Are you sure?”

He nods and stifles a sigh, nodding. The flurry of what had just occurred in his mind lingers almost painfully and it takes him a while to remember where he is and why. Right… the annual celebration gala… with you… to make up for the date that never happened.

His mind is a mess. It’s an incoherent tornado of everything and anything, with images of all kinds flashing throughout his mind—young Gabriella’s drawing of you and her as princesses that she insisted on framing, your face of disappointment that you gave him when he ditched out on the date, a flashback of his ex slamming his old apartment door on him as an infant Gabriella screamed and wailed in her crib, you hugging his daughter after her winning goal, Miguel’s frazzled self as he showed up too late to his daughter’s first Parents Day with a teary-eyed Gabriella, him finding you quietly reading a sleepy Gabi a bedtime story after a long shift at work, you making baked goods in the kitchen with her.. you tucking in her into bed… you suddenly with a suitcase in hand, a sobbing Gabriella in the back as Miguel begged you to stay before you slammed the door behind you and leaving them—

Miguel stands up abruptly, making you jump. The collar and tie around his neck suddenly seem too tight and his throat runs dry. The air grows hotter and his vision starts to blur. 

“Mr. O’Hara,” you start as you also stand up, “Is everything alr—”

“I need some air,” Miguel barely chokes out before he leaves the banquet hall without another word. He can just barely hear you ask if there’s anything you could do before he turns a sharp right and leaves the entirety of the building altogether, choosing to remain in the back garden to breathe in fresh oxygen, a relieving chill to the air.

A hand goes to loosen his collar and tie and he can feel himself gain consciousness again. The sky is draped with an ink blue all over, speckles of the night stars scattering all around. The floral smell of many garden flowers fills his senses and Miguel grounds himself properly before he settles himself on a stone bench to balance in his mind.

He attempts to reason with himself. 

Clearly, you don’t mind being with children, and obviously you don’t mind being with and taking care of Gabriella. She’s not simply a job to you that you’re forced to work with—you’ve said it yourself. Otherwise, you wouldn’t go to her games nor would you remember to bring her small gifts of her liking. You’ve done things for her out of your own initiative many times. Gabriella is your world, Miguel thinks, as much as your hers.

Now there’s the problem of you being with Miguel, if your feelings haven’t changed all too much. In all honesty, Miguel thinks if he’s with the right person, he’s sure to put in effort into stabilizing and nurturing a proper relationship. He hadn’t had the time to go around and look for love because of work and Gabriella, so serving as this sanctuary that came to him was basically a perfect fit into his life—don’t mind it took him three years to notice it. You’re worth putting that effort in.

Finally… there’s the possible chance that you reject Miguel’s proposal of being Gabriella’s secondary caretaker.

…

Miguel attempts to process it in a more… positive light. One that won’t send him spiraling. 

But it’s nearly impossible.

How is it possible to settle a middle ground of happiness, or at the very least… satisfaction, between you and him and Gabriella? How do you imagine a happy ending to a dawning of Gabriella’s happiness? How can Miguel ever face you after asking such a thing?

His vision shakes again, another hurricane of impossible questions begins whirling in mind. The bile in his stomach churns uncomfortably and his hands grow clammy again. His feet feel like they’re sinking in the dirt. Somehow, even at a staggering height compared to most of his colleagues, Miguel feels small once more. 

Would he be able to cope with such a—

A loud crash and multiple screams suddenly break Miguel out of his state and he whirls his head to see what was happening inside. The peek of something green slithers inside the massive hole in the glass ceiling indented in the building, and it doesn’t take Miguel long to know what’s happening.

He sprints back inside the building and into the banquet hall, the opposite way where everyone is headed and takes a swift peek inside to what was happening. 

A horrifically large green lizard crawls on the floor, letting out an agonizing roar of sorts with its tail swishing about and knocking everything and everyone in its path over. Dr. Curtis Connors, the one foe Miguel had fought a few months ago and had just managed to escape his grasp, had come back for revenge in a newer, more improved, more terrifying form of his initial self-experiment. News of his identity had leaked out immediately the moment that he had defeated the mad doctor, and every work that was researched by him that was deemed irrelevant by Alchemax was unpublished and/or destroyed—that included raiding everything in his personal lab—an urgent executive order made by Tyler Stone himself. 

Hungry for revenge for the destruction of his work, Miguel was certain he was back for revenge as back when he was still sane, the amount of research that Dr. Connors had put in was extensive and yielded long years in the making, spanning over nearly three decades of research that was wiped away in the matter of a single day thanks to Alchemax. 

Miguel quickly turns a corner, hidden from the public eye, and commands his suit on before quickly re-entering the banquet hall. He swings up towards the domed ceiling and carefully analyzes the area.

There’s still a few people scattering from the room, shrieks echoing from the walls. His eyes go to search for where you are in desperation, praying you’re safe somewhere outside, but a flash of light pink catches the corner of his eye. He nearly snaps his neck when he finds you running in the opposite direction of where most people are headed—towards the garden.

“(Y/N)!” Miguel yells out without thinking and slaps a hand over his mouth. Thankfully, you don’t hear him due to the commotion inside the area as you swim against the current of people. You fight the urge to fall down with every person that bumps into you amidst the chaos before you thankfully make it near the exit.

He lunges down from his spot on the ceiling, lassoing a few people that nearly get crushed under Lizard’s humongous tail and bringing them to safety properly on the way, making his way towards your figure. Rubble from the many columns begin to collapse on themselves; clouds of dust and debris fog the first floor of the hall with the wreckage already trapping some people inside. 

A large chunk from the wall creaks and begins to teeter over the south exit, where you’re headed. A certain distraction diverts you from noticing the large cement framework around the exit that’s about to topple on you to Miguel’s horror. In the nick of time, he just barely manages to snatch you by the waist from a thrusted sprint just before the framework collapses with a thunderous boom. 

You and Miguel cough from the dust it created. It takes a good second for you to process what your fate might’ve become, and it takes just another second for you to regain your consciousness. A good part of the exit is now blocked, but that doesn’t stop you from taking off your heels and attempting to climb over it. 

Miguel barks out and grabs your arm that’s now scathed with slight scratches. “The hell are you doing?!” he exclaims worriedly. 

You turn back with a teary and troubled look on your face, much to his shock. Abruptly, you turn back towards the exit and attempt to tug back your arm from his firm grasp. “M-my boss… he’s inside the garden,” you croak miserably out as you try to pull yourself over the fallen column. “I need t-to know if he’s safe…”

Lizard lets out another mighty howl and patters toward the stage, his tail once again swinging haughtily and ignoring anything in its path. Miguel shouts at you to duck and pulls you down along with him. You prop back up and without his arm on yours, you use it to your advantage and grunt yourself forward onto the column. 

Miguel wraps a large hand over your ankle and weighs you down from moving any further. “Hey, you need to get out, now. You can’t be here, no one should be,” he urges.

The shake of your head concerns him—right, you’re too stubborn for your own good. “I’ll be fine. P-please, just leave me be.”

“Not when you’re about to get killed,” he declares and juts your ankle more towards him. The motion makes you fall into his chest and Miguel uses one hand to properly secure you to himself, the other launching and swinging a web to the north entrance. 

You squirm and fight against him, pleading desperately for him to drop you and leave you alone. A frame of tears threatens to fall from your eyes from frustration and despair when you get put down. Miguel has to physically stop you from running back into the banquet hall once again—you put up a fight though. You thrash against him, clawing and weakly punching at his stronger arms, imploring for him to let you back inside. 

“You don’t understand—” you gasp as the remnants of the people inside flood out. Looking over his shoulder, you gaze at the exit solemnly. “Please… I need to know if he’s alright—he h-has a young daughter back at home and if anything happens t-to him—just please let me go!” you wail.

He grabs you by the shoulders forcefully and settles you down, the stream of tears falling from your eyes running his throat dry once again. Miguel has never seen you cry, or even come close to crying. Not when Gabriella forced you to watch what she considered “one of the saddest movies in existence”, not when an entire glass beaker had toppled and its shards pierced your skin, not even when Miguel had first scolded you about your many mistakes on the very first document you turned into him. 

Glassy eyes meet concerned, masked ones. Your lip trembled violently, the words all jumbled in your mouth about to spill. “Just let me check if he’s alright,” you just barely whisper.

He bores his gaze into yours as his composure does its best to upkeep him as best as possible. Miguel, from the inside of his mask, bites his lip and sighs. “I promise you, I’ll make sure Miguel gets home safely.”

“What if you don’t?” you accuse with furrowed brows.

“I’ll bring him home safe and sound,” he says firmly. “You said he has a daughter, right? I won’t let her become an orphan. I swear on my life I won’t.”

Your gaze doesn’t falter, even when Miguel attempts to soothe you by chafing the chilled skin of your arms up and down in a calming manner. Unbeknownst to you, you and him share an image of Gabriella in your minds; it brings a sting of ache to your chests.

“How can I trust you?” you ask dryly. 

“Because,” he goes to weave a string of webbing through the north entrance and takes you out into the safety of the outside. He settles you on the corner of two intersecting streets that sit nearby the building, with your tears still falling and hands trembling. A hand carefully holds your cheek and wipes away descending tears on your chalky face, Miguel ignoring the squeeze of his heart with each one that puddles on the sidewalk. 

“... I’m your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”

Spider-Man leaves you on the sidewalk idly with the blurry figures of your co-workers and other people in the company whizzing by you with no concern for anyone else other than themselves. It takes a moment for you to understand what just happened and with whom, suddenly hit with the pang of realization that you had just met the Spider-Man: the well-known vigilante protecting Nueva York from all corners, beloved by the public. Excitement can’t seem to conjure itself within you, however, your gaze still lingering on the building that Miguel was possibly in. 

A hesitant step takes you forward back to the building, but your phone vibrates abruptly from a notification from Mrs. Darcie. Word must’ve gotten out so quickly that it reached the O'Hara's neighborhood, as her text was asking if you and Miguel were alright. Your thumbs shake as you try and type up a response to let her know that you were at least alive, but you know that Gabriella wanted you both home. 

The least you could do is make sure half of that concern was eased. You were counting on Spider-Man to do the rest.

With an arm reaching out for a taxi, you rush into one and tell the driver to step on the gas, promising to tip extra. You’d be willing to give all the money you had with you if it meant that you could be with Gabriella for tonight.

You’ve underestimated the nightly rush hour this Friday night had brought upon, because there’s a sea of cars that are equally as stuck as you are amidst the road. Tangible fingers go to grip your hair frustratingly, and asking the driver to go any further was basically useless. Each minute you wasted on the same road you had been on for what was nearing twenty minutes made you more anxious by the minute. 

“I-isn’t there some sort of shortcut?” you ask the driver hoarsely. “I don’t care what roads you have to take, just please get off this one. I’m begging you. I have a child that’s waiting for me.”

