#oc: faith morgan

[random-writerings]

Full Name: Faith Morgan

Face Claim: Emily Bett Rickards

Born: 1984

Died: 2018 (the Snap); Resurrected in 2023 (the Blip)

Age: 30 (TWS); 31 (AoU); 32 (CACW); 34 (IW); 34 (End); 35 (TFATWS); 36 (BNW)

Nationality: Canadian

Birthplace: Toronto, Ontario

Occupation: Hacktivist; S.H.I.E.L.D. agent; Stark Industries employee; Avengers Support Team

Education: Masters in Computer Science from MIT; PhD in Computer Science from S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy

Skills: Coding; Hacking; Analysis; Information Gathering; Espionage

Leap of Faith // Playlist // Cover

[thisisrigged4]

Charles and Faith Headcanons cuz I'm bored

The list is long and I didn't wanna inconvenience anyone but I'd love it if some people took a look! There are 39!

Faith fell first, and they both fell harder

Charles teaches Faith about hunting and Faith teaches Charles about fishing

Charles is the first man in camp Faith befriended, followed by Arthur, then Lenny, and John further down the line.

Charles's love language is Act's Of Service and Gifts

Faith's love language is Physical Touch and Acts Of Service

They spend time together without speaking, either sitting across from each other or next to each other with knees touching while they each focus on their own work. (Faith drawing and Charles crafting)

Charles is insanely protective without being overbearing

Faith is also very protective and worrisome

"You said you liked it so I got you 100 more"

Faith likes to paint near the horses and she always has a cup of hot coffee ready whenever she see's Charles coming back from camp guard duty.

Little gifts constantly being exchanged

Super Mild PDA and neither of them have issue showing affection to each other around camp, but nothing to to much

Charles will often put his hand on Faiths low back if they are hanging around camp or town together.

Rarely uses nicknames for one another but occasionally Faith will call him Charly, mostly as a joke.

Both are very confident flirts when alone

Charles is the first person in the gang that Faith opens up to about her past.

Faith knows how to make him smile even if its brief

Charles often when walking behind Faith with pull her back against him and kisses her on the temples/cheek.

She blushes overtime

Charles brings extra bait when they go out so Faith can have a better view and draw the animals

It took them a while to open up about their internal struggles

They rarely ever fight but when they do its because they care too much about the other.

Never really have to ask each other to do anything as they both are always paying attention to each others needs. Charles takes care of Faiths weapons and faith always makes sure he has supplies and things for crafting.

Neither of them let work get in the way of their relationship and are patient with one another.

Constantly trading knowledge and praising each other for learning new skills

Faith knows that Charles is a capable man but that doesn't stop her from worrying about him any time Arthur or Dutch call for him.

Charles reassures her that he will be alright and always comes straight for her tent whenever he had finished with whatever task/mission.

When Faith fell victim to Bill/Micah's Racism/Sexism, Charles was always the first to jump to her aid.

One day in Clemens point, Faith invites Charles to permanently stay in her tent after their relationship became more serious

No nonsense. They both say what they mean.

Faith initially disapproved of Charles and John's friendship but kept her opinion to herself. Later in Shady Belle does Faith begin to warm up to John after he finally tries with Jack and Abigail, earing Faith's respect.

The occasional camp get away where they set up their own camp near a lake or deep in the woods.

They both need their alone time, it's nothing negative they just need their time away from everyone and everything and they have no issue giving each other space when needed.

When asked in camp if they are together, They have no problems admitting to the relationship.

The only people to tease/ask about their relationship is Arthur and Karen. John later after Arthurs death.

Faith doesn't typically enjoy drawing people but she draws Charles often and the most.

She eventually attempts to draw Arthur, Hosea, Lenny, Sean and Kieran after their deaths.

Once Charles starts to pull away from the gang, Faith is insistent on her loyalty to him and if it became a choice between the gang and leaving with Charles, she would choose to leave with Charles.

Charles is a little confusing about the previous point as he had no intention of leaving Faith behind.

[dontlookatme121]

(Smut) Fic Recs

Pedro Pascal characters, including Javier Peña, (mostly) Joel Miller, Frankie Morales, Oberyn Martell, Marcus Acacius, and Lucien de Leon.

fic recs from a girl who spends too much time reading smut.

WARNING: PLEASE read the warnings on these fics; almost all of them contain smut, dark themes, and other sensitive topics. read at your own risk. EXPLICIT 18+, MDNI.

Javier Peña

One-Shots:

FYBF by @almostempty | javier x f!reader

Just Friends by @punkshort | Javier Peña x f!reader

Maneater by @probablyreadinsmut | Javier Peña X Afab!Reader

Murphy’s Sister by @absurdthirst | Javier Peña x F!Reader

Not So Secret Santa by @lincolndjarin | javier peña x fem!reader

Purgatory by @gothcsz | Javier Peña x Fem!Reader x Fem!OC

Strangers by @joelmillerisapunk | Stripper!Javier Peña x f!reader

Series:

Thoroughfare by @gothcsz | Javier Peña x Original Female Character | (Ongoing)

★ my fav fic. you should read it & everything else by Kat!

Fantasize by gothcsz | javier peña x fem!reader | (Ongoing)

Neighbors by gothcsz | javier peña x f!reader | (Complete)

Salvatore by @devilmademewriteit | javier peña x afab!fem!reader | (Last updated 03/2023)

(Un)Faithful by probablyreadinsmut | Rbf!Javier Peña x Married F!Reader | (Ongoing)

Unscripted Desire by gothcsz | Pornstar!Javier x Pornstar!OFC x Fem!Reader | (Ongoing)

Joel Miller

One-Shots:

blurred lines by stellamarielu | joel miller x female reader

But daddy, I love him! by @sanarsi | older boyfriend!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Cherub by @thechaoticcherub | Priest!Joel Miller x reader

Dusk by gothcsz | No outbreak!Joel x Fem!Reader

Euphoria by sanarsi | professor!Joel Miller x student!f!Reader

For Cryin’ Out Loud by @gracieheartspedro | post-outbreak! joel miller x fem!reader

handsy by @stellamarielu | joel miller x female reader

I'm Happy Where The Devils Are by @dilf-docs | dbf!joel miller x younger!reader

Just This Once by punkshort | dbf!joel miller x f!reader

love thy neighbour by @ace-turned-confused | joel miller x f!reader

Middle of the Night by @frannyzooey | Joel Miller x f!Reader

Not Your Daddy by @celiababy | Pre-outbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader

october's end. by @salingers | joel miller x f!reader

room for three by @morning-star-joy | joel miller x f!reader x arthur morgan

The Christmas Auction by absurdthirst | Joel Miller x F!Reader

TRICK OR TREAT by @maiamore | No outbreak!Joel x Fem!Reader

Tomb rider by @joelspeach | dbf!Joel x female reader

feels so right by @fake-bleach | dbf!joel miller x reader

You're a Daydream, Stay A While by dilf-docs | joel miller x younger!reader

Series:

cowboy like me by @macfrog | dbf!joel miller x f!reader | (Complete)

Dark Shades of Innocence by @mermaidgirl30 | club owner/pleasure dom! Joel x fem! reader | (Complete)

Fourth of July by jrrmint | dbf!joel miller x f!reader | (AO3 Complete)

Give in Again by @pocketfullofkouhuns | No-outbreak!Joel x f!reader | (Complete)

i'll be home for christmas by punkshort | (Hallmark) Joel Miller x f!reader | (Ongoing)

My Burning Sun Will Someday Rise by @littlcdarlin | DBFJoel x f!Reader | (Complete)

right kind of dream by almostempty | joel miller x f!reader | (Complete)

slasher joel by @toxicanonymity | dark!Joel Miller x f!reader | (Ongoing)

Smooth Operator by @penascigarette | Joel Miller x F!Phone Sex Worker | (Ongoing)

swept away by punkshort | Joel Miller x f!reader | (Season 2 ongoing)

The F*CK IT LIST by @auteurdelabre | DBFJoel x f!Reader | (Ongoing)

unbeneath and you under my skin. by @tokkiwrites | mom's fiancé/bf! joel miller x f! | (Ongoing, last updated 11/2024)

worship by @mssalo | Joel Miller x married!f!Reader | (Complete)

i’ve read a lot more joel miller smut than i could’ve ever anticipated (ily dbf!joel)

Frankie Morales

Series:

The boyfriend act by @capuccinodoll | Frankie Morales x F!reader | (Ongoing)

Oberyn Martell

One-Shots:

The Watcher by absurdthirst | Modern!Oberyn Martell x F!Reader x Ellaria Sand

What’s Love Got to Do with It by almostempty | oberyn x f!reader

Marcus Acacius

One-Shots:

III by gothcsz | Marcus Acacius x Fem!Reader x Lucius Verus Aurelius

Blood Favor by @pedgito | Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Prima Nocta by @fuckyeahdindjarin | Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

The Farmer's Daughter by punkshort | Marcus Acacius x f!reader

The Future of Rome by absurdthirst | Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Lucien de Leon

One-Shots:

Shameless by @milla-frenchy | Lucien de Leon x fem reader

there are some of the fics i've read and enjoyed since getting back into fanfiction in july 2024. it's a lot more than i expected, approximately 55. ill attempt to update this as i read more!

PLEASE share your recommendations! my TBR is always growing and i have to feed it.

thank you to all these fantastic authors who keep me up at night as i consume unreasonable amounts of smut. you're all amazing <3

dividers by @enchanthings

(updated 2/23/2025)

[f14fun]

Where the Asphalt Ends (oc x ob87)

synopsis: in which case morgan, an introverted girl with too many bruises, too many words trapped in the margins of her notebooks, and not enough escape routes, crosses paths with oliver, a reckless boy with oil-stained hands and a grin that makes trouble look like fun.

prose au (14.9K words) ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ profile | masterlist ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────

1986

Autumn. Winter. Spring. Summer.

I've gone months upon months, seasons upon seasons, years upon years, from seeing you. Each cycle feels like a lifetime, the weight of time pressing against my chest as though the seasons themselves conspire to remind me of your absence. The sense of longing envelops me like a small ember slowly engulfing a fragile piece of parchment, curling its edges until there's nothing left but the ash of what once was whole.

Faith keeps me alive, keeps me tethered here, waiting for you, even as the years pile on like heavy snowdrifts, threatening to bury me.

Surely, an alternative reality will bloom for us, one where we break free from the endless cycle of yearning. One day, past the colors that the seasons paint, fiery autumn golds, icy winter whites, tender spring greens, and sun-soaked summer yellows, my eyes will meet yours again, and in that moment, the world will thaw. Time will stop, the seasons will collapse, and everything I’ve waited for will finally take root in—

"Morgan. Morgan Chapman! Morgan Chapman, answer me this instant!"

The sinister click-clack of our teacher's heels—or rather the devil reincarnated (but also known as Mrs. Tillet)— echoed across the room, each step a sharp punctuation against the dull hum of the overhead fluorescent lights.

Unblinking, they watched the scene fold as well. Like me, we were all terrified.