His eyes give you a quick glance in the mirror, and empathy embeds itself in his equally tired eyes. He must be a father himself, you think, as he gives you an affirmative nod and swings off the road onto a much more bumpy and gravelly, but visibly less dense one.

It’s nearly an agonizing hour later off the road—it would’ve most likely reached around two or even three if you stayed on the main road—but you thankfully make it to the O’Hara’s residence. Your body moves on its own, flying out the elevator and speeding down the floor of the apartment. You burst open the door, visible sweat misted on your forehead and an ache to your limbs but all that is ignored when Mrs. Darcie greets you with relief, with a sleeping Gabriella settled soundly on the couch as her favorite TV show buzzes in the background.

She grasps you tightly by the arms. “My goodness, thank heavens you’re alright,” she murmurs quietly. “That must’ve been quite a scare… are you alright?”

“I’m okay,” you gasp out tiredly. “But how is she? Gabi, I mean… d-does she—”

Mrs. Darcie shakes her head. “She fell asleep a while ago, she doesn’t know. I just managed to get informed thanks to my son who works near the building. But where is Miguel?”

Dread floods your face once more, remembering why you left the banquet in the first place. Somehow, however, your phone vibrates and receives a text from the one and only. A loud sigh escapes your lips and you crumple to the floor as the feeling returns to your numb legs as Miguel’s texts ease your worries. 

Hey I’m alive and alright. I saw you leave earlier, hope you’re safe. I’m omw home. 

You fight the urge to burst into tears from the relief as Mrs. Darcie helps you back up. “I’m assuming that’s him,” she says gently as she encourages you to take off your heels. “What a waste of night and beautiful dress. Shame that blasted giant iguana or something had to ruin it.”

A broken laugh leaves you from her gentle humor. You glance down at the dress that the mysterious Lyla had given you tonight and sigh sadly at the many tears of the tulle and fabric. The dress looked expensive and you planned on wearing it again for formal events, but alas, fate has decided to toy with you.

“That’s alright,” you mutter as you help Mrs. Darcie gather her stuff back up so she can finally leave. “I have plenty of others to use in the meantime.”

The elderly woman leaves you inside their apartment after bidding you a goodnight to tend to Gabriella, who’s still sound asleep and oblivious to what was happening to the world and people around her. That’s a good thing, at least, you think to yourself as you tidy up the living room around her quietly. Ignorance is bliss, sometimes.

She’s still small enough that you’re able to carry her to her room even at her age and it reminds you a lot of when she was younger, when she’d pretend to be asleep so you could carry her yourself to go back to her room. Nowadays, she knows her bedtime and does it by herself, but assuming she had been waiting for you or Miguel to come home, sleep had snuck onto her as she waited and waited.

You put her down gently, hoping not to get any of the leftover debris on your soiled clothes onto her freshly-washed body. The action just barely stirs her awake, her eyes slitting open at the slightest bit. Your blurry figure just barely makes it to her senses and she grins sleepily.

A titter escapes her lips. “You look like a…” Gabriella starts, her words faltering due to a fading consciousness. 

“Like a…?” you whisper softly, a hand stroking her hair gently.

“Like a…” you can tell she’s trying to find the words in her very limited vocabulary currently, her brain threatening to shut off at any second now. “Like a princess, I think?”

You raise your brows at her description as Gabriella immediately falls back asleep. You suppose you do look much more dressed up from usual, but your cheeks tingle a hint of warmth at the comparison of literal royalty. You blame it on the drowsiness.

Your own tiredness begins to crawl up your spine as you stay by Gabriella’s side in her darkened bedroom, her quiet breaths soothing you like a lullaby. With heavy eyelids threatening to shut close at any minute, you fight the urge to give into the Sandman, insistent on Miguel’s return.

Miguel…

His name rings aloud in your mind for a moment.

Miguel…

Miguel…

“I promise you, I’ll make sure Miguel gets home safely.” 

Spider-Man’s familiar voice suddenly jolts you awake. Your brows crunch together. How on earth did Spider-Man know Miguel’s name when you merely referred to him as your boss? Perhaps he saw Miguel in the garden beforehand? Maybe Miguel had an earlier oncoming with him from before and Spider-Man just knew him from that one incident? Or… he just happens to know the names of all the citizens of Nueva York because… that’s just how Spider-Man is? 

Or, was Miguel actually Spid—you shake your head in the same second you think of such a stupid reasoning. That’s impossible…

… you know in your heart that it just is.

Any reason that you attempt to give, you think of it as either obnoxious or just simply impossible. Maybe you did let it slip that your boss’s name was Miguel… that just seems like the most plausible reason. After all, your adrenaline was at an all-time high and you could barely remember what had happened before the takeover, let alone the conversations you had. 

Whatever it was, it was going to bring Miguel back home, and that’s what ultimately had mattered in the end. It probably wasn’t even your business to prod around.

At Gabriella’s visible sleeping state, you stand up and start to head towards the bathroom to fix yourself up, but the sound of the master bedroom’s window suddenly shuffling open makes your nerves electrify. Miguel’s bedroom sat just right next to Gabriella’s, and it was also the bedroom that was nearest to the complex’s fire escape, so a break-in at this time of night was highly plausible. 

Grabbing one of the displayed metal baseball bats on the wall, you turn off Gabriella’s lights and lock the door behind, ensuring her safety first before yours. You’re careful to tiptoe around the more creaky parts of the floorboards, desperate to make yourself not seen by the intruder as you step closer and closer to Miguel’s bedroom. The door is just barely ajar, and the lights are on. A distinct shuffling, bed springs, and a masculine groan echo from the crack of the doorway and when all is silent from the other side of the door, you make your move and burst in, ready to swing at whoever threatens the O’Hara residence.

The bat is suddenly grabbed from your hands from a familiar neon orange webbing and thrusted to the side of the room, where it thunks against the wall and falls limply. You gasp aloud and with nothing to defend yourself with, you look up with fear in your eyes that suddenly turn to shock from the sight in front of you.

There, standing in the same blue and red vinyl suit you had crossed paths with earlier, without its mask completing the look… and thus, exposing the face of the man you had been waiting for to come back home to you. 

a/n ; second to last part to this mini-series and once again, i apologize for this nearly six-month delay, last semester was rough for uni. almost made this into two parts, but i felt like they just belonged together and i quite like the blend of them together.

thanks for the patience for those who stuck around and have waited far too long for this, you deserve this! i'm glad to see you all again <3 thank you endlessly for reading and likes/comments/reblogs are always noticed and appreciated (づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡

taglist ; @secretlyrexlapis @urbimom @p1nkliquor @julesclues @averagefloydlover @apurpletrashcan @raeisthebae @mvchmp @um-well @nintendh-e @eddieslooneymoonie @deputy-videogamer @xochyw @honeybeeznuts @aspens-cove @btszn @scaleniusrm @goldenpoison @the-pan-liquid (if you'd like to be either added or removed from the taglist, please lmk! i know it's been awhile, so hi again haha)

[sleepanonymous]

helloouugh i have seen your tags from the ivy neck post lmao.. did.. something happen again in the fandom? i am not asking for details if you don't wanna give tbh, i just have seen nothing and i was a bit bummed out to see you saying you need ''unsee juice'', the boys can't catch a break. :/ i hope that was a 'general state of things' unsee and not smething recent

Hi Anon, ty for the ask 🖤😅 Yeeeah there was some very subtle but creepy drama happening on Reddit over the past 2-3 weeks. Tea below the cut, I guess? TLDR is everything turned out fine but was still a big "Yikes!"

I was a quiet observer of this one, and I'm pretty sure it flew beneath 99.9% of the fandom's radar. I feel kinda bad bringing it up after the dust has settled, but I guess it's my own fault for tagging that IVy's neck meme the way I did 😅

This stated around the beginning of the month, but to tell the story properly, I gotta start 10 days ago. There is an "identity friendly" Sleep Token subreddit where a girl commented under a post stating that somebody's "acquaintance" was mates with her big brother (III being the acquaintance mentioned).

That comment piqued the interest of one of my good friends, and with a little snooping on the commenter's Reddit profile, they found a post from 22 days ago under r/crushes titled something along the lines of "Are your brother's friends off limits? Age gap?" In the post the Reddit user talks about crushing on an older guy who is friends with her brother (👀), and how he used to like her Instagram stories until he deleted his social media late last year (👀👀). At this point, my friends and I were thinking this could be a coincidence or the user could be talking about III based off the similarities and sparse information provided.

I'm almost certain there was a second r/crushes post or an r/dating post, or comments made under other posts, where the user talked about getting invited by her brother to hang out in his "friend circle," where she asked for advice in flirting with an older guy that shares 0% of her interests. I can't find it linked in any conversations, and (spoiler alert) the user's Reddit was deleted.

By this point I, being a 30-something-year-old woman who used to crush on men much older than me when I was this poster's age, who knows exactly how damaging these age-gap relationships can be, felt extremely concerned for this girl (no offense to III). But I, as well as my friends, all decided to keep our mouths shut and not engage because it's honestly none of our business and we don't need to get involved anymore than we were.

Then there was a post under r/dating seven days ago where the Reddit user asked for advice in staying overnight at her new boyfriend's house. This post pretty much confirmed the Reddit user was talking about III with the information she provided in the post, but it's also where my friends and I concluded that this was most likely an entirely made up situation. This r/dating post literally read like the premise to a fanfiction: recently started dating her brother's older friend, she'd never been in a serious relationship but really likes this guy, he invited her to spend the night, and she has no idea what to expect. People were responding to her post with concern and genuine advice and she was engaging and thanking them and giving them more info.

This all posed two possible major issues: One, if this was real, and III had began dating his friend's little sister, she was posting all of this private information about him and their relationship online in a literal breadcrumb trail for Sleep token fans to find. Two, if this was fake, then what the fuck? What was she getting out of this? Was this some weird IRL Fanfic she was writing for herself, using Reddit as her platform and involving real people who were giving her attention, advice, and genuine concern? Was she trolling in the hopes that somebody in the Sleep Token fandom would be following along? Because that sadly did work.

In a very anticlimactic manner, because I can't explain how, why, where, or who, it was found out that III was not, in fact, dating this person at all. Within half a day of me and my friends finding that out, the Reddit user had deleted her profile. I have no clue if someone reached out to her (nobody in my friend circle did) or if she maybe received the same information about III and was embarrassed by her actions online.

Honestly, for III's sake, I hope that this entire thing was some crazy daydream fantasy of some random girl with absolutely no connections to Sleep Token whatsoever. I hope that it simply blew out of proportion and that III had absolutely no idea about the posts the user was making. Also, for the user's sake, I hope she sticks to ao3, ffn, and similar places for these weird fantasies.

Anyway, yeah. Some people don't know how to behave online and they also need to stop bothering III and stay out of his personal business for god's sake.

[fangirling-heart]

It's a first for me and quite honestly I am pretty nervous but...

I'm making a post about my OCs!!!

Yay!!! 🎉

And since I can't draw to save my life, I used this picrew to present them, one of them you might recognize since I have introduced him in a tag game. Anyway here they are:

Starting with the familiar one, the 17 year old Achilles. He's the protagonist of an original story I'm working on and simply put, he's not okay. He lives with an emotionally and physically abusive father and a neglectful mother who cares more about her husband and their image than her son, and they both put a lot of pressure on him to be perfect in every way and also make sure he doesn't ruin the family's image in any way (a big part of which is hiding the signs of his father's abuse). In terms of a support system, he doesn't really have one since breaking up with his girlfriend, Ange, who also happens to be/have been his best friend, and his one other friend is...not that great. His only solace comes from reading and photography (and poetry but he would never admit it), but when even that isn't enough, his mind ends up in a really dark place and he tries something drastic. But thanks to a certain someone's intervention, he doesn't go through with it and as much as he (claims he) doesn't want to, he has to learn how to live again... in more ways than one.

Birthday: March 5

Sign: Pisces

Sexuality: Biromantic asexual

Likes: Photography, poetry, reading, watching and commenting movies, playing video games, rain, junk food, heights, dancing, history, mystery novels, Linkin Park (Ange constantly teases him for it), comics, rom-coms (when they aren't too cliché), motorcycles

Dislikes: His parents (his father especially), school, most sports, heat, having his privacy violated, being made fun of for his interests, big crowds, expectations, loneliness

The special someone I mentioned before. This is Ephraim, the reason Achilles stays alive and the one person he cannot shut out (both much to his dismay). The reason for that and the reason he appears wearing the same clothes as Achilles is because, after the event that saved the latter's life, the two of them end up sharing a body. Simply put, Ephraim is a ghost that possesses him. He can get control of his body and speak in his thoughts, but his actual appearance is visible only in reflective surfaces and luckily for them both not all the time, just when Ephraim chooses to surface. He possesses Achilles, thinking the two would be able to trade places, but instead he basically just hitches a ride in his body and his life. As for the reason he wished to possess him in the first place, he did it because he wants a chance to live again but most of all to find out what happened to his boyfriend, Mario, from whom he got violently separated before he died. And while he sees Achilles as a means to his ends at first, the two form a genuine bond over time.

Birthday: August 1

Sign: Leo

Sexuality: Gay

Likes: Nature, sunny days, ice cream, driving, fire, rain, shadow puppetry, learning new things, music, dogs, hugs, Achilles' poetry and photos, messing with asshole authority figures, spicy food

Dislikes: Being confined, being bossed around, talking about his death, homophobes and assholes in general, people making fun of Achilles, having to wait, ghost stories (he finds the way ghosts are portrayed offensive and unimaginative), feeling helpless, cold

And last one (for now). Ange (short for Angelica) is Achilles' ex girlfriend and best friend since childhood. Growing up the two were always together (the fact that they lived in the same building and shared a love for cinema and cameras helped with that) and long before they got together it was clear to everyone there were sparks flying between them. They were a classic childhood friends to lovers story, but after 2 years of dating, when Ange realized they both wanted and needed very different things from a relationship, as much as it hurt them both, she broke up with Achilles and the two haven't really spoken since, due to it being too awkward and painful. Though her homelife isn't as bad as Achilles' and she has other friends besides him, since the two broke up she has also been feeling very lonely and missing him, but doesn't dare to approach him, because she hates herself for hurting him and thinks he hates her too. It isn't until Ephraim comes along that they start kinda talking again (due to him pretty much forcing Achilles to talk to her).

Birthday: March 22

Sign: Aries

Sexuality: Straight or bisexual, I'm still figuring this out

Likes: Watching and commenting on movies, photography, making videos, directing, cinematography, animation, cake, dark humor, amusement parks, sunsets, puzzles, baggy clothes, late night walks, strawberries

Dislikes: Fake people, being underestimated, being judged, loneliness, people making fun of her work, makeup, gossip, visiting her grandparents, puppets

[ourflagmeansgayrights]

Hey so idk if you would know this but where did the term canyon in reference to Izzy fans come from? I feel like I just started seeing it like three days ago but everyone seems to already know what it means

lol so disclaimer that this ask has been in my inbox since september 23rd and alsoooo i might not be the best person to ask bc i am belothed by many who consider themselves part of the izzy canyon (which is their right). so if you asked an izzy fan about this you would probably get a different answer. also from what i can tell the term originated on twitter and i don’t go there.

the tl;dr that i heard secondhand from someone who identifies as izzy canyon is that at some point last year (summer or fall-ish i think) a lot of izzy fans were blocking so many people who didn’t like izzy that a lot of them ended up being unaware of general fandom trends and it became a running joke among them that izzy fans were isolated from the rest of the fandom in an "izzy canyon." and then allegedly the term expanded to just mean "if ur not a dick abt ppl liking izzy u can be in the canyon." THAT BEING SAID there are other ppl who had a very different experience with how "the canyon" originated and what kind of fan space it tends to be.

(slightly longer explanation below)

the thing with The Canyon is that to understand its origin and also why some fans have a problem with it, you gotta know two things:

there are annoying puriteen anti types on the internet who think liking certain characters make you a bad person. from what i can tell theyre mostly on twitter and tiktok. these people are annoying but also in my experience they're usually pretty easy to block and ignore.

the popularity of izzy hands is disproportionate to his narrative role in the show, and the popular fanon interpretation of izzy hands casts him not only as a principal character but as a much more sympathetic, righteous character than he is in canon. THIS DOES NOT MEAN I THINK ANYONE IS A BAD PERSON FOR LIKING IZZY. this DOES mean that i think ppl who think ed is izzy's domestic abuser are wrong. and also this is part of an age old fandom trend of fandom favoring a masc white guy who is often a side character and also often an antagonist.

so from what i can tell. in the early days of the ofmd fandom (spring-summer 2022) there was a lot of #1 going around on twitter, screaming about how if you liked izzy hands then you're a racist abuse apologist or something. at one point a throwaway account tweeted a callout for a popular izzy fan and said "we know they live in this area and work for this company, so these are the locations where they might work. everyone should call these numbers and tell their job to fire them. also we're gonna target these izzy fans next" and like, obviously this account was pretty quickly taken down. but it was a pretty scary thing and left a lot of izzy fans pretty paranoid, hence the blocking everyone who didnt like izzy.

(there was also a "izzy hater group chat" twitter account that was literally just a small group of mostly minors posting memes and also abt izzy that got accused of being connected to that whole mess. but afaict those guys have nothing to do with harassment of izzy fans they just dont like izzy)

so the thing is now that all of that has been used to justify shutting down any type of conversation about #2, or writing off anyone who posts meta about izzy that isnt like, "he works so hard and is so unappreciated despite everything he's done for ed" as an "izzy anti." analyzing izzy critically and posting this in the #izzy hands tag on tumblr is likened to genuine harassment.

oh lol and speaking of harrasment: there was also a problem with ppl on tumblr getting anon hate, and izzy fans will tell you that the anon came from an izzy hater who was targeting izzy fans bc the anon messages use "izzy critical rhetoric." however as someone who has posted "izzy critical" metas or whatever, i have actually gotten the same harassing messages accusing me of being an izzy stan and a racist abuse apologist. that's not what a targeted harassment campaign looks like. that's all been less of a problem ever since tumblr made it so you need to be logged in to an account to send anonymous messages.

anyway my stance on all of this:

i don't hate anyone for liking izzy. i am critical of certain comments/behaviors i often see from ppl who identify as izzy fans, but izzy fans are rarely the only ones who have this problem. from what i've seen tho, a lot of it comes from izzy fans.

before i ever saw even a hint of harassment against izzy fans, i saw izzy fans coming onto my posts and to posts by fans of color trying to argue that these posts were contributing to their harassment. from my perspective, it looked a lot like fans of a white character were trying to shut down conversations abt their favorite guy, especially when those conversations were being had by fans of color. i was very skeptical and oftentimes pretty dismissive abt the existence of this harassment.

since then tho ive done a pretty deep dive into the anon harassment on tumblr, and also looked at takes from different perspectives on the whole thing, and my conclusion is that there is harassment of izzy fans, however it is on the same base-level shittiness that most people experience from just... being on the internet. death threats and insults and slurs are literally just part of being on the internet. and yes, it SUCKS and it's wrong and nobody should have to put up with it, but izzy fans are not victims of specific targeted harassment. theyre victims of being on the internet and having to put up with general internet shittiness. and im sympathetic to that up until ppl start using "ive been harassed for being an izzy fan" as an excuse to be incredibly nasty (check out this tumblr acct for examples of what i mean lol). the ofmd fandom is annoying and parts of it are toxic but like, by no means is this the most toxic fandom to ever exist. we're not at "undertale fan giving out cookies with needles in them at a convention" levels just yet.

finally, tangentially related: i am inherently wary of fandom sub-groups that like, name themselves?? in my experience, the more people make being a Type Of Fan part of their identity the more it tends to lead to problems. this goes for fans who label themselves "antis" or "anti-antis" or whatever the fuck. i've personally been called an "izzy anti," an "izzy hater," and an "izzy critical fan" but like, i dont really call myself that?? it just seems weird to me idk. it gets to be very "us vs them" on default with little nuance and ive never found this kind of thing to be like, productive in fandom spaces. but that's just me.

[rweoutofthewoods]

I think the worse advice you gave and I’m not sure if it was an advice is that you stopped reading, reading is essential for writers, my jaw dropped when you said not even publishing books!!!! You said getting influenced by other fics like it was a bad thing it’s a good thing! Reading is important writers specifically. it’s instructive and inspiring, fanfic writers should pick up a novel for more depth and editing ideas. When You said you only read your friends and mutuals fics it was like a lightbulb went off. an echo chamber of yes men and the same ideas and writing style floating around there is no change no stopping and looking at different kind of material outside of your bubble. getting a feeling of burden for characters when you write them is a good thing I know it doesn’t feel like it but it makes your brain spin to make it better to improve it. Pick up a book and read

I think you’ve misunderstood and jumped to conclusions.

1. I did not give advice. Someone asked why I don’t read jegulus and I answered honestly. I’m not telling a single other person to stop reading jegulus, in fact that’d be counterproductive to me personally as you know… someone who writes exclusively jegulus 😭

2. I said I stopped reading completely for awhile only in 2023. Mind you, this was during my senior year of college. I didn’t have time for anything but school and writing and I was too drained and stressed to have any interest in reading when I was in a write, write, write mindset. So I chose what brought me more joy at the time.

I think it’s clear you’re looking for something to nitpick me on because a scroll through my blog or even the post that you’re referring to will tell you I read a lot, just not jegulus. I was just recently asking for fic recs. I worked my way through half the aftg tag and lately I’ve been reading Hannibal and drarry fanfic. I said very plainly I already read a huge majority of jegulus fics.