The sound sliced through the air, growing louder, more deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. It was the kind of sound that made your spine stiffen and your stomach churn, as if you could feel the judgment creeping closer with every step.

She stood at the edge of my desk now, the shadow of her towering figure casting a foreboding veil over my scattered notebook pages. Her fingers, pale and skeletal, drummed against the edge of the desk in a rhythm that matched the tap of her heels moments before. Her sharp gaze bore into me, eyes like twin shards of ice, piercing through my feeble attempts to avoid her scrutiny.

"Morgan Chapman," she repeated, her voice a venomous drawl that oozed with the kind of authority only a seasoned teacher could wield. "I will not tolerate silence. Speak. What the bloody hell are you doing writing nonsensical things in my class?"

I stared at her, eyes unblinking.

I stared at her, eyes unblinking, my throat constricted as though an invisible frost had wrapped itself around my neck, freezing my words before they could surface.

"Are you mute? Are you dumb, girl?" Her sharp words sliced through the air, a biting wind that left me raw. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as every pair of eyes in the class zeroed in on me. I could feel their gazes, heavy and smothering, like the oppressive heat of summer when the sun hangs too close to the earth.

Before I could muster even a semblance of a response, she snatched the paper from my desk with a swift, deliberate motion. The edges of the sheet fluttered for a brief second, a bird caught mid-flight, before she held it aloft. My blood ran cold.

"Ah, let’s see what we have here, shall we?" Her lips curled into a cruel smile as her eyes darted over the page. "What sort of drivel has Miss Little Morgan Chapman been conjuring in her little daydreams this time?"

She cleared her throat dramatically, the sound reverberating like the last crackle of brittle autumn leaves before winter’s frost claims them. Then, with exaggerated emphasis, she began to read aloud, her tongue slicing across the words on the paper like Excalibur.

"'Autumn. Winter. Spring. Summer. I've gone for months after months, seasons after seasons, years after years, from seeing you. The sense of longing envelops me like a small ember engulfing a piece of parchment...'" Her voice dripped with mockery, stretching each word until it felt foreign and unrecognizable.

The room erupted into muffled giggles, the cruel kind that stung like icy sleet against bare skin. My cheeks burned, a furious mix of humiliation and helplessness, as though summer’s scorching heat had collided with winter’s relentless chill.

She slammed the paper down on her desk with theatrical disdain, her expression one of exaggerated disappointment. "And this," she sneered, "is what you choose to waste your time on in my classroom? Silly little romance novels? Yearning and longing and all that nonsense? Writing this sort of rubbish isn’t going to get you anywhere, girl."

She turned her gaze to the class, addressing them all now, though her eyes never left me. "Ladies, take note: this is precisely what happens when you let your minds wander to frivolous pursuits instead of focusing on what matters. A woman’s place is to think practically, not to indulge in flights of fancy."

Her hand darted out suddenly, clutching the paper again. With a sharp, deliberate motion, she tore it cleanly in half, the sound of ripping paper as jagged and violent as a winter gale. Another tear followed, and then another, until the pieces fell like broken petals onto the desk.

I bit my tongue hard enough to taste copper, willing myself not to cry, but the sting behind my eyes was relentless. My chest felt tight, the humiliation a growing knot that made it hard to breathe. My fingers clenched around the pen in my hand, and I realized with a jolt that it was shaking, trembling against the weight of everything I was holding in.

A single tear betrayed me, sliding down my cheek before I could stop it. It fell silently, splashing onto the remnants of my torn paper, the ink beginning to bleed where the water touched it. I stared at the stain, a dark bloom spreading across the parchment, as though it were absorbing all the emotions I couldn’t let out.

My pen faltered, the tip hovering just above the desk, leaving faint, uneven lines where it quivered. I clenched my jaw, desperate to keep my composure, but every suppressed sob threatened to break free, rising in my throat like the first gust of wind before a storm.

Mrs. Tillet glanced at me briefly, her expression impassive, as though my silent struggle was nothing more than an afterthought. The room felt colder, the collective stares of my classmates piercing through me like icicles. Some were amused, others awkwardly looked away, but none of it mattered. I was utterly, completely exposed.

With an exasperated sigh that seemed to echo louder than the bell ever could, Mrs. Tillet straightened, smoothing the front of her charcoal skirt. Her heels clicked against the floor with a precision that made the sound even more menacing as she turned and strode to her desk. For a fleeting moment, I thought it was over—that she might let me gather what little dignity I had left and slip away into the crowd. But then I heard it. The unmistakable scrape of the ruler being pulled from the drawer.

The tension in the room thickened, sharp as the icy wind of winter. I froze, my breath hitching as she held the ruler in her hand, its polished wood gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light. It seemed absurdly long and heavier than I remembered, its edges worn smooth from years of discipline. She turned it in her hand, her movements slow and deliberate, like an executioner savoring the moment before delivering the blow.

"Three times this week, Miss Chapman," she said, her tone deceptively calm but undercut with a razor’s edge. She tapped the ruler against her palm, the sound crisp and deliberate, like the tick of a clock counting down. "Three times you've brought this nonsense into my classroom, wasting not just your own time, but mine. Do you think I’m here to entertain your fantasies?"

She approached, ruler in hand, and the whole room seemed to hold its breath. "Hands out," she barked, her voice cracking through the silence like the first thunder of an impending storm. I hesitated, the trembling pen still clutched in my fingers. "Now, Morgan."

I slowly extended my hand, fingers splayed and trembling, as though reaching out to grasp something that would never come. The first strike landed with a sharp sting that rippled through my skin, the sound cracking through the air like a brittle branch snapping in autumn. I flinched, but kept my hand steady. The second blow followed, harsher than the first, leaving a dull, throbbing ache in its wake. The third strike hit with the finality of winter’s frost, biting deep and unforgiving.

My breath came in shallow bursts, but I refused to cry again. I clenched my jaw so tightly it ached, keeping my head down as I pulled my hand back, fingers curling instinctively into a fist. Mrs. Tillet was not finished.

She reached for the pen still trembling in my other hand. "This," she said, snatching it with the same disdain she had for my torn paper, "is the very tool of your absurdity. A pen! You treat it like a wand, as though it will summon something meaningful out of the air."

Before I could react, she gripped it tightly in both hands and, with a startling crack, snapped it in half. Ink splattered onto her fingers and the desk, the bright blue pooling like fresh rain against the drab wood. My mouth fell open in silent shock. It seemed impossible, like watching someone twist the seasons out of order, and yet here it was—my pen, broken, its remains scattered before me like shards of glass.

"Let this be a lesson," she said coldly, dropping the pieces onto my desk as though they were trash. "Romantic nonsense won’t get you anywhere in life, Morgan. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be."

I can't believe this fucking tramp is married.

The screeching ring of the school bell pierced through the suffocating tension, its sharpness a cruel imitation of relief. Like the first sip of water after a drought, it should have been comforting—but it wasn’t. It only marked the end of one torment and the beginning of another. I had never been so glad to hear that disgusting sound, yet it felt hollow, as though it rang only to mock me.

The shuffle of feet and scrape of chairs filled the room as my classmates gathered their things, their movements sluggish with boredom but fueled by the thrill of escape. Whispers trailed behind them like cigarette smoke in the cold, clinging to the stale classroom air.

"She’s mental, isn’t she? It's bloody cuckoo up there." "Thinks she’s some kind of poet or something." "Bet she fancies herself the next Barbara Cartland."

The giggles that followed were sharp and biting.

I kept my head down, willing the stinging in my eyes to stop. My hand twitched toward the scattered remains of my paper, but I hesitated. Each torn piece was an extension of myself, exposed and humiliated for everyone to see.

As the last of the girls filed out, I dropped to my knees, frantically gathering the scraps of paper from the floor. My fingers worked quickly, trembling as they clutched at the shredded pieces. The inked words bled together, blurred by the damp stain of my earlier tears. My breath hitched as I reached for a fragment near the desk leg, only to feel a sharp pain shoot through my hand.

I looked up, startled, to see the scuffed sole of a black leather Mary Jane pressing down on my fingers. Fuck, it hurt.

"Oops," the girl said with mock sweetness, her face twisted into a smirk. It was Harriet Price, one of Mrs. Tillet’s favorites, the kind of girl who always wore her skirt a perfect inch below the knee and still managed to seem untouchably rebellious.

Her blonde curls bounced as she leaned down slightly, her voice dripping with venom. "Didn’t see you there, Morgan. Funny how you’re always crawling around like a little mouse."

Her friends snickered, standing in a semi-circle just far enough away to pretend they weren’t involved. Harriet stepped off my hand, and I recoiled, cradling it as the dull ache spread through my knuckles.

"Come on, Harriet," one of them said, feigning innocence. "You don’t want to get ink on your shoes."

They turned and left, their laughter trailing behind them, echoing down the corridor like a cruel taunt. I remained there for a moment, kneeling on the cold linoleum floor, my chest tightening with each shallow breath.

I forced myself to stand, clutching the crumpled pieces of my paper like a lifeline. My vision blurred again, but I blinked rapidly, refusing to let more tears fall. I had to get out of there.

The walk to the exit felt endless, the corridors eerily quiet now that the chatter of students had moved outside. The school smelled faintly of damp wool, chalk dust, and leftover custard from lunch—a scent that normally went unnoticed but now clung to me, suffocating. The dull posters on the walls—warnings about the dangers of truancy, the importance of abstinence, or reminders to study hard for O-levels—blurred as I passed, their bright colors mocking in their cheerfulness.

Hah. I had no problem with abstinence. No man, nonetheless even a boy, wanted to come near me. I was boy repellent. The only boys that got near me were my fictional ones that I wrote. The ones who said the perfect things at the perfect times, who leaned against doorframes with a devil-may-care grin, who held your hand as if the world might end if they didn’t. Boys who existed solely in the confines of my ink-stained notebooks, far removed from the awkward silences and sidelong glances of real life.

I allowed myself a bitter smirk at the thought, the corners of my mouth curling in a way that felt foreign and fleeting. Even if the world outside my head seemed intent on tearing me apart, at least I had that. My worlds. My words. They couldn’t take that from me—not completely.

But the thought soured as quickly as it came. Mrs. Tillet’s voice echoed in my mind, sharp and dismissive: “Romantic nonsense won’t get you anywhere, Morgan.” The words felt like grit beneath my nails, impossible to scrub clean. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was delusional, clinging to my daydreams like a child clutching a threadbare teddy.

Delusion got me fucking somewhere for all it counts, I'm bloody telling you I—

"OW!" My muttered ramblings were cut short as something—a force, a blur of motion—collided with me. The next moment, I was sprawled on the cold, uneven pavement of Clemsford’s High Street, my bag tipped over, its contents scattered across the ground like debris after a storm. A textbook flopped open, a pen rolled into the gutter, and my torn papers fluttered like fallen leaves.

"Shit! Are you alright?" a voice called out, jolting me from the daze.

I blinked up, startled, to see a boy hopping off a clunky red bike that was now lying on its side, its wheels spinning lazily. He pulled off his Walkman headphones—silver and bulky, with a tape that was still playing faintly—and crouched down, his face suddenly inches from mine.

It was the kind of face you’d expect to see on a cassette tape cover, all cheeky charm and easy confidence. His dark hair was slightly tousled, curling at the edges in a way that seemed both deliberate and careless, as if he’d just stepped off a football pitch or out of a record store. His uneven smile was what caught my attention most: crooked at one corner, as though it couldn’t decide between cheeky confidence and genuine warmth. And then there were his eyes—soft yet sharp, holding the kind of easy light that could shift between mischief and sincerity in an instant. I’d never seen him before, and that was saying something in a town as small as Clemsford.

"Bloody hell," I muttered, scrambling to sit up, my cheeks already burning.

"I didn’t see you! I’m so sorry," he said quickly, brushing a hand through his hair. His accent was softer, less clipped than the posh girls at school. "Are you okay? That was a bit of a nasty tumble."

I glanced down at my scraped palms and knees, wincing as I spotted a tear in my tights. "Yeah, I’m fine," I mumbled, even though my pride felt more bruised than my body.

He crouched lower, scooping up a few of my things—a battered notebook, my pencil case, and the cassette I’d forgotten I’d even packed that morning. "Here," he said, holding them out. His fingers brushed mine as I took them, and I nearly dropped the lot.

"Thanks," I muttered, looking anywhere but at his face.

"You’re sure you’re alright?" He tilted his head, his grin softening. "I didn’t mean to run you over. Thought I could zip past before the light changed, but..." He motioned vaguely to his bike, as if that explained his lack of control.

"It’s fine," I said, hurriedly gathering the rest of my things. My hands were still shaking, and I cursed myself for it. Of all the people in the world, why did the first boy to talk to me outside of school have to look like he belonged in a Duran Duran video?

"Good thing I didn’t break anything—your bones, I mean," he added, laughing.

I forced a weak laugh in return, still hyper-aware of the way his eyes lingered on me.

"Where were you off to, anyway?" he asked, leaning back on his heels. "You looked miles away. Daydreaming about something good, I hope?"

I shook my head quickly, clutching my things like a lifeline. "No, just… school stuff."

He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he extended a hand to help me up, his fingers warm against my cold ones.

"I'm Oliver, by the way," He said, squeezing my hand . A mutual sign of respect. "Oliver Bearman."

The name suited him—solid, grounded, and somehow larger than life, as though it belonged to someone who could navigate the world with ease while the rest of us stumbled over loose paving stones. It rolled off his tongue with the kind of effortless confidence that made me painfully aware of my own awkwardness.

"Bearman," I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper, tasting the name like it might explain the way my pulse quickened.

"Hah! Yeah, like a bear and a man, but I think of my self less scary than those two things combined," He chucked.

"Scary," I quietly echoed, more to myself than to him, my eyes stubbornly focused on the ground instead of his face.

"Are you just going to repeat everything I say? That's no way to make conversation," he teased, his voice laced with amusement.

I glanced up for the briefest moment, catching the playful spark in his blue eyes before my gaze darted away again. My cheeks burned as I scrambled for a response, but the words caught somewhere in my throat. "I—I wasn’t…" I stammered, my voice trailing off as I heard him laugh softly again.

"You know," he said, leaning slightly closer, "it’s alright to talk back. I don’t bite. Well, not unless I’m really hungry."

His grin widened, and I felt my heart stutter in response. He was teasing me, sure, but there was no malice in it—just an easy charm that made me feel even more self-conscious. My mind raced, but all I could think about was how absurd this moment felt, standing here with my scraped knees and torn papers, talking to a boy like him.

"Sorry," I finally mumbled, clutching my books tighter to my chest. "I’m not great at… talking."

"No kidding," he said, but his tone was light, his expression softening. "Lucky for you, I’m pretty good at it. Guess that balances us out, yeah?"

I noded, but I couldn't get a sound to come out. My throat tightened. This was almost a worse case scenario for me.

Nearly doomsday, even.

Talking with new people was quite frankly, new. And weird. And sometimes (most of the time) unpleasant. But strangely, this one was, how can I put this, okay…

Oliver crouched beside me, gathering up a forgotten possession that was still resting on the ground. He picked it up in one sweepingly smooth motion. His fingers brushed against the edge of my notebook, and he paused, tilting his head as he glanced down at it.

"Well, well," he mused, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. "Morgan Chapman."

My breath caught in my throat.

I hadn’t even realized my notebook had fallen out—hadn’t noticed it lying there, open, with my messy scrawl bleeding across the pages. But Oliver had. And now he was holding it, his fingers casually skimming the edge as if he were about to flip it open.

My stomach plummeted.

Oh no. No, no, no.

That wasn’t just any notebook—it was the notebook. The one filled with half-finished stories, private musings, and embarrassingly dramatic confessions to fictional men who didn’t even exist. The one that, if opened, would expose every corner of my ridiculous, yearning imagination.

I swear the universe was playing one large comical joke on me, and I, Morgan Chapman, just fell right into the tip of Lord's karma sword.

Panic surged through me, and before I could think, before I could even register what I was doing, I lunged.

"Wait—!"

The force of my movement knocked me forward, my knee scraping against the pavement as I collided into Oliver’s chest. He let out a surprised oof as I practically threw myself at him, one arm instinctively wrapping around my waist to steady me as I crashed into him.

For a second, neither of us moved.

His warmth seeped through his jacket, his hand firm against my lower back, steadying me as if I hadn’t just flung myself at him like an unhinged lunatic. I could feel the rise and fall of his breath, the faint scent of something vaguely cinamonny and warm clinging to his hoodie.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

My face burned, heat crawling up my neck, scorching my ears. I had just thrown myself at a boy. A boy I didn’t know. A boy who now had my notebook.

Oliver blinked down at me, his expression somewhere between amusement and curiosity. "Well," he said, after a beat, his voice light and teasing, "that was dramatic."

I made a strangled noise that barely qualified as human.

His lips quirked up at the corner. "Didn’t realize my touching your notebook was such a crime. Do you write about the MI6 in here or something?"

I scrambled, half-tripping over my own feet as I grabbed for the notebook, but he held it just out of reach, his grip infuriatingly firm.

Yes, how dare he use his height advantage to get an edge over me?!

"Oliver," I hissed, my fingers closing around the edge as I tugged desperately.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by my frantic reaction. "Alright, alright, keep your secrets," he said, finally letting go.

I snatched it back, clutching it to my chest like it was a lifeline, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Oliver rocked back on his heels, watching me with a knowing smirk. "Must be some very interesting stories in there," he mused, tilting his head.

I stiffened. "It’s nothing," I blurted, too quickly.

He grinned, eyes gleaming. "Right. And you just threw yourself at me because you don’t care about me reading it?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it. There was no winning this.

Oliver squinted at me, his expression full of exaggerated contemplation. "Yeah, you totally either write about some super top-secret MI6 government conspiracy that you don't want anyone to know about…" He stroked his chin dramatically, then his entire demeanor shifted. His smirk widened into something almost devious, his blue eyes glinting with unrestrained mischief.

"Or," he dragged out, his voice dropping just a fraction, "you write about good 'ole sex."

My brain short-circuited.

I went completely still, the words hanging in the air like an anvil poised to drop on my head.

And then—heat. A wave of it, roaring up my neck, flooding my face in an instant. My skin burned so fiercely I thought I might spontaneously combust right there on the pavement.

Oliver saw it. Of course he saw it. His smirk deepened, like a cat who had just cornered a very, very flustered mouse.

"Oh," he said slowly, dragging out the syllable like he had just unearthed the world’s greatest treasure. "So that’s what it is."

"No!" I practically squeaked, gripping my notebook even tighter, as if I could somehow strangle the entire conversation to death. "It’s not—I don’t—oh my God."

Oliver full-on laughed, tilting his head back in delight. "Morgan Chapman, you are so red right now."

"Shut up!" I groaned, covering my face with one hand while clutching my cursed notebook with the other.

I needed to burn this cursed thing in a firepit, throw it in a deep lake with all sorts of brain eating amobeas or bacteria, or blow torch it. This notebook was bringing me all sorts of shit luck.

"Hey, no shame in it," he continued, clearly enjoying my agony. "You’re, what? Sixteen? Seventeen? I’d be more surprised if you weren’t writing steamy little romance novels in your free time."

I whipped my head up to glare at him, my humiliation morphing into full-blown outrage. "I do not write romance novels!"

Oliver shrugged, completely unfazed. "Uh-huh. And I suppose your face is is just a coincidence? It totally is telling a different story than what you allegedly are saying…"

I groaned, my fingers tightening around the edges of my cursed notebook like I could somehow crush it into oblivion. "My face is not," I lied, feeling the heat still crawling up my face.

He just smirked. "Sure you’re not."

I exhaled sharply, willing myself to focus on anything else, because if I let him run with this conversation any longer, I might actually keel over from sheer mortification. "I’m eighteen, by the way," I blurted out, as if that was at all relevant.

Oliver raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," I huffed. "I just look young."

He made a thoughtful humming noise, tilting his head. "Right. And I’m nineteen."

I squinted at him, studying his face like I could somehow see if he was lying. "Are you?"

His smirk deepened. "What do you think, Chapman?"

I frowned. "I think you’re full of shit."

Oliver let out a loud, obnoxious laugh, shaking his head. "God, you’re fun."

I bristled. "I’m not fun, I’m—"

"—thoroughly embarrassed that I found your secret romance novel?"

"I-," sputtered. He got me.

Oliver’s smirk widened, eyes practically glowing with amusement. "I-?" he echoed, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. "What’s that, Chapman? You were saying something?"

I clamped my mouth shut, my entire body locking up. My brain was screaming at me to say something—anything that would wipe that smug look off his face—but my mouth betrayed me, working uselessly around half-formed words that refused to come out.

Oliver chuckled, shaking his head. "Wow. Speechless. That’s a first."

I hated that he was enjoying this. I hated that he was right. And I really hated that my face was still burning hot, my hands nervously gripping the edges of my cursed notebook like it might somehow anchor me back to reality.

"I-It’s not—" I tried again, but my voice wobbled like a newborn fawn, and I wanted to die.

"It’s not…?" Oliver prompted, leaning ever so slightly forward, his grin all-too-knowing.

I swallowed thickly. "It’s not—" I squeaked again. Oh God. Oh my God.

His grin stretched even wider, and I immediately looked away, staring very intently at the pavement. Anywhere but at him.

"Chapman," he drawled, his voice teasing, playful. "You do realize that blushing this much is basically an admission of guilt, right?"

I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut for half a second. "I am not—"

"Blushing?" He finished for me, sounding obnoxiously delighted.

I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to do something before he actually made me explode from sheer mortification. Without thinking, I hugged my notebook even tighter to my chest and spun on my heel, determined to walk away from this absolute disaster of a conversation.

But before I could take more than three steps—

"Oh, come on," Oliver called after me, his voice still bubbling with laughter. "Now you’re just running away!"

I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. My legs were moving on their own, carrying me as far from him as possible before my dignity suffered any more casualties.