I hope this doesn’t come off harsh, but I don’t need you to tell me how or what I should do when it comes to writing. I’m doing perfectly fine how I am, thank you. And I stand by the fact (and it has even been mentioned to me) that my writing has improved a lot over the last year, funnily coinciding with me personally choosing to decide on my own headcanons and characterizations. Also you’ll note that I even said in the ask you’re referencing that I think the influencing of fics in a mainly fanon fandom is something beautiful about fanfic, and I still keep hcs and things I do like that I’ve absorbed from other fics. I just also no longer feel like I HAVE to write anything a certain way.

I read plenty and not just fiction and fanfic but poetry and music also largely influence and drive my writing. I really think this was a little rude and unnecessary of you and I hope you see why it comes off that way and examine why you felt the need to say this with very little thought past your seeming initial gut reaction.

It’s really a little saddening to me every time someone on here jumps to their worst conclusion. Can’t we have some positivity? kindness? Assume the best in people every once in awhile?

On that note, I’M going to assume that you simply missed what i actually said when you got the thought in your head that I never read at all, and hopefully this sets you straight.

Happy Friday!

[frostbitepandaaaaa]

Answer the Questions and Tag 5 Fanfic Authors

thanks for the tag @andorerso and @quarantineddreamer

1. How did you get into writing fanfiction?

weirdly enough.... exactly like B-- i was a young, weird little girl who wanted to live in Brian Jaques' world of Redwall so i wrote little stories of my own in that universe. shit, i could not have been older than 9 or 10. it just kind of sprouted from there.

2. How many fandoms have you written in?

published fics? six. (x files, game of thrones, mad max: fury road, star wars/rogue one/andor, avatar the last airbender, harry potter) unpublished? maybe three or four more than that.

3. How many years have you been writing fanfiction?

when i started publishing fanfic... oh my god it's been like 19/20 years now.

4. Do you read or write more fanfiction?

write. i go through phases, of course, but i am such a picky bitch. my phases usually end up like this:

step one) i read everything there is to read based on a certain niche trope that i am in the mood for at the time.

step two) wow! that was great. what a feast!

step three) ...okay i'm still hungry and these fics didn't quite scratch this very, very niche itch i have so--

step four) *chuckles* i'm in danger.

5. What is one way you’ve improved as a writer?

i feel like i've gotten a lot better at plotting and pacing. it's weird, because i never felt like that was really an issue for me before, but i've realized that until i started writing for rebelcaptain, i was heavily a 'vibes-based' writer. which i feel that i still am in many ways, but with rebelcaptain i am going back and resequencing, cutting/adding/shortening and deleting way more than i have in the past in order to maintain tension and pacing better. wether or not these things are actually improved is another matter altogether, but i feel like they are. (and is a big reason why all of my multi-chapters take forever........ sorry about that. it's me slicing and dicing my drafts). the world building aspect of Star Wars is also really cool-- wanna a certain setting? just fucking make it up! no one cares. and as a setting slut, i love this for me. <3

6. What’s the weirdest topic you researched for a writing project?

australian cattle stations.

7. What’s your favorite type of comment to receive on your work?

i don't discriminate, but the comments that compare me to other works/creators (i've gotten Bronte, Justified, the Coen Brothers and others). those both make me so happy and so mad because how???? no way. not me. @justwandering-neverlost also left my favorite comment ever, before we were friends-- that i inspired her to be a better writer. and now look at us! she can't get rid of me! bet she regrets that. <3

8. What’s the most fringe trope/topic you write about?

me and my western/small/rundown town settings. you can pry that shit from my cold, dead hands. also... storms.

9. What is the hardest type of story for you to write?

modern aus honestly. i start one in order to give myself reprieve from angst and plot and shit and all of a sudden i am having hours-long breakdowns about how this character would fit into this setting and how this character would react to this this thing in this time and all of a sudden the fluffy little modern au has grown 5000 legs and now is a hydratic millipede of hellish proportions that i have to methodically find a way to domesticate without cutting off more legs because two more grow in its place and--

10. What is the easiest type?

you want angst? pining? idiots in love? i got you.

11. Where do you do your writing? What platform? When?

i write anywhere-- on my phone in my car in between appointments at work. at my desk at home. on my couch. in the bar. in my bed. on the patio. i use ulysses. i love the formatting options and just the simple UI in general. it allows you to be as organized or unorganized as you want (very unorganized in my case). as to what time... i'm trying to get better about only finding writing strides at like... 11PM on Tuesdays but alas.

12. What is something you’ve been too nervous/intimidated to write, but would love to write one day?

any historical au. i would love to do one cause i love research and world building and all that but... uh... see my complaints about modern aus above and you can see why i have avoided those. it's one of those 'i've never tried [insert addictive drug here] because i know that i would like it too much and it would ruin my life' sort of situations

13. What made you choose your username?

i was like 8 or 9 years old and wanted to get into a Harry Potter chatroom and everything i picked was 'already taken'. cue me just smashing two words together and never really looking back.

no pressure tags: @justwandering-neverlost @chipthekeeper @luciechat @fulcrumstardust @incognitajones

[anamelessfool]

Ribbons & Ties (AO3 Link) Chapter 5

M/M, GEN (Ch 4 Here) (Start here on Tumblr!) 2000ish words

Terzo x Omega, Terzo & Family, Terzo & His Ghouls, Cardinal Marian is in there for like ten minutes

Tags: Domestic Fluff, Commitment, Rom Com Energy, There's a Wedding, Secondo is Papa Emeritus, Gift Giving, The ghoul names are all messed up sorry it is for plot purposes, I can't have Fluff without some Angst sorry

For reasons beyond Terzo's understanding, he wants to give Omega a present for the ghoul's "birthday". It proves to be a lot more complicated than Terzo realizes.

Art by @kabukiaku used with permission

Chapter 5 Below the Cut! (We like Reblogs, Comments and Kudos omnomnom)

Terzo’s eyes flew open. He stared at his ceiling, his mind racing. He knew. It was 2 AM and he finally knew what gift he wanted to give Omega.

5

Terzo’s eyes flew open. He stared at his ceiling, his mind racing. He knew.

It was 2 AM and he finally knew what gift he wanted to give Omega. It wouldn't be easy, but he decided if he cared so deeply about the ghoul nothing could stop him for long.

Now all he had to do was get out from under this naked sorella in his bed.

She settled in, her arm closing around his neck. Terzo’s eyes rolled in his head as his mind calculated a solution. He slowly shimmied out from under her, gently resting her on her side. She sighed, shifting and reaching for him. In the moment she raised her hand to look for him he was free.

“Mmmph?”

“I’ll uh…I’ll be back,” he mumbled, although that wasn't necessarily the truth. He leaned over and gave her bare shoulder a gentle kiss.

He got to work throwing on his undershirt, slacks and shoes. Something about this sudden revelation required urgency. He did not want to wait a moment more and risk overthinking it all. He closed the door as quietly as he could and scurried down the stairs.

The courtyard was seemingly empty as he journeyed just within the shadows. Chairs and decorations had been toppled by guests and the nighttime wind. For a moment Terzo thought no one was there, but as he passed by the obscene fountain it looked as if a statue had been installed at it's edge.

Earth Ghoul sat on the rim of the fountain, his head tilted upwards. He was surrounded by the half broken down party mess, his hands calmly on his knees. Terzo flattened himself against the wall of the arcade, shuffling past as quickly as he could. Earth probably noticed him but remained still. Terzo didn't want to stop to talk as he continued his hurrying towards the Sanctum.

Terzo could see well enough in the dim light of the Sanctum. The dark made the sweep and spread of the arched, ribbed ceiling even more dramatic, more stomach-droppingly steep. The bronze filigree across the Altarpiece gleamed softly in some unseen light source, its doors the only barrier between this world and the Void from which Omega and the other ghouls were brought forth.

Beyond the choir box, under an archway was an often overlooked area of the Sanctum, unless you were a very under-supervised and lonely small boy in the early 1970s. A place with a certain fondness that now returned to him as he looked upon the carvings surrounding the locked entrance.

The catacombs.

The bars of the catacombs gates were easy to slip through as a tiny kid. But Terzo was now just over forty so the childish contortionist act was out of the question.

It was a good thing he was still proficient in picking locks. He always kept a few bobby pins attached to the inside laces of his shoe. He pulled two out, bent and arranged them in a way that at this point in his life was second nature. The lock fell as easily as the few times he had picked it before.

There is always a last time one visits a treasured place, although one rarely knows when that last time is. He didn't remember when was the last time he stood at these steps looking down toward the darkness. He closed one eye, his human eye.

He did however, realize that this time the curse of the Infernal Eye helped him see perfectly well in the dark. “I can keep my shoes on, at least,” he chuckled to himself, and the words fell flat in the thick air.

The steps then were easier to navigate than the countless times he'd wander down her before, although his feet remembered which way to go. The catacombs were cool, reminding him of the thin shirt he wore. It was constructed of bricks and cobble, with various concrete and stone sculptures of skeletons and mourning shrouded maidens perched in corners and alcoves. There were urns stacked on shelves. Some grander stone sarcophagi were built into the walls, sporting carved names and phrases like ROCKEFELLER, GATSBY, CAMINO and COMMIT FLESH TO EARTH AND SOUL TO VOID. He passed his favorite carving of a winged death’s head skull, remembering the times he made crayon rubbings and taped them to his wall.

Terzo turned a corner and there was a small tunnel to the left side, waist height. He suspected it was some sort of drain to keep the place from flooding. Here. Here was the place. He stooped down and settled in. He could still sit cross legged with his back up against the wall, albeit he had to stoop a whole lot more. As he nestled himself amongst the rocks the familiar posture and texture brought the memory to life again— the solidness of cool smooth cobble against his back, the security of his body crumpled just so in a comforting darkness. It was the closest thing to being held by the Earth itself.

No wonder he would come down here when he just couldn't take it anymore. He let out a sigh.

He looked down further into the tunnel. The Infernal Eye gleamed as if illuminated by invisible moonlight. He could see his prize, twenty feet or so down deeper in. He unrolled his body and crawled towards it.

And the walls enveloped him, a little too tightly now. He didn't want to think about what grime he was dragging himself through, but then again at ten years old he barely cared. He army-crawled on his stomach, blowing cobwebs off his face. His singular focus started to waver. Doubt began to arrive and take a seat.

I'd love to meet him.

Terzo unfortunately did not successfully steal the whole top of the cake that evening. Although he did charm his way into collecting eight slices to present to Omega, who was impressed just the same.

He was stuck. He had been stuck like this before, many times, as a younger, spryer kid. Now this was getting ridiculous. He knew how to get out of this jam but he had to commit to going further. He felt a soft skittering across his bare arm that he hoped was not a spider.