"Not running away!" I choked out, mortified beyond belief.

"Uh-huh," he called back. "So if I read one of those stories of yours, would it be purely academic? Not even a little bit swoony?"

I whimpered. I actually whimpered.

"You are the worst person I have ever met!" I shouted over my shoulder, my voice much too high-pitched to be taken seriously.

"Surely not!" his voice called out in the distance as I rounded a corner. Speedwalking up a hill—which proved to be more difficult than normal as I was already quite winded from that previous spat— I couldn't see him or hear him anymore.

Per usual, I was running away from my problems, and running towards my bedroom at home where I could write my silly little stories and disappear from my reality.

Three left turns, one long downhill stroll, and two rights later, I had arrived at home.

The small, weathered house sat tucked between two others, its faded brick exterior worn down by time and neglect. The white paint along the window frames was chipped, curling at the edges like dried petals, and the front steps creaked under even the lightest step, betraying any late-night attempts to sneak in unnoticed. The front door stuck when the weather was humid, and even in the cold, it needed a good shove to open.

The tiny front yard was more weeds than grass, stubborn green pushing through cracks in the pavement. Our mailbox leaned slightly to the right, rust creeping up its edges. I had long since given up trying to fix it. The roof slanted awkwardly, the shingles old and cracked, some missing altogether, exposing bits of the underlayer like a wound half-covered by a makeshift bandage.

But this was home.

I had never known anything else.

Inside, the air was familiar—stale but tinged with the faintest scent of detergent and whatever had been last cooked in the kitchen. The walls were an odd mix of pale yellow and peeling wallpaper, remnants of an attempted home improvement project that had never quite been finished. The floor creaked in specific spots, and I knew exactly where to step to avoid making too much noise.

The living room was cluttered but lived-in. A coffee table with one wobbly leg sat in front of an old, sagging couch, the cushions sunken from years of use. A pile of newspapers and unopened bills and letters gathered at the far end, half-forgotten and half-paid. The TV, an old bulky thing with a remote that barely worked, sat on a stand that had once been a proper bookshelf before the bottom shelf gave out under the weight of too many library discards. A single lamp flickered faintly in the corner, its shade slightly askew.

I looked down at my shoes, as I stood quietly in the doorway.

No shoes by the door except mine. No coat slung over the chair.

Mum wasn’t home.

Not that she ever really was.

I exhaled, pressing my back against the door for a moment, my fingers still curled tightly around my cursed notebook. The heat in my face had cooled, but my nerves still crackled from the encounter. If I let my mind wander, I could still hear his voice—teasing, smug, all too knowing.

I shoved the thought aside and made my way up the narrow staircase, two steps at a time. My bedroom door creaked as I nudged it open, the familiarity of my small, slightly cluttered sanctuary swallowing me whole.

This was where I escaped.

My desk was a mess of scattered notebooks, a few uncapped pens bleeding ink into their pages. Books I had yet to finish reading were stacked haphazardly on my nightstand, and the tiny corkboard above my bed was covered in pinned-up scraps of writing—half-finished sentences, phrases that had once felt important but now sat there, waiting.

I threw my bag onto my bed, dragging a hand down my face. God. That whole interaction was going to haunt me for weeks. Months. Possibly years.

Before I could dwell on it further, the front door downstairs slammed open.

Then came the voice.

"MORGANNNN!"

I tensed instinctively. Here we go. I was going to have to pretend to give a shit at my job as a therapist where no one was paying me to listen.

A few seconds later, I heard the unmistakable stomp of Janine’s shoes as she barreled into the house like a one-girl hurricane.

The whining began before I could even brace myself.

"Oh my God, you would not believe the day I just had," she announced, her voice reaching the very top of its dramatics.

I barely had time to turn around before she threw herself onto my bed with all the grace of a collapsing sandbag.

I blinked. "Hi, Janine. Nice to see you too."

She ignored me, sprawled out like she’d just finished running a marathon. Her school uniform was wrinkled beyond recognition, her backpack half-zipped, and her dark hair a little frizzier than usual—probably from whatever dramatics she had put herself through today.

"Miss Greene is actually evil," she declared, rolling onto her stomach. "She made us redo the entire maths worksheet just because, apparently, half the class did it wrong. And, of course, I had already thrown mine away, so I had to dig through the trash like an animal to find it!"

I tried to suppress my smile. "That sounds... traumatic."

"It was traumatic," she huffed, turning to glare at me. Then, just as suddenly, her expression shifted into something sharper, something vaguely mean. Her eyes scanned me up and down, her nose scrunching in distaste.

"Wow," she said bluntly. "You look like shit."

I inhaled slowly, schooling my expression into something neutral. I was used to this. Janine had a gift for making casual cruelty sound effortless, as if it was just another part of normal conversation.

"Thanks," I muttered, sitting down at my desk, pretending to be deeply interested in an uncapped pen.

"No, seriously," she continued, propping herself up on her elbows. "What happened to you? You look like you just lost a fight. Did you finally get bullied?"

I clenched my jaw, tapping my fingers against the desk. "No, Janine. I did not get bullied."

"Could’ve fooled me," she muttered, flopping back onto the pillows.

I exhaled through my nose. Don’t let it get to you. She didn’t mean it. Mostly.

Janine was like this. Always had been. There were times when her teasing was just that—harmless, annoying, the kind of back-and-forth that siblings had. But then there were other times, like now, when she wasn’t just being cheeky. She meant it, even if she pretended not to. Maybe she was just a normal thirteen year old girl who had a knack for being quite the bitch.

I didn’t bother arguing. It never helped.

Instead, I changed the subject. "Did you eat yet?"

She huffed dramatically, rolling onto her back again. "No. And Mom’s obviously not home, again."

A small pang hit my chest. Not unexpected, but still.

"She left some food in the fridge," I offered. "Probably leftovers."

Janine groaned. "I swear, we’re like stray dogs at this point. Just fending for ourselves, rummaging through whatever scraps she leaves behind."

My stomach twisted uncomfortably.

She said it like a joke. Like a complaint.

But I knew she felt it.

I did too.

Still, I forced a small smile, standing up from my desk. "Alright, stray dog. I’ll heat something up."

She made a sound of reluctant approval, flopping dramatically onto my bed once more.

As I walked downstairs, the house felt heavier. Quieter. The same kind of quiet it always was.

Janine trailed behind me down the stairs, her footsteps lighter than mine, but still deliberately obnoxious. She fiddled with her Walkman, adjusting the chunky headphones over her ears, pressing buttons as if she were about to unearth some hidden sonic masterpiece. The soft click of the cassette rolling into place filled the silence between us, the quiet hum of the tape player spinning in the background.

I made my way into the kitchen, not even needing to check the fridge before I resigned myself to my fate. There was no “leftovers” in the way people meant it—only the usual sad collection of things that barely passed as a meal. I grabbed the bread, flipping through the slices until I found two that weren’t slightly stiff at the edges, then reached for the nearly-expired mayo, a sad-looking pack of ham, and a head of lettuce that looked like it had survived some sort of traumatic event.

The Sad Sandwich™ was coming together beautifully.

As I spread the mayo across the bread, trying to ignore the way it smelled just a little off, I glanced at Janine, who was still wrapped up in her own world, occasionally nodding along to whatever she was listening to.

"What’s playing?" I asked, if only to break the silence.

She barely acknowledged me, eyes flicking up for the briefest second before returning to the invisible spot she was staring at on the table. "ABBA. Andante, Andante."

I paused for a second, then smirked. "What, feeling romantic?"

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I like the melody, duh." She was acting like it was I, who was the fool… What irony have I stumbled upon.

I snorted, adding the world’s saddest piece of lettuce onto her sandwich, the edges limp, its vibrancy long since faded. "You know, it’s kind of funny," I mused, pressing the slices of bread together. "A song about taking things slow, savoring every moment. But time never really slows down, does it? You just get older, and suddenly, you’re looking back, wondering when it all started moving so fast."

Janine pulled off one side of her headphones, blinking at me like I had just sprouted a second head. "What?"

I shrugged, placing her sandwich on the table in front of her. "Andante, andante. It means 'slowly, gently.' But life doesn’t wait for us, does it?" I exhaled, wiping the remnants of mayo off my fingers. "You blink, and everything changes. You barely get a chance to catch up before it’s all different again."

Janine squinted at me, unimpressed. "Shut up," she said, ripping her sandwich in half like it had personally wronged her. "Can’t you just let me listen to ABBA in peace without making it all philosophical?"

I smirked, grabbing my own pathetic excuse for a sandwich. "Nope."

Janine groaned again, throwing herself against the back of the chair like I had just personally exhausted her entire will to live. "You’re so annoying," she mumbled, taking an aggressive bite of her sandwich. "Like, actually, why are you like this?"

I shrugged, taking a significantly less enthusiastic bite of my own sad sandwich. "I have no idea. Must be a genetic thing. Guess that means you’re doomed too."

Janine made a dramatic gagging sound. "Ew. Don’t lump me in with your weird existential crisis nonsense." She waved a hand vaguely in my direction. "You’re, like, so much worse than normal today."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what’s my normal level of 'worse'?"

She smirked, licking a stray glob of mayo off her thumb. "Usually, it’s more like mildly irritating older sister levels. Today, though? You’ve graduated to full-on poet with a drinking problem vibes."

I rolled my eyes. "Good to know I’m evolving."

Janine snorted, tossing her crust onto the plate like it had personally offended her. "Speaking of drinking," she said, stretching her arms overhead in an exaggerated yawn, "can I have a beer?"

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw the back of my skull. "No."

She sighed dramatically, slumping even further into her chair. "You always say no."

"Because you always ask," I shot back, grabbing our plates and stacking them haphazardly.

Janine shrugged, completely unbothered. "One day, you’ll crack."

"Unlikely," I muttered, heading toward the sink.

The thing was, she wasn’t really serious. Not really. It had started as a joke, some dumb throwaway comment she made a few months ago when she saw me grabbing a bottle from the fridge—*"Gimme one"—*and I had shut it down immediately, obviously. But since then, it had become some kind of weekly bit, an ongoing test of patience where she’d casually drop it into conversation just to see if I’d finally get tired and say fine, here, drink yourself into oblivion, you little menace.

I hadn’t cracked yet.

Janine, of course, took this as an invitation to try harder.

"Whatever," she drawled, swinging her legs over the side of the chair. "I’ll just find my own."

I froze for half a second, turning just in time to watch her actually start rummaging through the cabinets.

I narrowed my eyes. "Janine."

She ignored me.

"Janine, no."

"Janine, yes," she sang, standing on her tiptoes to dig through one of the higher shelves.

I set the plates down a little too hard in the sink. "There’s nothing in there."

She turned her head just enough to smirk at me. "Oh? Then you won’t mind if I check."

I let out a slow, measured breath. "You’re thirteen."

"And yet," she grunted, stretching onto the tips of her toes, "I’m the only one with any sense of fun in this household."

"You," I said flatly, "*have no idea what to do with beer."

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "You don’t even know what to do with beer."

I opened my mouth, then shut it.

She wasn’t wrong.

Before I could tell her to cut it out, her fingers closed around something. Her entire face lit up as she yanked her arm back, turning on her heel with a flourish.

"A-ha!"

And there it was.

A single, lukewarm can of beer.

Where had she even found that?

Janine looked entirely too pleased with herself, holding the can aloft like she had just unearthed some kind of mythical treasure.

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. "Are you kidding me?"

She grinned. "I don’t kid about important things, Morgan."

I snatched it out of her hands before she could so much as think about cracking it open.

"Hey!" she yelped, jumping up to grab it back. "What the hell!"

"You are thirteen," I repeated, placing the can firmly on the counter, far out of her reach.

She scowled, crossing her arms. "Barely."

I shot her a look. "That is not how that works."

Janine stared at me, then at the can. Then back at me. Then at the can again.

And before I could even process what was about to happen—

She lunged.

"Janine,—"

Too late.

With the speed and agility of a raccoon stealing a piece of bread, she snatched the can off the counter, popped the tab, and chugged.

Not a sip. Not a taste. A full-blown, unhinged, humongous swig, like she was some weathered sailor downing grog after a long voyage.

I stood there, utterly paralyzed, watching as my thirteen-year-old sister took an entire gulp of lukewarm beer like it was the best decision she had ever made.

She smacked her lips, lowering the can with the dramatic flair of someone who absolutely thought they were about to look cool.

And then.

It hit.

Janine’s entire body convulsed.

She gagged, her face contorting like she’d just swallowed a mouthful of expired lemonade and battery acid at the same time.

Janine staggered back like she had just been struck down by divine punishment, her arms flailing dramatically. "Oh my God, the holy spirit!" she gasped, as if expecting Gabriel himself to descend from the heavens and cleanse her of her sins. "My tongue is on fire. This is Satan’s piss. This is the drink of demons. Morgan, I have been cursed."

I rolled my eyes, completely unbothered. "Yep. And you brought it on yourself, Judas."

She groaned, gripping the edge of the counter like she was about to crumple to her knees. "Oh, Lord in heaven above, I repent. I have walked in sin, and I have suffered." She clutched her stomach dramatically. "Smite me where I stand, oh merciful one. Deliver me from this agony."

"God is busy, Janine," I deadpanned. "And even if He weren’t, I think He’d have better things to do than smite a thirteen-year-old for drinking one sip of warm beer."

"ONE sip?" she shrieked, slamming a hand over her chest like a televangelist about to collapse into a faint. "ONE sip?! I think my soul just left my body, Morgan. I saw the pearly gates. And St. Peter slammed them in my face. He said,* and I quote*, ‘Ew, no. Go back.’"

"Pearly gates? You are definitely going to Hell, but nice try," I muttered, tossing the half-empty can into the sink, letting it clang against the metal. "Maybe now you’ll stop asking me for one every week."

Janine ignored me, still mid-breakdown. "This," she rasped, "is what people willingly drink? This is what grown men write sonnets about? They fight wars over this! They DIE in pubs for this!"

I shrugged. "Well, Jesus turned water into wine, so—"

"Wine," she snapped, still hunched over like she was about to perish on the kitchen floor. "Wine, Morgan. Not whatever hellish concoction this is. This is not what He had in mind. This is—this is like—" she waved a hand wildly, searching for the words—"—the blood of Pontius Pilate."

I barked out a laugh. "Pontius Pilate?"

"YES!" she hissed, marching toward the sink and turning the faucet on full blast. "Betrayal in a can. The affliction of the masses. And my stomach—oh my God, I think I’m being punished. This is worse than the plagues of Egypt."

I leaned against the counter, thoroughly entertained. "Well, I did warn you."

Janine made a sound somewhere between a gag and a groan, clutching her stomach like she was a dying soldier on the battlefield. "Morgan," she wheezed, "I think my intestines are dissolving."

I rolled my eyes. "You took one sip, drama queen."

"One sip too many!" she cried, still doubled over the sink. "This is what Judas must have felt like at the Last Supper. Betrayed. Slandered. Poisoned by the wicked!"

"Judas betrayed Jesus," I reminded her, grabbing a paper towel and shoving it in her direction. "You're not the victim here."

"I beg to differ!" she wailed, wiping at her mouth like she was scrubbing away the sins of mankind. "My stomach feels like the ninth circle of hell."

And then, like the horror had just dawned on her, she snapped her head up, eyes wide with absolute panic. "Morgan, I drank on an empty stomach."

I froze. "Oh my God."

"Oh my God."

I lunged for the plate on the table, grabbed the half-eaten remains of her Sad Sandwich™, and shoved it into her hands. "Eat. Now."

Janine blinked at me, still reeling. "What?"

"The bread will soak it up!" I snapped, pushing the plate further into her chest. "Jesus Christ, Janine, do you want to die a gruesome death by booze?"

Boy did I love absolutely scaring the shit out of her. Maybe this might teach her a lesson.

She gasped, gripping the sandwich like it was a sacred relic. "Oh my God, you’re right."

And then—like she was a starving prisoner who had just been granted her final meal—she shoved the entire thing into her mouth in two unholy, horrifying bites.

It was grotesque. I had never seen someone eat that fast in my entire life.

"Chew," I commanded, watching in horror as she barely made an effort to comply, just stuffing the bread into her cheeks like a damn hamster.

She nodded aggressively, eyes darting wildly, still chewing like she was racing against time itself.

"Breathe," I added, half-expecting her to choke and add actual murder to my list of daily stressors.

She lifted a single finger, telling me to wait as she gulped it all down in a single, borderline inhuman swallow.

And then—silence.

We both stood there, unmoving. Janine stared at me. I stared at her.

Slowly, she touched her stomach. Paused. Waited.

Then—"I LIVE."

I groaned, pressing my fingers against my temples. "You are actually insufferable."

She let out a deep, exaggerated sigh of relief, dramatically patting her chest. "Blessed be the name of the Lord. The devil tried me, but I have PREVAILED."

I rubbed my temples harder. "Oh my God, just go to your room."

"With pleasure," she huffed, grabbing her Walkman from the table. "And for the record," she added, stepping dramatically toward the hallway, "this was your fault."

I whipped my head up. "MY fault?!"

"If you had just given me a beer weeks ago, I wouldn’t have had to steal one and suffer like this!"

I let out a strangled noise, resisting the urge to throw something at her as she disappeared up the stairs.

I listened for her door slamming, counted the seconds until she was gone.

Then, finally, I leaned against the counter, exhaling.

The house was quiet again.

For a moment, I just stood there, staring blankly at the chipped kitchen counter, letting the silence settle in around me like dust. The only sound was the faint hum of the fridge, the occasional creak of the house settling. The lingering smell of stale beer and cheap mayo clung to the air, reminding me that I should probably clean up the mess before Mum got home—if she got home at all tonight.

But I didn’t move.

Instead, I sighed, turned on my heel, and headed back upstairs to my bedroom, my body dragging with exhaustion with my sandwhich in hand.

I tossed my bag onto the bed and pulled out my arithmetic book, the thick spine of Linear Algebra & Calculus: A Comprehensive Approach landing with a dull thud on the wooden surface.

I cracked my knuckles, rolled my shoulders, and flipped to where I had last left off—somewhere deep in the trenches of eigenvalues, vector spaces, and transformations. Numbers were easier than people. They made sense, followed rules, didn’t shift unpredictably like everything else in my life.

So I worked.

And I worked.

The numbers blurred together, symbols morphing into something less concrete the longer I stared. I scribbled in the margins, erased, rewrote, checked my notes, tried again. Pages flipped. The clock on my nightstand ticked, eating away the hours as the evening bled into night.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I registered the dull ache in my stomach, the hollow emptiness that had been there since dinner—if you could even call that dinner. The Sad Sandwich™ had barely been enough to hold me over, and now, after hours hunched over my desk, my hunger gnawed at me again, a quiet, persistent reminder.

I ignored it.

I was so close to solving this problem—just one more step, just one more equation, just one—

I stopped.

I stared at the page.

I had hit a wall.

My pencil hovered over the problem, my brain refusing to find the next step, like a door slammed shut in my face. I furrowed my brows, running through every possible solution, but my thoughts were muddled, slipping through my fingers like sand.

I sighed, rubbing my eyes. The hunger was worse now, creeping up my ribs, making my limbs feel heavier, my mind slower. I should eat something. Anything.

But getting up felt impossible.

So I didn’t.

Instead, I let my head fall against the open textbook, the paper cool against my forehead.

I told myself I would rest just for a second.

Just long enough for my brain to reset.

Just long enough to push past this problem.

But sleep crept in before I could stop it, pulling me under, the hunger still lingering, unanswered, as the numbers faded into the darkness.

A sharp clack rang through the house, jolting me awake.

I blinked, disoriented, my face still pressed against the open pages of my textbook. My body was stiff from being hunched over for too long, my hand still limply gripping a pencil that had long since stopped moving.

Then I heard it again—the familiar sound of the screen door smacking against the main door. A telltale thud, slightly muffled but unmistakable.

Mom.

My stomach clenched.

I peeled my forehead off the paper, my eyes groggy as I squinted toward the wall. The old analog clock, its hands barely visible in the dim light, read midnight. No—one in the morning.

I sighed through my nose, automatically adding an hour to account for the fact that the damn thing was wrong. It had been like that for months, ever since daylight savings had messed it up, but it was too high up for me to fix, and, honestly, I was too lazy to bother.

My ears sharpened, listening for movement downstairs. A rustle. Keys dropped onto the table. The faint shuffle of tired steps.

I moved.

Quick, quiet.

I tiptoed toward my bed, careful not to step on the spots in the floor that creaked. My body was still heavy with sleep, my limbs sluggish, but my urgency overrode the exhaustion. I knew what would happen if she saw me awake.

She’d yell.

She’d berate me.

She’d demand to know why I was up, why I wasn’t in bed, why I was wasting my life away with my nose buried in books instead of being useful, why I wasn’t doing something real.

I had made the mistake before—being caught in the glow of my desk lamp, eyes still bleary from equations, my pencil slipping in my fingers. And she had let me have it.

So I wasn’t going to give her the chance tonight.

I reached my bed, lifted the covers, and jumped in, flipping onto my side and squeezing my eyes shut just as I heard the faint click of her heels being kicked off near the door.

My breathing slowed. I forced my shoulders to relax.

Footsteps on the stairs.

I lay still, forcing my face into a neutral expression, willing my chest to rise and fall in the slow rhythm of deep sleep.

The footsteps didn’t stop outside my door.

They passed.

She didn’t check.

I stayed frozen anyway, just in case.

The air was thick, the silence stretching.

Then, a door shutting.

I exhaled.

Slowly.

Carefully.

The tension in my limbs barely eased, my heartbeat still too fast in my chest. I let my fingers curl into the blankets, my body still coiled tight beneath them.

I didn’t move.

I wouldn’t move.

Not until I was sure she wouldn’t come back out.

I stayed still, my body curled beneath the blankets, listening for any sound that might betray her still being awake.

Seconds stretched into minutes. The house was still.