“Come on, Terzo,” he muttered to himself. He exhaled, flattening his chest and pushing his body forward through the shaft. His arm strained, the tendons across his shoulder blade stretched. He could see his prize just a foot further ahead and he reached as far as his limb could take him, swearing. His fingers grazed the corner of a papered wood surface— a box, his box.

“Porca troia, come on!” In this case Italian swears were needed for their unique flavor of frustration. He didn't want to think about the possibility of getting stuck, but he was so close to collecting the box at this point that he didn't want to give up just yet. One more exhale, one more tiny shove and he felt the knee of his slacks tear open.

And his fingers fully on the box.

Terzo managed to slip the box towards him fully into his hand. He backed out of the shaft, knocking his head a few times. At last he was back at the opening, curled up again and looking down at a dirty little cigar box he had reverently placed there. He stroked the embossed paper seal on top of this reliquary dedicated to his deepest self, found in the deepest place below the Sanctum.

Inside the box were treasures he had not seen in nearly thirty years. A yellow diecast roadster. A few dried Ghost Pipe flowers gently pressed into a folded piece of parchment. A photograph of a pretty nun with deeply sad eyes. A rusted harmonica. A collection of crude sketches of nudes he drew as a curious kid that needed to be buried securely and never ever be discovered by his stepmother, not even a decade after her death. He chuckled softly at the memory.

But he was looking for the most important thing. It was hidden under a few foreign coins. A white stone, no bigger than his palm. There was a hole in it, a hole worn away by a thousand years of some ancient river caressing its body.

He thought it was perfect. And so he put it in his pocket.

***

Terzo wasn't even halfway across the courtyard before he felt a rush of intense feeling through him, a psychic tap on the shoulder. He stopped and looked. Earth Ghoul still sat there, on the fountain edge.

TERZO.

Earth Ghoul at last had his head turned towards his summoner. And with two small but firm gestures of his hand, the ghoul summoned him. Terzo had no choice but to draw near.

Ghouls picked names for themselves when they arrived. Terzo thought it was pretty presumptuous of the ghoul to name himself “Earth” but his presence immediately brought a sense of calm and solidness that proved he deserved such a name.

YOU KNOW THE STARS MAKE A SOUND. A BUZZING SORT OF SOUND.

The Ministry Compound itself was located high in the mountains, far away from the city lights that bleached the sky. Up here anyone could see a dazzling show above. And usually there was at least someone awake, observing them.

Terzo was compelled to settle beside the ghoul as he sat on the fountain rim. He glared up at the sky, squinting as if it would help him hear better. He jiggled his leg as nothing stepped forward for him.

ONE THING I NOTICE IS THIS WORLD NOW IS NEVER SILENT. THERE IS NO LONGER TRUE SILENCE. LONG AGO YOU COULD REALLY HEAR THE STARS THEN.

Terzo realized that he was covered in dirt and cobwebs. He fussed with his hair and some sort of grit from the catacombs flaked out. Earth said nothing, continuing to be more interested in the stars overhead. The silence was unbearable. The fact that Earth had not admonished him for crawling through a hole was excruciating.

“You both…must hate me.”

Earth made a gravelly sound deep in his throat.

ALPHA HAS HAD BAD EXPERIENCES IN THE PAST. HE WORRIES ABOUT IT. HE WANTS TO MAKE SURE HIS TIME HERE IS WORTH IT. HE MAY NOT BE CHOSEN AGAIN, YOU KNOW.

“But you've come back,” Terzo said. “You've come back many times.”

THERE’S A SECRET TO THAT. I NEVER ASSUME I GET A SECOND CHANCE. AND YET SOMEHOW, I ALWAYS DO. Earth sighed, deep enough it felt like the ground shook. ALPHA WILL LEARN THAT. MAYBE THIS TIME. MAYBE THE NEXT TIME. BUT THAT IS ON HIM.

“I don't even know why any of you want to be here. Sometimes I don't…want to be here.”

I FIND THIS PLACE INTERESTING. TWO THOUSAND YEARS AND IT NEVER CHANGES. Earth shook his head. WHY DO HUMANS HOLD ON TO SO MUCH?

“We’re stupid,” said Terzo. He got to his feet, and he became aware of a pulled muscle in his back. He would definitely be feeling it tomorrow. “Good night, Earth Ghoul.”

Earth Ghoul snapped his fingers, once. As if calling to a dog. TERZO. YOU ARE NOT THE WORST PAPA I HAVE SERVED.

“Congratulazioni, I'm just getting started,” Terzo snorted.

I SAID THAT FOR A REASON. YOU WOULD NEVER BELIEVE ANYTHING ELSE I COULD SAY TO YOU.

“I don't listen to many things.”

YOU'RE IN LUCK. I'M IN YOUR MIND. ITS IMPOSSIBLE TO PRETEND TO IGNORE ME.

“Okay, then what do you have to say to me?”

WHAT ARE YOU AND OMEGA GHOUL UP TO?

Terzo knew Earth Ghoul had some inkling. He was tied to him as a being created from his own essence. But ghouls believed more in the value of actions than thoughts, So Terzo had to play into Earth’s hands. “Omega Ghoul and I…we are together. We are…in love.”

Earth leaned forward, knitting his fingers together as if rolling that concept around in his head. It was a unique sort of agony to watch him. IT’S NOT RARE. IT’S NOT COMMON EITHER. IT’S JUST… Earth patted his chest. THERE’S LIMITS. GHOULS ARE NOT AS STRONG AS YOU THINK. THE CONNECTION TO THIS BODY IS FAIRLY FLIMSY. IT DEGRADES.

“Your bodies can be restored. Fairly easily.”

THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEAN. Earth shook his head. I MAY BE FOREVER. BUT I KNOW NONE OF US HAVE FOREVER.

“I don't want to think about that,” Terzo replied quietly.

IT IS WHAT IT IS WHETHER IT IS THOUGHT ABOUT OR NOT. Earth rattled his head. IF YOU WANT TO BE MORE THAN TIME’S SLAVE YOU NEED TO DIVERT ITS FLOW. CHOICE IS NECESSARY.

“Sometimes I don't think I'm making the right choice.”

WELL, DO YOU FEEL YOU'VE MADE A GOOD CHOICE?

Terzo unconsciously slipped his hand into his pants pocket, finding the stone there. He stroked it with the pad of his thumb. “Yes.”

It felt like Earth was smiling behind his mask. THEN IT'S THE RIGHT CHOICE. He got carefully to his feet, rolling his shoulders. GOOD NIGHT, TERZO. GET REST. TOMORROW COMES SOON. IT ALWAYS DOES.

Terzo nodded, watching the ghoul slip back into the darkness of the stone arcade. He sat down again, brow furrowed, glaring up at the stars.

But he still didn't hear anything.

My AO3 | Tumblr Fic List | My Terzo/Omega Fics

Please reblog! Thanks and have a lovely Solstice season!<3

NEXT CHAPTER (LAST ONE!)

[kmlaney]

WIP questionnaire

tagged by @coffeewritesfiction and I am so sorry to take this long on a reply. Thanks for the tag!

Tagging @fallenscintilla (if you want! No pressure!) and @waywardwizzard and anyone who wants to!

1. What is the first part of your WIP that you created?

The very first line was: “D’ya think I care how it tastes?” I posted an edited version here. There's a snip of the original here.

For the record, it started as a character background for a TTRPG. In fact, it wasn’t even going to be the character I was going to play. Harrowed (undead/revenant) gunfighter? *eyeroll* Too cliché. I even made a homebrew archetype to play: a “spiritualist” in the late 1800’s sense. But that first line kept bugging me so I figured, okay. Fine. I’ll write this one scene and then work on my spiritualist. 

Yeah. No. I never played the spiritualist.

2. If your story was a TV show, what would the theme song/intro be?

I did all the fan stuff for Phil and Skyfallen, like playlists, faceclaims, all of that. I never did that before. I selected music for the theoretical TV show: main theme, a rotating list of outro/credits roll music, pieces for certain kinds of scenes. So if Skyfallen were a TV series, this would be the theme:

3. What are your favorite characters that you made? Why?

That’s like asking which of my pets was my favorite. I love them all. I guess I loved Phil enough to make them the viewpoint character. They’re a more-mature version of the kind of character I wrote when I was a kid, now with serious problems I can explore as an adult. I like Phil’s father, whom I was determined to fridge in the beginning because fridging is usually a female character. Ha Ha! Then I went and gave him a character arc that could only end in his death so he’s not fridged after all. 

I like Travelling Sam for being a conniving, money-grubbing jerk, but he’s fun to write. I like Eva as Carnival Mom; Maury for being a flamboyant, fun-to-be-around person hiding a serious drinking problem that everyone knows about. I like Doc Butcher for his name, for actually being trained as a vet but caring about everyone, and trying to do his best when he’s in over his head because he can’t do nothing. 

I like Maker Lewis for his change of heart, though he was already on the fence and just needed a shove. And I like Miss Warren for being a nosy reporter whom Phil doesn’t want to like but ends up liking anyway. She also lets me play at muckraking reporter. Choosing words to specifically slant a piece is a load of fun.

4. What other pieces of media do you think your fan base would share?

Skyfallen has its roots in Westerns, so people who like cinematic westerns are a potential fanbase. I include horror, steampunk, and gothic elements, so if your venn diagram of interests includes those things then it might be for you. 

Things I like that influenced or feel like this story: Silverado, The Magnificent Seven, RIPD 2 Rise of the Damned (movies. I hate to admit that last one but it was fun). Deadlands (TTRPG game. I created Phil for this setting). The Dark Tower novels--primarily Wizard and Glass but any of the parts dealing with Roland’s world. 

There is zero romance. Phil’s ace, there is no main love interest, and anyone who gets together does so very off-screen. 

5. What has been your biggest struggle with your WIP?

When writing the draft, the individual scenes flew out of my brain. I could hardly write them fast enough. In deep editing, though, it’s the big-picture stuff I find challenging. Which themes do I want to emphasize and which are less important? Do I really need all this buildup or should I start later? I need to show certain things so the later ones make sense, but that makes it even longer. It’s already very long; shouldn’t I be cutting things down? Argh. It's frustrating.

6. Are there any animals in your story? Talk about them!

There are animals. Most are utilitarian: Horses, dogs, cats, chickens, cows. There are monsters also (for certain values of “monster”) all along the continuum from “non-sapient animal” through to “self-aware human intelligence.” 

The way they figure into the story is more interesting. In life, Phil liked animals in general and had a special fondness for horses and mules. After dying and coming back reanimated, animals can’t stand to be around them. Phil doesn’t figure it out right away, and it hurts when they do.

7. How do your characters get around? (Ex. Trains, horses, cars, dragons, etc.)

For the area the characters are in for the bulk of the story, most people walk, ride horses, or ride in wagons, carts, or coaches pulled by horses or teams of horses. There are a couple of trains but they are rare. In other areas, trains are common, as are ferries and lake boats. Airships exist; they are novelties and considered simultaneously luxurious and dangerous. In larger cities, along with the horse-drawn vehicles, people have bicycles, rickshaws, pedal-powered rickshaws, and palanquins. Automatons in a variety of configurations may be subbed in for horses or people in any of those conveyances. 

8. What part of your WIP are you working on right now?

I’ve identified some specific foreshadowing that needs to happen. So I need to add that in. There are a few names that aren’t consistent; they’re flagged so I can fix them. I need to put in a few encounters so later ones make sense. It’s not exactly foreshadowing so much as worldbuilding. So editing stuff.

9. What aspects (tropes, maybe) of your WIP do you think will draw people in?

I have a hard time identifying tropes in my work, probably because I’m in the trees, so to speak, and can’t see the forest. Or groves, to push the metaphor. Having said that, here’s an attempt:

Portal/isekai

Found family

Unlikely group of heroes

Humans can be evil; monsters can be sympathetic

Religion, Magic, and cults 

Monsters dwelling among humans

Enemies to not-friends (don’t push your luck)

Things get worse

Everyone has secrets

Lost memories, memory tampering

Weird West

Steampunk and Gothic Horror

Gunslinger/trick shot

Noble Demon/antihero

Good is not nice

I did come up with one of those taglines that you might see on the bottom of the cover of a book: 

“Every Skyfallen has something they want to forget. And everyone in the Mistlands is Skyfallen.”

10. What are your hopes for your WIP?

Originally I was hoping for traditional publishing. I might still try to go that way. I’m also looking into self-pub, and websites that host serial stories. I think this story fits better into a serial format than a traditional book format. I need to make it more coherent (hence editing phase)

[dummerjan]

15 people, 15 questions tagged by @scarefox - thank you <333 This came at the perfect time since I am procrastinating having dinner and doing homework and this is obviously a very urgent matter. 1) Are you named after anyone? Yes, both my first and second name are from great-grandmothers. The first one is very meaningful to me.

2) When was the last time you cried? A handful of tears yesterday. I did something very scary and there was a lot of build-up and I suddenly felt very small and lost. Other than that... I can't remember. Maybe when watching The Untamed. Probably sometime in December no matter the reason, but not much.

3) Do you have kids? Fuck no. When my age was still a single digit, I would loudly proclaim I would never want to get married and have children and nothing has changed since then.

4) What sports do you play/have you played? I really like swimming if that counts as playing sports. I don't do it nearly as often as I would like to though, every other week is a challenge already. I've done aerial yoga on and off over the past few years and I am determined to get back to that. I love being suspended upside-down and swinging.

5) Do you use sarcasm? Yes but I am not good at it.

6) What's the first thing you notice about people? I don't know... how they look? Since seeing them usually happens before talking to them. Hair perhaps. Clothes. How they talk. I am not sure.

7) What's your eye color? Blue.

8) Scary movies or happy endings? I don't watch scary movies so it's happy endings by default. But I actually prefer an open, ambiguous ending, one that leaves me a bit unsatisfied and doesn't wrap up everything too neatly.

9) Any talents? I have always been good with languages, be it my native one or learning a foreign one. Not excellent but it comes fairly easy to me, at least to a certain degree: I did end up getting a tutor for Latin because Caesar was doing my head in.

10) Where were you born? At home.

11) What are your hobbies? Various textile crafts though it's pretty much just sewing at the moment with a sprinkle of knitting every now and then. I love to bake, I could spend all day in the kitchen. Does watching series count? If I am reading, it's also that but I go through yearslong slumps.

12) Do you have any pets? What a mean question. Living pets? No. But in my heart I certainly do. And I also have them in an urn on the window sill of my bedroom.

13) How tall are you? 1,65 m

14) What was your favorite subject in school? It was always something with language, in elementary German (until I had a teacher from hell) and later foreign ones, English, Spanish or Latin. I also enjoyed history a lot.

15) What is your dream job? Translator and editor but emphasis on dream since that is never going to happen. I do really like the idea of working in the costuming department of a theatre or opera house. I am actually doing an internship at the local theatre this spring and really looking forward to that. Am I really going to tag fifteen people? Let's see...

@scattered-stardust @toppingjeffsatur @die-schwanenkoenigin @told-the-moon-about-you @lady-guts @biveganpoetbat @ilovetextingandscones @hummingbooks @istilldontunderstand @sitron-sunni @fanfictionroxs @sorry-bonebag @bisexualbard I am stopping because that's already more than my anxious self feels comfortable with.

Feel free to ignore this or do this without being tagged. <3

[exeggcute]

there's a developing story in Australian media about Tiktok pixels collecting unauthorised data in an aggressive manner via their ads on thrid party websites, and I was wondering what a Professional like yourself made of it

ooh reading into this now... full disclosure that (1) until/unless I get another job in adtech I am technically not a Professional anymore lol and (2) pixel tags weren't a big component of my last role so I only have a fairly basic understanding of how they work. but from what I'm seeing here it sounds like the main issue with tiktok rn isn't the data collection per se, since these pixel tags are functionally identical to the ones employed by facebook and others, just that tiktok isn't obtaining user consent the way other companies are ostensibly do. although even that seems like a convenient lead-in for the whole Oh My God A But Chinese Company Is Doing It thing.

and tbf I kinda can pull that in both directions—on one hand facebook in particular has gotten in a lot of trouble before for bad data collection practices and putting that data in the hands of people who used it to (maybe, allegedly) sway public opinion, so the general fear underpinning this thing is like, not unfounded right. (even though I don't think the issue behind the cambridge analytica scandal was centered around tracking pixels specifically?) on the other hand the very nature of facebook's rocky history re. data and privacy proves that western companies can and will spy on their users and it's for sure disingenuous to act like ~shady foreign governments~ are the only ones with any incentive to do so lol.

I guess you could argue that facebook's incentive for all the spying was simply Making Money, even if they took money from people who did use that spy data to spread propaganda; like, to the parent company, the propaganda wasn't the goal. whereas many will obviously argue that with tiktok data some undefined form of propaganda is the goal. but seeing that tiktok ads are a multi-billion dollar enterprise(!) I'm way more inclined to believe that tiktok is also spying for the sake of Making Money. clearly a whole fucking lot of money!

this is something I've for sure said before but I also wholeheartedly believe (and to some extent, know, although again pixel tracking isn't my exact wheelhouse) that advertising data is a lot less granular and therefore less useful than most people imagine it to be, which severely limits the kind of compromising shit you can pull under normal circumstances.

even in the article I linked, where they talk about tiktok pixels being able to track the shopping/browsing habits of users, basic device info, and occasionally some PII like phone numbers and email addresses... like, okay, so let's say tiktok knows that junglejim4322@yahoo.com used an iphone to look at a website that sells orthopedic shoe inserts. or even maybe something more salacious like, idk, questionably legal gas station dick pills. from a "let's use tiktok to spread propaganda" perspective I really struggle how that information would be valuable or what you'd do with it other than emailing that person outright to taunt them about their fucked up feet and/or dick? (if the goal is to show people certain kinds of content in tiktok's app then certainly you have both the means to do so and plenty of behavioral data to draw up on in the app itself. it's a literal video platform lol.) otoh from a "let's use this data to create advertising segments" perspective then you can easily monetize this info by telling advertisers that you know a guy who's a prime target for ads about podiatry treatments or whatever, in which case advertisers are more eager to spend money on ads because they think they're talking to a relevant audience. and in that case advertisers don't really care what the guy's name or email is, just that he ticks certain boxes that make him a worthwhile use of ad dollars. and even in cases where bad actors do want more specific data for shady purposes, it's pretty difficult to collect it and even harder to propagate it across different platforms; one thing I think gets overlooked a lot with cambridge analytica in particular is that it happened on a platform where users willingly share their full name, birthday, gender, relationship status, political leanings, job title, etc. outright, and then create connections between other people who also willingly share all that info. in some ways I don't think it could've happened anywhere but facebook, because this is a situation where you really didn't have to squeeze anything out of users—they just came out and told you! (it's also part of why non-shady facebook ads are so lucrative; you don't have to guesstimate audience data when you can literally just specify that certain ads should only be shown to people whose profile says they're between the ages of 35 and 55.) and as far as I'm aware tiktok just does not have anything remotely approaching that kind of profile data.

anyway lol. as far as I can tell I think this is a GDPR-y consent issue first and foremost, which will probably turn into a thorny battle over whether tiktok can/will be held to EU data standards or similar statues with a good helping of Chinese Company Bad mixed in for good measure. also side note but remember the whole thing about tiktok data transparency but the american company they put in charge of it is fucking oracle?

[theinfinitedivides]

listening to the PS:2 soundtrack again in an attempt to bite the bullet and psyche myself up to watch both films back to back in August(? that's the goal at least, if i get to watch it earlier even better) and i have been stuck on Veera Raja Veera for an hour and a half. i have also figured out my personal ranking for all versions of the song at last and it went about as well as i would have expected. it started to get too long for the f*cking tags tho so i decided to put in this post, we'll see how it goes from here—list is in order from least liked to most liked btw

5. going to start this off by saying i'm so so sorry to Gulzar but it's something about the rhythm for me. the lyrics are lovely but the way they are lining up with the music in the Hindi version,,,,,,, or failing to in certain parts,,,,,, it's not it. it's not it. it does well in the first minute or so and then heads downhill from there, and tbh it's not his fault i think it's just the sheer amount of syllables that they have to fit in compared to the original? and with that in mind it's not going to sound the same, obviously, but what salvages it from being a complete disappointment is the way we got both Shreya Ghoshal and Kavita Krishnamurthy as a duet in this year of our Lord 2023. Kavita, who still sounds the same as she did on the Dil Se soundtrack singing Satrangi Re and the Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam soundtrack and the Devdas soundtrack and the Yaara Dildaara soundtrack and the K3G soundtrack with Bole Chudiyan and Shreya Ghoshal who is a pleasure to listen to on practically everything she touches (Bajirao Mastani and Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi and that aalap just before her verse with Kavita here i'm looking at you) and— *inhales* *exhales* ok. do appreciate them letting Kavita take the 'चुन चुन चुन चुन / जाली रे जाली चिंगारी' portion in the Hindi translation bc she sounded beautiful there. (she always reminded me of Lata in that regard i think, and for some inexplicable reason i've by extension connected the two of them to Zohra Sehgal in some of her roles)

favorite line — 'दुश्मन पे टूटे जब | बिजलियों का वीर' / 'dushman pe toote jab | bijilyon ka vaar'. this is one of those times where the rhythm works in their favor and works well, and it leads perfectly into the rest of the verse imo. also @ that one guy going 'योद्धा~~' / 'yodhaa~~' at the very end of the song ty for your service