She wasn’t coming back out.

I exhaled slowly, cautiously, like even breathing too loud might summon her. My body remained rigid for another few minutes—just in case—until I finally reached out, fumbling in the dark for my alarm clock.

The cheap plastic felt cold under my fingers. It was a clunky thing, slightly cracked at the edges, the numbers on the screen glowing faintly red. It had been discarded in a dumpster behind the pharmacy two months ago, tossed away like trash, and for reasons I didn’t fully understand, I had taken it home. Fixed it. Given it purpose again.

At least something in this house deserved a second chance.

I pressed the buttons mechanically, setting the alarm for 8:00 AM. The beep was sharp, intrusive in the quiet.

I turned onto my side, facing the wall.

Tried to sleep.

Tried to let go.

But the weight in my chest didn’t fade. My heartbeat was still too fast, a dull, uneven rhythm that felt wrong.

My limbs felt stiff, too aware of the blankets pressing down on me, of the air in the room that suddenly felt too thick. I swallowed, my throat dry, my jaw clenched without me realizing.

I turned over. Then turned again.

My body ached with exhaustion, but my mind refused to shut off.

Every sound in the house became a reason to stay awake. The faint hum of the fridge downstairs. The occasional creak of the walls. The wind pressing against the windows. The lingering possibility that she might come back out, open my door, catch me—just because.

The thought sat heavy in my chest.

I curled in on myself, wrapping my arms tighter around my body, my fingers digging into the fabric of my sleeves.

I needed to sleep.

I needed to sleep.

I closed my eyes, but the dark behind my lids wasn’t quiet. It was loud, restless. The remnants of the day replayed behind my eyelids—Janine’s dramatics, the *Sad Sandwich™, the feel of Oliver’s stupid smirk still lingering somewhere in my brain. The feeling of running, of the screen door slamming, of knowing that at any moment, I could be—

I forced myself to breathe.

Slower.

Calmer.

Even if it didn’t work.

Eventually, exhaustion won. My thoughts didn’t fade, they just blurred, softening into something hazy and restless.

I didn’t fall asleep.

I drifted.

A sleepless slumber. The kind where you close your eyes, but you don’t feel rested. The kind where the weight in your chest never quite leaves.

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────

The thing about being half of something is that people always expect you to feel whole. Like you can take two separate, mismatched pieces and press them together to form a perfect, seamless image. A puzzle that fits cleanly. A line drawn neatly down the center, where neither side bleeds into the other. But that’s not how it works. Not for me, anyway.

My mother is white. Painfully white. The kind of woman who wears neutral tones and calls dinner "supper," whose side of the family is speckled with sunburn-prone cousins and blue-eyed aunts who all have the same thin-lipped smile. The kind who doesn’t talk much about my father—doesn’t need to, because he was never really here to begin with.

I don’t think of him often. Not because I don’t want to. Not because I’ve made some conscious choice to erase him. But because there’s nothing to think about.

He exists in fragments. Fleeting memories that might not even be real. A deep voice I can’t fully remember. A presence that feels more like a ghost than a man.

And what does that make me? Some days, I feel like a half-finished sketch. A painting where the colors never fully set. I look in the mirror, and my features don’t fit neatly into a single frame. My skin is too light to be fully Black, but too dark to be fully white. My hair is a mess of curls that never quite listen, never quite fall into the kind of clean, brushed-out waves my mother’s does.

It’s an in-between existence. And it’s lonely. Because the world doesn’t like in-between things. It likes categories, labels, boxes. It likes when you fit neatly. I don’t.

At school, the white girls don’t see me as one of them. At best, I’m interesting. At worst, I’m an outsider—something different, something "exotic" in a way that makes my skin crawl.

With Black girls, it’s not much better. Maybe it’s my voice, the way I talk. Maybe it’s the way my mother raised me, or barely raised her. Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t even know how to braid my own damn hair.

Either way, I always feel like I’m not quite enough to belong anywhere.

I exist in the cracks. The spaces between.

Half of one thing. Half of another.

But some days, it feels like I’m not half of anything at all.

Just missing pieces.

I remember the first time I noticed it—the difference.

I’ve lived in this town my whole life.

Stockbridge Village, formerly known as Cantril Farm, is a small community in Merseyside, England. Built in the 1960s to rehouse families from inner-city Liverpool, it was intended to be a fresh start—a new beginning. But by the 1980s, it had become a place where everyone knew everyone, and everyone knew me.

In a community that was predominantly white, I stood out.

This was the kind of place where everyone knows everyone. Where people smile at you in the streets, not because they like you, but because that’s just what people do here. Where the shopkeepers remember your name, your mother’s name, and what kind of milk you usually buy.

But the thing is—no matter how many times I walk down the same roads, past the same butcher shop, the same post office, the same old church with its half-crumbling bell tower—I have never quite felt like I belonged here.

Because in a town like Stockbridge, people notice things.

And they notice me.

It happens in the grocery store. The lingering glances, the subtle shift in body language when I walk past an aisle. The way an older woman might clutch her purse just a little tighter, the way a man might glance twice, not out of recognition, but out of curiosity. The cashier at the till, the same one who’s been working there since I was old enough to count change, hesitates before handing me my receipt. The briefest flicker of something—confusion? Mistrust? Pity?

I never know.

I tell myself I’m imagining it. That it’s all in my head.

But then, sometimes, I hear it.

Not often. Never loud. Never to my face.

But in passing. Whispered.

"Who’s that girl again?" "Not from ‘round here, is she?" "Her Mum’s that blonde woman, isn’t she? Wonder where her dad is."

I don’t answer them. I don’t correct them.

What would I even say? "I’m from here. I always have been." "I know these streets better than you do." "My dad isn’t here. He never was."

But words don’t change the way people look at you. They don’t stop the shift in their eyes when you walk past, the way their attention lingers a second longer than necessary. They don’t change the fact that every time I step outside, I am reminded—subtly, quietly, constantly—that I do not belong the way they do.

Like now.

The morning air is crisp, biting at my exposed skin as I walk down the narrow pavement, my breath curling in faint wisps against the chill. The sky is a pale gray, the kind that threatens rain but never quite follows through. It’s too early to be out, and too late to feel like I’ve beaten the morning rush. The grocery store opened thirty minutes ago, and I’m walking toward it with an empty stomach and the one twenty-pound note clutched tightly in my hand.

The money had been saved, not given. That was an important distinction. I had tucked it away in the safest place I could think of—between the books under my bed, wrapped in old, crinkled orange paper from God knows how long ago. I never spent unless I had to. But this morning, I had to.

Janine had eaten the last slice of bread. The milk had gone sour two days ago. I was pretty sure the lettuce in the fridge was evolving into something that could speak.

So here I was.

My stomach twisted—not from hunger, but from the quiet, familiar tension that always settled in my bones when I had to go into town alone.

The road to the shop was always the same. Past the small butcher’s shop, where Mr. Whitmore stood outside chatting to an older man, both of them wrapped in their tweed coats like they had stepped out of a Visit England poster. Past the post office, where a queue of pensioners waited with envelopes tucked under their arms, some clutching their purses so tightly their knuckles had gone pale. Past the church—the same old church with its crumbling bell tower, its doors propped open by a brick, where someone had already laid fresh flowers outside on the steps.

Everything in Stockbridge was predictable. Routine. Except me.

A passing car slowed—just slightly—as it rolled by. A woman in a beige coat turned her head when I passed her on the pavement. An older man sitting on a bench lowered his newspaper, eyes flicking up for a second too long before turning the page.

It was always like this. A quiet, unspoken reminder: I was noticed. I tugged the sleeves of my sweater down over my fingers, gripping the money tighter in my palm. The coins in my pocket rattled with each step, an uneven weight I was suddenly very aware of.

I reached the store. The automatic doors slid open with a mechanical hiss, the warm scent of stale bread and disinfectant washing over me. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too sterile.

A woman at the entrance glanced at me, then away. I exhaled, shaking off the stiffness in my shoulders, and grabbed a basket (not a trolley, they were big, bulky, and made god-awful noises when pushed). It was just groceries. Just food.

I moved through the aisles with quiet precision, keeping my head down, my steps light. The store wasn’t too crowded yet—mostly older women with their baskets, a few men flipping through newspapers at the front. It smelled like disinfectant and aging produce, with a faint, lingering trace of something fried from the little hot food counter near the back.

I clutched my shopping list in one hand, the twenty-pound notes in my pocket pressing against my leg like a reminder. Three apples. Probably about 35p each. I hovered near the fruit section, selecting three that looked decent enough. £1.05 so far.

Tomatoes. Maybe 50p for a few decent ones. I picked up a bag and weighed it in my palm, my mind automatically rounding the total up to £1.55. Eggs. A dozen should be around 60p. I added them carefully to my basket. £2.15.

Meat. I hesitated near the butcher’s counter. I usually skipped this part, but today, I had a little extra to spare. Something cheap. I scanned the options and settled on a small pack of minced beef. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The price tag read £1.90.

£4.05 total.

I moved toward the bread aisle, the soft hum of the store’s radio filling the silence. Bread was usually one of the last things I grabbed—it was an easy choice, no need to overthink. I reached for a loaf, the familiar texture of plastic packaging crinkling under my fingers.

And then, I took a step back. Right onto someone’s foot.

"Oh, hell—"

I whipped around so fast I nearly knocked my own basket over. "I’m so sorry, I—" And then I saw who I had stepped on.

Him. Oliver.

I blinked. Then blinked again. What the—

"You!" I blurted out, my voice somehow both sharp and flat at the same time.

His mouth curled into a lopsided grin, the kind that immediately put me on edge. "Call me Ollie. We’re practically friends now."

I rolled my eyes to mask the fact that my brain was currently short-circuiting. "We are not friends."

His grin widened, like he could hear the lie in my voice. "Practically," he repeated, leaning against the shelf like he had all the time in the world.

I crossed my arms, my heart still hammering from the shock. "What are you doing here?"

He cleared his throat, shifting slightly. "I—uh—" He scratched the back of his neck. "I totally didn’t follow you here, if that’s what you’re thinking."

I squinted. "I was not thinking that." (I was now, though.)

"Good! Because that would be weird,*" he added quickly. "And I am absolutely not weird."

I gave him a look. "Debatable."

Oliver—Ollie—straightened up, clearing his throat again, as if he’d just remembered what his actual excuse was supposed to be. "I work here."

I frowned. "Huh?"

"Yeah," he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Started last week. Part-time."

I raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because money exists, Morgan. And people need money to buy things."

I ignored the way my stomach flipped when he said my name.

"You—" I hesitated, eyeing him carefully. "You work here."

Ollie tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze. "That is what I just said."

And I should have just left it at that.

I should have rolled my eyes, muttered something dismissive, grabbed my stupid loaf of bread, and walked away like he didn’t affect me at all.

But instead, my eyes flickered—just for a second—to his mouth.

It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t planned. But once I looked, I couldn’t seem to unlook.

His lips curved into the beginnings of another smirk, the kind that sent a sharp little thrill down my spine before I could stop it. They were pinker than I expected, softer, like the kind of lips that would probably be really good at—

Oh my God.