3. in contrast to the rhythm problems of the Hindi the Kannada recording is very smooth? i don't know if that makes sense as someone who doesn't speak the language but it's like water. like water in a stream just one after another going over the stones in the riverbed as it passes or the waves lapping against the side of the ship or the gentle sound wind chimes make when they hit against each other in the lightest breeze—the phrasing doesn't feel forced (ty Jayant Kaikini sir) and the syllables match the music as well as the original. ofc Rakshita Suresh and Sivasri Skandaprasad have a part to play with their solos in this sounding as good as it does, despite its ranking on my list (which will be explained in the next entry), and while i expected nothing less from Rakshita after Kirunage, this is the first i'm hearing from Sivasri and she blew me away. i had to listen to it several times to be able to tell them apart, and i might still be wrong bc their voice color is very, very similar, but they took what Rahman gave them and made it their own. (is it Rakshita that starts and Sivasri that continues? i'm thinking that it alternates between them with Sivasri ending that portion)

favorite line — 'ಮಳೆಗರೆವಾಗ ಬಾಣ | ಅಡಗಳು ಎಲ್ಲಿ ತಾಣಾ' / 'malegarevaaga baana | adagalu elli thaana'. this is where the river analysis stands out to me bc this feels like putting pebbles said river into a tumbler and rolling them over and over until they come out smooth and polished and just. right. (i am using the word smooth a lot to talk about the Kannada version sksksksk but can you blame me)

3. technically Malayalam and Kannada tie for third place on here (there is no fourth place. there is 4.75th place rounded up to fifth place and that belongs to the Hindi entry as previously stated) but Malayalam has the slightest edge for me. in terms of sound/pronunciation it's the closest to the original—i know most scholars believe that Malayalam descended from Tamil and split early on, so that might have something to do with it, but it sounds like a perfect cross between the flow of Kannada and the strength of the Tamil and ugh. pair that with Srinivas featuring and Shweta Mohan taking on that solo (by herself!!! and eating that sh*t like it was a duet!!!) and Rafeeq Ahamed as the lyricist and i play it almost as often as i play the original. (i was almost half expecting to hear the extension at the end in this version, that's how good it was)

favorite line — 'കടലിൽ ചുഴലി പോലെ | തവ നൗക കളിരമ്പി' / 'kadalil chuzhali pole | thava noukakalirambi'. i am in love with what Shweta does here, especially with the latter half of the line ('... നൗക കളിരമ്പി' / 'noukakalirambi') since she just heads straight into the 'വൻകടൽ...' and for some reason that is so auditorily pleasing to me. i don't have any rational thoughts behind that that's just how it is. her aalap before her verse is also breathier/softer than Shreya's if that makes sense but it fits her perfectly

2. Telugu. holy f*ck, Telugu. you put Shankar Mahadevan (i don't think i've ever heard him sing a bad song. ever. at least not what i've heard) and Chinmayi (Tere Bina???? Mayya Mayya???? Titli???? i'm still not over any of them from her????) in the same song you make every f*cking verse rhyme almost exactly courtesy of Chandrabose if Kannada is the sound of water then Telugu is pure silk and honey and the feel of something melting in your mouth and you expect me to stay alive? the actual f*ck? admittedly i may be biased bc one of my OCs is Telugu and i have been putting Telugu covers from my Bollywood playlist on loop for inspo but uh Rahman what the f*ck. what the f*ck am i supposed to do with that kind of genius

favorite line(s) — 'సమరం శ్రుతించైరా శిఖరం స్పృశించైర' / 'samaram shruthinchaira shikharam spushinchaira' & 'విధిగా తెగించైర | విధినే వదించైర | విలయం దరించైర | విజయం వరించైర' / 'vidhigaa thegincheyraa | vidhine vadhincheyraa | vilayam dharincheyraa | vijayam varincheyraa'. the f*cking alliteration? hello? also the 'veera raja veera' at the end of this version in particular gives me full body chills bc there is someone going up with the harmonization every time there's a new line. i don't know who it is but he's (they're? could be multiple vocals) going up and i am crying shaking throwing up on the floor having a spiritual experience etc etc

and finally 1. the top spot. the place where everything has been leading through this long ass piece that i have put you to suffer through

and ykw Tamil is pretty much self-explanatory i think: we bring Shankar back as we should but this time K.S Chithra (Asoka!!! Main Prem Ki Diwani Hoon!!! Bombay and Thoda Thoda from Indira/Priyanka and the live version of Jiya Jale that Rahman did in Dubai!!!) and Harini (also sang for Indira/Priyanka and featured on Varayo Thozhi from Jeans) are with him and Ilango Krishnan's lyrics take over and flatline me on the f*cking operating table. before it flatlines me however i break into goosebumps every time i hear it start, bc lbh it is impossible not to when you have the f*cking vocals coming in like 'காணீரோ? நீர் காண் | சோழ வெற்றி வாள் ஒன்றை காணீரோ? | ஓ அழகிய பூவே! செல்லுதியோ | மலரிடு போ சகி!' if you stay sane during that opening you are a liar get off my feed unfollow and block i don't want you anywhere near me for the next six years or however long it takes Mani Ratnam to make his next masterpiece. no coherent thoughts head empty MV playing on loop he and Rahman own me now they have the copyrights

favorite line (had to split everything into two blocks bc Tumblr was tryin to f*ck up my sh*t) — 'எம் தமிழ் வாழ்க வாழ்க! | வீர சோழம் வாழ்க! | நற்றமிழ் வாழ்க வாழ்க! | நல்லோர் தேசம் வாழ்க!' / 'em thamizh vaazhga vaazhga! | veera sozham vaazhga! | natramizh vaazhga vaazhga! | nallor thesam vaazhga!'. technically this isn't my favorite favorite line bc i have to do a seperate ranking for that below + it's exclusive to the Tamil version and i am trying to make this a wholistic review but. it's f*cking up there let's just say that. i think i mentioned in the tags of a different post of how i've been doing genealogy research and (in the process) tentatively confirmed the possibility of there being some South Asian descent from my dad's side, specifically Tamil or Telugu based on the stories/timeline of French occupation in the Caribbean and portions of the Indian subcontinent, and there's something in me that shifts every time we get down to the last twenty or so seconds and this hits. i don't know what it is, truly—maybe the remnants of the genes of my ancestors and their pride for their land, their language—but it's there and it's loud and if it's the right day at the right time i will start crying btw. full on sobbing like a little bitch. you didn't ask but i told you anyway

after all of *motions* that, i am also offering a bonus ranking of the section of VRV that makes me rewind every f*cking time it comes on in every language, bc it featured heavily in creating my eventual rankings and i would be remiss to not mention it. so here have this additional dive into my thought process during these trying times of hyperfixation rip

'आंधी से तेज़ | तूफ़ान से तेज़ | चुन चुन चुन चुन | जाली रे जाली चिंगारी | अंग अंग अंग अंग | लागे रे लागे अंगारे' / 'aandhi se tez | toofaan se tez | chun chun chun chun | jaali re jaali chingaari | ang ang ang ang | laagey re laagey angaare', Hindi — still at the bottom of the list here, but the inflection during the repetition ('chun chun chun chun' and 'ang ang ang ang') salvages it somewhat. nothing else to say it about it otherwise, since i already addressed Kavita's voice here earlier

'വാക്കാകെ നീ കാറ്റാക നീ | ശര ശര ശര ശരമേയ്ക | വേൽമഴ നെയ്തിട് | റ പറ പറ പറ വിറകൊൾക | പായട്ടെ പായ്വഞ്ചികൾ' / 'vaakkaaka nee kaattaaka nee | shara shara shara sharameyka | velmazha neythidu | para para para para virakolka | paayatte paayvanchikal', Malayalam — taking that third place as always, but its tied partner in the general rankings is higher up in this list for a change. i think the very last part ('പായട്ടെ പായ്വഞ്ചികൾ' / 'paayatte paayvanchikal') is what throws me off tho bc of the way they distributed the line, since on the first listen i was expecting them to go 'paayatte paayvan-chi-kal' and they chose 'paayatte pa-ay-van-chikal' instead. it's not like it decreases the overall quality of the song or anything it's just a very specific hang up i have. who knows maybe my preferred pronunciation would have f*cked with the meaning and we do not want that

'సుడిగాడ్పులా అడుగేయరా | సర సర సర సర | శరమే తనువే తాకగా | చర చర చర చర | చెలరేగాలి వేగంగా' / 'sudi gaadpulaa adugeyyaraa | sara sara sara sara | sharame thanuve thaakagaa | chara chara chara chara | chelaraegaali vegangaa', Telugu — this ties with Malayalam for third place and, much like it, my quirk is specfically with the last part ('చెలరేగాలి వేగంగా' / 'chelaregaali vegangaa'). my preferred is 'chelare-gaali ve-gan-gaa', they gave me 'chelare-gaa-li ve-gan-gaa'. again, not an issue, this is just me, i'm sure they knew what they were doing otherwise they wouldn't have recorded it like that in the first place

'ನೀ ಜ್ವಾಲೆಯು ನೀ ಗಾಳಿಯೂ | ಸರ ಸರ ಸುರಿವ | ಮಳೆಯಂತೆ ಶೂಲಗಳು | ಭರ ಭರ ಭರ ಭರನೆ | ಭೋರ್ಗರೆವ ಪಂಜುಗಳು' / 'nee jwaaleyu nee gaaliyuu | sara sara suriva | maleyanthe shoolagalu | bhara bhara bhara bharane | bhorgareva panjugalu', Kannada — there are at least two portions here that sound eerily similar to the original and that is why this version has moved up to spot two. it takes that water comparison i made and uses it to its advantage so much and it rotates in my mind like a rotisserie chicken at just at the right angle and it's just!!!! it's just!!!! God pls keep me from putting this in my mouth and biting it's too good

'கூற்றாகிச் செல்... | காற்றாகிச் செல்... | சர சர சர சரவெனவே | மழை தான் பெய்திட | பர பர பர பரவென | பாயட்டும் பாய்மரம்' / 'kootraagi sel... | kaatraagi sel... | sara sara sara saravena | velmazhai thaan peidhida | para para para paravena | paayattum paaimaram', Tamil — when this hits i blank out and come to at random intervals. cannot pinpoint the time the place etc but it happens and when it does i go f*cking feral. this one i am indeed putting in my mouth and biting bc the entire thing from 'para para...' onwards??? more alliteration more alliteration more f*cking alliteration. i remember someone making a post on here that said that certain parts of VRV sound like pearls bouncing off of the floor (was it @mizutaama? i apologize for the tag but i think that was you) and i think this is what they were referring to but my ears are that f*cking floor. i thank God every day for that

anyway mutuals (and non-mutuals who are just as obsessed about PS as i am) i'm sorry for clogging your feed with my opinions on a film i haven't even watched properly, pls feel free to roast me about my ranking choices. or agree but it doesn't really matter at this point bc even tho i could be talking out of my ass in terms of actually speaking said languages (i,,,,, do not unfortunately) i've said what i needed to say sksksksk

[ineffabildaddy]