My breath caught, a sudden rush of heat prickling at the back of my neck.

Had I just—?

Had I seriously just thought about—?

My entire body tensed, my fingers tightening instinctively around the handle of my basket.

No. No, no, no, absolutely not. Not happening.

I blinked rapidly, tearing my gaze away, my heart hammering so hard I was convinced he could hear it.

Ollie was still talking—something about nepotism and barely working and customer service—but I couldn’t focus. Not when my own brain had just betrayed me like that.

What was wrong with me?

This was Oliver Bearman. The same boy who had run me over with his bike, who had rummaged through my notebook, who had followed me here (okay, fine, maybe that last part wasn’t confirmed—but still).

He was a nuisance.

A smug, infuriating, insufferable nuisance.

So why—

Why had my brain, in the middle of a perfectly normal conversation, decided to briefly entertain the thought of what it would be like to—

I swallowed hard.

I needed to leave.

I needed to grab my damn loaf of bread, pay, and pretend this—whatever this was—never happened.

So that’s exactly what I did.

I turned sharply on my heel, grabbed the first loaf I could reach, and marched toward the till like I had somewhere very important to be.

Ollie chuckled behind me, low and knowing.

"Where are you going?" he called, voice laced with amusement.

I clenched my jaw. "Away from you," I shot back, my tone indignant but kept to a hushed whisper because, unlike him, I had some concept of volume control in a public setting.

But of course, Ollie, being Ollie, took that as a personal challenge.

"Away from me?" he repeated, deliberately raising his voice, eyebrows shooting up in exaggerated offense. "Morgan, I’m hurt. Truly. You wound me."

Heads turned.

I panicked.

Before I could think twice about it, I grabbed his arm, my fingers wrapping around the sleeve of his shirt, and dragged him down an aisle, maneuvering him behind one of the taller shelves where fewer people would see.

Ollie stumbled slightly but let me pull him along, clearly enjoying this far too much. As soon as we were tucked between rows of canned goods and breakfast cereals, he turned to me with that same boyish grin, eyes bright, breathless from my sudden ambush.

"Oliver, shush yourself," I hissed, glancing over my shoulder, making sure no one had followed.

Ollie, of course, didn’t shush himself.

Instead, he leaned against the shelf with that ridiculous kind of casual ease—one arm propped up as he pushed his tousled hair away from his face, like he was posing for some imaginary camera.

"This is very suspicious behavior, Morgan," he mused, voice dipped in mock conspiracy. "Dragging me into a hidden aisle? All very intimate, very secretive. Should I be concerned?”

I glared at him. "You should be concerned about me throwing a can of beans at your head."

He let out a huff of laughter, looking far too pleased with himself.

I turned away, inhaling through my nose, pretending like the heat crawling up my neck wasn’t happening. My basket was still half empty, and I refused to let Ollie derail my entire morning.

I focused on the shelves, scanning the prices.

Eggs, bread, apples—those were covered. I still needed—

"Shouldn’t you be doing something?" I muttered, grabbing a can of canned corn and tucking it into my basket.

"I am," he said simply.

I frowned, glancing at him. "What?"

Ollie grinned. "Watching you."

My entire body tensed.

Heat bloomed across my cheeks, and I hated how immediate it was. I could feel him watching me, his gaze trailing as I reached for another item, as if my very existence was now entertainment for him.

I ignored him, setting my focus back on my mental math.

Canned corn—probably 30p each. That brought my total up to £4.35.

I reached for a tin of beans—around 20p.

Ollie shifted slightly, still leaning lazily against the shelf, arms crossed now. "You’re really serious about this whole shopping thing, huh?"

I scoffed, plopping the can into my basket. "Yes, Oliver. That’s generally how grocery shopping works."

"Ollie," he corrected smoothly.

I ignored him.

"See, I just figured you’d be the type to wander around, daydreaming about something dramatic," he continued, voice teasing. "But no—look at you. All business. Calculating costs like a real grown-up."

I rolled my eyes, grabbing a bag of pasta. "Yes, imagine that. Being financially responsible."

Ollie smirked, shifting his weight onto one foot. "Hot."

My fingers fumbled around the pasta bag.

I turned to glare at him, heart hammering in my chest. "Do you ever shut up?"

"Not when I’m enjoying myself," he said, flashing that insufferable grin.

I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to focus only on the basket, only on the numbers in my head.

Pasta—around 50p.

Total: £5.05.

I exhaled slowly, forcing my shoulders to stay relaxed as I moved toward the meat section. Chicken. That was next.

I scanned the shelves carefully, my fingers tightening slightly around the handle of my basket. The cheapest cut I could find—a small pack of chicken thighs, nothing fancy, just enough to stretch across a few meals—£2.50. I hesitated, weighing the cost in my mind, but eventually added it to my basket.

Bananas. A safe choice. Cheap, versatile. I grabbed a small bunch, about 40p, estimating the weight in my palm before placing them inside.

Next was ham—a small roll, nothing extravagant, but enough to make sandwiches for Janine. £1.30.

And then—tilapia.

I shouldn’t.

I shouldn’t.

Fish wasn’t a necessity, wasn’t part of the list, wasn’t safe. But for some reason, I reached for the fillet anyway, my fingers grazing over the cool plastic. It wasn’t the most expensive choice—£2.00, hardly anything outrageous.

But still, the moment it landed in my basket, a pit settled in my stomach.

I stood still for a moment, mentally stacking the numbers, adding them up again and again to make sure I hadn’t miscalculated.

Apples, tomatoes, eggs, minced beef, bread, canned tomatoes, beans, pasta, chicken, bananas, ham, tilapia.

I swallowed.

£10.25.

Too much.

The realization made my stomach churn.

I reached into my coat pockets first, fingers blindly searching for anything—anything—that might push me over the limit. I patted down my jeans next, then dug into my purse, moving through the worn fabric with urgency.

Nothing.

No loose coins, no hidden extras.

My chest tightened as heat crawled up the back of my neck.

I hated this.

I hated this feeling.

Just as I was about to resign myself to putting something back, I caught movement from the corner of my eye.

"Here."

I turned, and my stomach dropped.

Ollie stood there, holding out a few coins in his palm.

I froze.

My jaw clenched as something hot and uncomfortable curled inside me.

"I don’t want your charity," I muttered, voice quieter than I intended but sharp nonetheless.

His brows lifted slightly, taken aback, but only for a second. Then, something in his face shifted—not into pity (thank God, because I could not handle pity), but something softer. Something… understanding.

"It’s not charity," he said, tilting his head slightly. "It’s called being a decent person. I know, shocking concept."

I wanted to scoff. I wanted to roll my eyes, to shake him off and prove that I was fine—that I could handle this, like I always did.

But my fingers twitched.

The idea of putting something back made my stomach turn.

Ollie must’ve seen the hesitation on my face because his smirk came back, this time more playful than smug.

"Alright, look," he started, shifting slightly on his feet. "If it makes you feel better, think of it as an investment. One day, when you’re rich and famous from your ridiculous romance novels, you can pay me back with interest."*

My head snapped up.

"I don’t write romance novels."

"Mhm." He grinned like he knew something I didn’t. "Sure you don’t."

I hated how fast my face heated up.

I glanced at his hand again, at the coins, at the easy way he held them out—like it wasn’t a big deal.

Like it wasn’t humiliating.

My jaw tightened. My pride screamed at me to refuse.

But I also wasn’t about to let my stomach growl all night over a stupid fifty pence.

I grabbed the coins before I could overthink it, shoving them into my pocket so fast it was like I had been burned.

"This doesn’t mean we’re friends," I muttered.

Ollie’s grin stretched.

"Oh, obviously." His voice was all lighthearted amusement. "But if it did, I’d be your favorite friend, wouldn’t I?"

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt.

He laughed, stepping back, rocking slightly on his heels like he had won something.

And—against my better judgment—my lips twitched. Just a little. Barely there.

But I refused to let him see it.

I tucked the coins into my pocket, exhaling through my nose as if that would somehow steady the weird, jittery feeling curling in my stomach. It’s just some change. Nothing more. Get over it.

Ollie, however, did not get over it.

"So," he started, still grinning like he had all the time in the world. "Now that you’re officially in my debt—"

I whipped my head toward him. "I am not in your debt."

"Sure you are," he said breezily. "Fifty pence is no small sum, Morgan. That’s, like—"

"Not even worth one of your fancy coffees," I muttered, grabbing another can from the shelf, trying to focus on the numbers in my head instead of him.

"Exactly," he said, as if I had just made his point for him. "Which means you owe me, and since you seem so set against paying me back financially, I’ll settle for information instead."

I gave him a look. "Information?"

"Yep." He leaned against the shelf again, arms crossed, eyes sharp with mischief. "Who is Morgan Chapman?"

I blinked.

My fingers tensed slightly against the can in my hand.

"I—what?"

"You heard me," he said, tilting his head slightly. "You’re a mystery, and I like solving mysteries."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, come on. There’s nothing mysterious about me."

"Mhm."

"Stop making that noise."

"What noise?"

"That—" I waved vaguely. "That smug little noise."

"Ah, that one." His grin widened.

I exhaled sharply, very close to just leaving my basket and walking out of the store altogether.

"Why are you like this?" I muttered, my voice half exasperation, half genuine confusion. "Why are you bothering me?"

Ollie just shrugged.

"Because."

That was it. No reason. No explanation. Just a simple, infuriating, because.

I stared at him.

"You are—" I stopped myself before I could say something rude and instead reached for another item, willing my face to not heat up. "—ugh."

"See! You have nothing to say!" he quipped back cheekily.

"Because you won’t leave me alone," I shot back.

"True," he admitted, completely unapologetic.

I pressed my lips together, shaking my head as I focused back on my shopping. I was not going to entertain whatever this was.

As Mrs. Tillet said (also can't believe I would fucking reference that goddamnned wench but here we are), pure hogwash. Learn to ignore the silly stuff.

"So, how long have you lived here?" he asked, switching tactics.

"My whole life."

"Huh. Must be nice, knowing everyone."

I let out a soft, dry laugh. "Not really."

"Really?" He raised an eyebrow. "Because I just got here, and I’m having a great time."

I shot him a look. "That’s because you don’t know any better yet."

"Ouch." He pressed a hand to his chest like I had personally wounded him. "What makes you think I won’t love it here?"

"Because it’s Stockbridge," I said flatly, shoving a bag of rice into my basket.

Ollie laughed. "Alright, fair point. But I don’t really have a choice."

"What do you mean?"

His grin wavered slightly—not disappearing, but softening. He glanced away for a second, running a hand through his hair.

"My parents split up," he said after a beat. "A couple months ago. It was messy. Too much arguing. So my Mum sent me here to live with my aunt until I turn twenty and can get my own place."

I blinked.

"Oh," I said quietly.

I didn’t know what else to say.

I knew what divorce looked like from the outside, but I had never been close enough to it to understand it. And hearing him say it so casually, like it was just another fact, made something in my chest twinge.