@celestialcrowley tagged me in an in-depth bio thing (thank u!!!) so here's some stuff about me:

real name: samuel's my full first name so let's say that?

nickname & nickname origins: sam!!! the only people who call me samuel are a couple of my friends when they sort of pretend to scold me, ha. or if they're singing little freak by harry styles but the line is "little freak, samuel" instead of "little freak, jezebel" (i have a tattoo of the words 'little freak' because of how much i love that song. i also am one i guess)

a couple people i know who are lotr fans call me samwise but i haven't read or watched lotr yet so i'm reluctant to accept this as a nickname hehe

sammi is what my sister and my very closest friends call me. if someone i'm not close to calls me that, my sister vetoes lol

ao3: sinchester

social media/s: i have all of the big ones but they're all personal accounts so</3

state country: i'm from the uk. always lived in london, it's the one true love of my life (and it's a character in good omens in its own right, fight me). i will answer ur state question in another way by saying that i usually visit the us once a year (usually for gigs and to see friends) and my last trip was to ny

pets: none</333 my grandparents have two lovely german sheps and a black cat which are my most precious loves though

hobbies: i like reading (fantasy, romance, twentieth-century poetry and nineteenth-century fiction mostly), writing (prose, screenplay and very bad poetry), live music/following tours, vinyl records, tea, whiskey, sitcoms, romcoms, and american traditional tattoos, among other things

personality: i have the most warped and harsh sense of self so i asked my best friend amy to describe my personality. this is what she said:

brb gonna go cry now

favourite holiday: christmas because i love christmas music of the easy listening jazz persuasion, and also because i love a lot of christmas films

favourite food: mac and cheese, bao buns, strawberries

favourite dessert: potentially cheesecake?

favourite colour: baby blue<3

favourite quote/s: "i am an unspeakable of the oscar wilde sort" / "not a southern pansy, the southern pansy", and in the same vein... "i'm not a big fat panda, i'm the big fat panda" / "there are heroes in the seaweed, there are children in the morning, they are leaning out for love and they will lean that way forever"

favourite book/s: call me by your name (sue me), good omens, the fables series, pride and prejudice (cliched i know sorry, i have read all of austen's work but it's her most popular for a reason), the scott pilgrim series, the spud series, the princess bride

favourite tv shows: good omens, avatar: the last airbender, peep show, supernatural (reluctantly), bob's burgers, arrested development, ghosts, yonderland. it's only just come out of course but honorary mention goes to scott pilgrim takes off

favourite film/s: shrek is my favourite of all time. it's just got everything. trust me, i went to film school (i actually did tho). then we've also got the nightmare before christmas, ferris bueller's day off, scott pilgrim, submarine, clueless, deadpool, the princess bride

favourite character/s: sam winchester, aziraphale, crowley, katara, sokka, jack and sally, kitty (ghosts), lucille bluth, envy adams, wallace wells

favourite actor/s: i've always found this a really difficult one to answer but i'll just say mae whitman because she's been in 3 of my favourite things ever and slayed all of them (avatar: the last airbender, arrested development and scott pilgrim)

favourite song/s: my favourite songs of all time are probably...

a certain romance - arctic monkeys

happiness/the gondola man - elliott smith

i used to be someone - kevin devine

i need some sleep - eels (shrek 2 teehee)

the way i loved you - taylor swift

let's call the whole thing off - louis armstrong and ella fitzgerald

that old feeling - frank sinatra (prefer his earliest version of this song to any other versions but i like ella's rendition too)

favourite music genre/s: i listen to pockets of all different guitar music, some pop and some jazz

favourite podcast/s: braving the elements, which is the official podcast for avatar: the last airbender and the avatarverse in general (hosted by the actor of zuko and the actor of korra!!!)

have you ever met a celebrity: oh god, erm... i've met so many musicians and actors (mostly actors that are less well-known) but i'll just mention the most famous ones. on purpose (some of whom i now regret lol): dua lipa, halsey, frank iero, brendon urie, jared padalecki, jensen ackles, jinkx monsoon (and loads of other drag race queens, but she's my favourite). by accident as they've come into my work: matt berry (i died), rob delaney, a couple of actors from sex education, sharon rooney (i actually bumped into her on the way to work oops). people i see around my local area or my area of work but haven't met: graham coxon from blur, peter capaldi, olly alexander. i know i've forgotten people but they'll come back to me hah - living in north london and working in central london means you do tend to see famous people sometimes

have you ever been to a concert: not sure exactly how many but my estimate is 200+. one band i've seen 37 times alone... but yeah, i follow two tours a year on average and then i'll go to gigs as a one-off for artists i don't commit as hard to lmao

do you collect anything: vinyl and soft toys! i also like to have lots of different interesting teas in my cupboard

do you have any idols: not sure i could call anyone i like an idol of mine but i naturally want to be neil gaiman when i grow up. i also would absolutely love to be as good at words as leonard cohen was. i guess taylor swift because i love her more than almost any other musician and have done since i was 8 years old but... she's a person at the end of the day (and a billionaire which is questionable)

is there a real life friend you can be completely yourself with: i feel i can be entirely myself around @icanbeurangle, among a few other people from different parts of my life. the person who wrote my little personality bio above, along with our mutual friend, and then a couple of friends i've known since school. i've also got friends who started off as internet friends but are now irl friends (the uk is a small place) who come under this category uwu

where would you love to travel to: off the top of my head, new zealand and mexico. i'd also like to see more of wales (i only went once or twice as a small child)

random fact about yourself: i'm an identical twin? it doesn't feel random at all but yeah haha

if you made it this far without falling asleep, well done!!! thank u so much for reading, i hope u didn't bore u to tears<3 i've missed out a couple questions where i addressed them already in a previous answer

no pressure tags (but i want to read up on u all!!!): @raining-stars-somewhere-else @sad-chaos-goblin @crowleyslvt @indigovigilance @icanbeurangle @bowtiepastabitch @genderqueer-hippie

[korasonata]

My friend knows that I write fanfiction - he’s helped me with editing on some occasions, sometimes I ask for his opinion on specific phrasing. He doesn’t know EVERYTHING I’ve ever written, but he is relatively familiar with this one Hermitcraft fic in particular that I’ve been working on for the last 2 years, and every now and then out of the blue he’ll ask me about it. He’s never actually read it at all, but he knows it’s something I’ve worked very hard on and so occasionally he asks for updates on what’s happening, how far I’ve gotten, what chapter I’m on, etc.

Now, we’ve talked about Hermitcraft before, but he’s still not really 100% sure what it is. I’ve explained it to him, but he’d never actually watched or really even looked it up at all.

Until today.

I just had a full 3-4 hour conversation with this man. He started by asking me about some of the research I do and what role it plays, because I had previously mentioned that I did a lot of research that wasn’t necessarily “fact” related, but I used the knowledge a lot with how I describe certain situations. The example I gave was a previous chapter where I had researched a ton of astronomy so that I could better describe the behaviour of stars in this one specific section because I thought it sounded cool. I sent him a screenshot of the paragraph from the chapter, and he immediately asked me to link him to the full fic so he could read from the beginning because it sounded interesting.

Keeping in mind that he still doesn’t really know 100% what Hermitcraft actually is.

I sent him the link to the fic on my archive account and he was immediately confused by the set up and had another billion questions about all the symbols and the tagging system. One of the biggest things that confused him was the tag “RPF”. He plays dungeons and dragons, and so his immediate question was “does that stand for roll play fiction?” And I had to explain that no, this actually stands for “Real Person Fic” which confused the CRAP out of him for various reasons. The top reason being that about 10 minutes prior to this conversation he had decided that today was the day he was going to finally look up “Hermitcraft”.

Now, what I presume that he did was simply type “Hermitcraft” into a YouTube search bar, which then provided him with assorted episodes from different Hermits channels, one of which, I am presuming, was from a one ZombieCleo. Now, I’m assuming he picked this one deliberately because it was a name he recognized. I’ve talked about Cleo before, and so he knows I like them, and I ALSO know that because of this he can tell you the names of precisely 2 Hermits: ZombieCleo and BdoubleO - this is important later. The thing with the YouTube algorithm though is that I’m not really 100% sure how it works, as the video that I’m assuming popped up when he searched “Hermitcraft” was not actually a Hermitcraft video.

It was Cleo’s last episode of Limited Life.

And he loved this episode. Thought it was super compelling, loved the storytelling. The thing that confused him was Bdubs. Because obviously in Limited Life, Bdubs is Cleo’s son. Thing is, he ALSO knows about 3rd life, because I talked to him about Crastle duo when 3rd life was still the active season. Where Bdubs was Cleo’s partner.

And he did NOT particularly grasp that these 2 things were separate.

So when I explained to him that “RPF” meant “Real Person Fiction” as in “about real people” he was obviously VERY confused and a little concerned.

Yes I did explain to him that “RPF” in this particular case was used rather loosely because they are in fact playing characters in this sense - Bdubs is obviously not Cleo’s son in real life, they are just friends

Yes he did go look up the rest of the life series.

Yes, despite initial misunderstandings, he has now subscribed to ZombieCleo

[sarahsoba]

I usually don't make post like this, and I hoped I would never have to but here we go.

I recently made a reel that everyone's been loving (the one with Az and the Lilo and Stich audio) and on Insta and tumblr its been doing really well. However, since I don't post videos/reels very often at all, I forgot to post it to my TikTok as well.

This morning, one of my friends in our group chat notified me that someone had reposted that reel to TikTok and asked if they had asked permission to do so. I said no, they hadn't. But at the time my Insta bio said "credit and tag if you repost" Which I assumed was what happened in this case. I took the L on the lost engagement and let it go.

When my friend initially found them, she reached out to the poster, told them to please credit me in the caption. The poster said "Thanks for letting me know" and I thought it was all good. Later tonight I took a look at the actual TikTok only to find that I had been credited in the comments 10 HOURS after the initial posting. By then the damage had already been done. I did find they credited my Instagram earlier, but it was buried so deep in the comments section, there's no way anyone could find it. There's no reason for me to not have been credited in the caption.

I had posted it to Tiktok after the initial notification of the theft and the difference in engagement is staggering. Their post got a whopping 29k likes and 300 comments. Mine? 7 likes, 1 comment.

Not only that, but the thief, (who on TikTok is @imaginethislifewithme or Sofia) made a few replies in the comments that gave the impression that she was taking credit.

Because of all of this my policy on reposting has completely changed and is not allowed at all. It's EASY to reblog, share media you like from the original artist. There's no need to repost. Even if you cant find their profile on whatever social, you can still GO TO THE ARTIST, ASK, and if they say yes, they'll inform you on how to properly tag them. It's not that hard.

As an artist who is 1: paying a LOT of money to improve my craft in art school, and 2: is working hard to build their brand, this is INCREDIBLY discouraging and I am certain I am not the first or the last person this will happen to. All I hope is to bring awareness to help ensure this doesn't happen to others. I'm really disappointed in this fandom today.