Ollie must have noticed my discomfort because, within seconds, he bounced back, his smirk returning like he had flipped some internal switch.

"So now, I get to spend my days working at this fine establishment, helping lovely customers such as yourself."

I arched an eyebrow. "You mean your aunt’s store."

"Yep."

"Wait—your aunt?"

"Aunt Sarah," he confirmed.

I blinked again.

"Sarah Davies?"

"The very same."

That made way too much sense.

Mrs. Davies—his Aunt Sarah—had always been the type to hover behind the counter, keeping an eye on customers like she was waiting for them to try something. She was sharp, observant, no-nonsense, but I could see it now—the similar curve of their noses, the way their eyes flickered with humor when they spoke.

I scolded myself for noticing that much about him.

"Huh," I muttered. "That actually explains a lot."

"What, my natural charm and work ethic?"

"More like your ability to slack off and still have a job."

"Hey," he said, feigning offense. "I stock things. Occasionally. When I feel like it."

I shook my head, turning back to my basket.

"Alright, then," I said, shifting topics. "What do you want to do after this? After you turn twenty and don’t have to work for your aunt anymore?"

Ollie brightened. "I want to build cars."

That caught me off guard.

"Like—" I tilted my head. "Fixing them? Or—?"

"No, like, engineering them. Designing them. I love how they work, how everything fits together, how every part has a purpose. It’s like—" he gestured wildly with his hands, "—a massive puzzle, except the puzzle can go 200 miles per hour if you do it right."

I blinked at the sudden energy shift.

"Oh."

"Oh?" He looked almost offended. "Morgan, cars are incredible. They’re a mix of art and engineering and physics all in one. Have you ever actually looked under the hood of a car? It’s brilliant. The way the pistons fire, the way the cooling system regulates everything—it’s like clockwork but a thousand times more complex."

I stared at him.

"I don’t know how to drive."

"That is devastating information."

"Well, excuse me for not having a car lying around."

Ollie gasped dramatically. "How do you even get around for long distances?"

I shot him a look. "I walk."

His face twisted like I had just told him I fought wild animals for sport. "You walk?"

"Or I take the bus," I added, grabbing a tin of beans from the shelf.

Ollie blinked, processing. "That’s… tragic."

I rolled my eyes. "It’s called public transport, Oliver. Most people use it."

"Yeah, and most people hate it." He paused, shifting on his feet, a spark of thought flickering across his face. Then, suddenly, he perked up. "Oh! I actually found something the other day."

I glanced at him warily. "That’s never a good way to start a sentence."

"No, no, hear me out." His voice dipped into something conspiratorial, and I immediately regretted engaging. "So, there’s this old junkyard, right? Just outside of town. It’s filled with tons of abandoned cars. Some of them are still in decent shape."

I blinked. "And?"

His grin stretched. "And we should go."

I stared at him like he had just grown a second head. "Go where?"

"To the junkyard!" He gestured wildly, like this was obvious. "Think about it! A midnight adventure, surrounded by forgotten machines, peeling paint, and cracked windshields—like walking through history! And if—hypothetically—we manage to find one that still works…" He wiggled his eyebrows.

My stomach dropped. "Oh, absolutely not."

"C’mon," he pressed. "Just picture it. The two of us, sneaking out in the dead of night, dodging security guards, hotwiring some old car—"

"I'm going to be so honest, I don't think this little town has security guards," I cut in.

"—peeling out onto the open road, wind in our hair, not a single care in the world—"

"Oliver."

"—a total Bonnie and Clyde moment, but without the murder, obviously—"

I shot him a sharp glare. "Do you hear yourself right now?"

He only grinned wider. "Morgan, this could be the plot for your next novel! Two enemies forced together by fate—"

I groaned, gripping my basket tighter.

"—an old car, a midnight escape, forbidden tension—"

I gave him a look.

He snapped his fingers. "Call it Driven by Desire. You should pen this idea down right this instant Morgan. I've given you a millionaire man's idea!" He threw his hands up, voice increasing in decibel by the second.

I stared at him, deadpan. "I hate you."

"You don’t," he said smoothly. "But it’s okay, take your time realizing it."

I let out a slow, long exhale. "There is no way I’m sneaking into a junkyard with you in the middle of the night."

Ollie clasped his hands together like he was in prayer. "Morgan. Morgan. Think about the narrative. Think about the adventure."

I shook my head, shifting my basket. "Not happening."

"Eleven-thirty," he said as if I hadn’t spoken, his voice dropping to a hushed tone, full of exaggerated secrecy. "Back gate of the old scrapyard, just off Holloway Road. You can’t miss it—big, ugly rusted sign, looks like it’s been there since the Holy Roman Empire, which by the way, was neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire, which quite frankly, is odd," He trailed off, lost in thought. Regaining his senses, he continued to speak, "Meet me there."

I squinted at him. "You are seriously asking me to meet you at some abandoned lot at night."

"Yes," he said, sliding closer. Before I could react, he deftly slipped a piece of paper into my basket, right between a can of tomatoes and a bag of rice.

I stared at it like it had personally offended me.

"Did you just—"

"Consider it an invitation," he cut in smoothly.

I picked up the crumpled scrap of receipt paper, unimpressed. "You wrote it down?"

He grinned. "Didn’t want you to forget."

I groaned, stuffing the paper into my coat pocket without looking at it. "You are actually the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met."

"Uh huh, sure," He rolled his eyes.

"My life was never this messy and chaotic before I met you," I said.

"Silly, silly, Morgan. You never even had a life before you met me, that's why," He let out a huge grin.

"Oh you bastard," The corners of my lips were inching up in a smile.

"You are showing up Morgan, I hypnotize you," He waved his hands in front of my face in a silly motion. His slender pale fingers waving in front of my face so closely, I could see the individual calluses on his hands.

A boy of hard work.

I scoffed. "You think I’m actually showing up?"

"Absolutely," he said, no hesitation.

I huffed, shaking my head, determined to ignore him as I made my way toward the checkout.

But three hours later, standing in my bedroom, staring at that stupid crumpled receipt, I realized—

I was going.

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────

taglist: @thatsnotaddy @schumacherluvr

author's note: this chapter was originally 22K words but then tumblr said i exceeded the number of line blocks (it apparently is 1000 lines and i had 2552 lines 😭 i didn't realize how many lines dialogue actually takes up) let me know what you enjoyed about this fic and any pieces feedback if you have any :) anyways, comment to be added to the taglist!

[simplegenius042]

"What Archetypes Are Your OCs?" Quiz, Top Four Fictional Crushes and The Worst Ship Chart Ever

Tagged by @shellibisshe @inafieldofdaisies @josephseedismyfather @voidika and @imogenkol

Tagging @socially-awkward-skeleton @direwombat @adelaidedrubman @icecutioner @strangefable @strafethesesinners @josephslittledeputy @rhettsabbott @carlosoliveiraa @cassietrn @g0dspeeed @turbo-virgins @aceghosts @afarcryfrommymain @derelictheretic @deputy-morgan-malone @wrathfulrook @softtidesworld @shallow-gravy @starsandskies @ladyoriza @la-grosse-patate @vampireninjabunnies-blog @cloudofbutterflies92 @florbelles @sleepyconfusedpotato @titiagls @minilev @skoll-sun-eater @thewanderer-000 and @lulu2992 (for Top Four Fictional crushes, but you can join with the other tags if you want).

Three results for OC archetypes, a listing of four of my fictional crushes (oh fuck-) and two worst ship charts ever. You can find the quiz here. You can find these and the template for the chart below.

Three results for Archetypes for OCs from The UnTitledverse, The Silver Chronicles and A Radioactive Calamity Of Love, Bombs & Gore.

ALFRED "JEFF" HOPPER (THE UNTITLEDVERSE)

I don't this is necessarily correct. Throughout the first two sagas (The Pefect Storm and The Omniscient Rule sagas), Jeff has been nothing more than a supporting and often times tertiary protagonist. Maybe not a main but definitely important. He has moments of selfishness, sure, but that's not often. The only really selfish "messed shit up for everyone" moment was when he took the opportunity to change course of events which worsened the space-time continuum while he had been helping the Time Guard chase after a time-travelling mass serial killer fugitive who had been making Time unstable in the first place, which wasn't even out of malicious intent, rather he just wanted his bestest friend back from non-existence, that being Lena Elliot. So yeah, he screwed up, but not to a villainous extent.

ALEXANDER KHAOS (THE SILVER CHRONICLES)

Oh god another villain result. Which... is more accurate for Alexander than it is for Jeff. He's more of an antagonist to Silva, that's for sure (being the right-hand man and Chosen Extraordinaire, which is basically Jacob's top elite Chosen, of Jacob Seed). He has unresolved trauma in regards to his time in Wellington Wells and has embraced his role in Hope County in Eden's Gate, though if a stronger or more ideological compatible person came around, he'd take his loyalists (which includes Hannah McCalkin) and leave Jacob behind.

ALPH DOLEN (A RADIOACTIVE CALAMITY OF LOVE, BOMBS & GORE)

Link to Minecraft Poem for anyone interested. Oh good, I worried it wasn't going to be different. And OH WOW! Alph got read to filth here. Kind of ironic that he craves love and wants to be surrounded by love but is the "Lone Wanderer". Doubly ironic when he's ghoulified... something that should be where he is rejected by everyone and everything, but ends up with more than he could ever ask for, especially with Ress and Amata... until Arcane Urias ruins everything, as he does.

Here's the list of my top four fictional crushes:

Maki Zen'in - Jujutsu Kaisen (Specifically post-Shibuya Arc)

(I want to be lifted up and carried bridal-style in her arms)

2. Soundwave - Transformers Prime (when I was young and both completely blind without glasses I didn't know I required and literacy blind to whatever I was watching, I thought this Soundwave (the only one I had been introduced to at the time) was female... he's still pretty aesthetically pleasing though, cool AF, and a caring parent to Laserbeak so...)

3. Faith Seed - Far Cry 5 (daydreaming-about-frollicking-in-green-flower-fields-and-living-in-cozy-cottages lesbians UNITE!)

(however fair warning she might get you high enough to talk to God and try to convince you to join her older adoptive brother's cult)

4. GLaDOS - Portal

(...her soothing condescending voice that belittles and tries to get you killed and her smooth + robust curves in her awesome design enchant me...)

Honourable Mention goes to (look'em up):

5. Sea Empress - Subnautica

Two of the worst ship charts for The Silver Chronicles and Life, Despair & Monsters.

Translation for the unreadable:

What draws them together? Initially the mystery surrounding each other as no one except a very specific few know much about their former lives, and their opposing factions forces them to interact a lot, and thanks to the Bliss, that's what they mostly end up doing. Plus they mostly fit each others preferences.

What stands in the way? They are at war in two opposing factions, one that wants to kill/detain (Resistance) and the other that will kill but will try to indoctrinate Silva (Eden's Gate). Opposing morality, beliefs and trust issues also get in the way.

What are their good traits? Silva and Faith find companionship with another due to their similar past/current circumstances, and Silva's compassion and unexpected kindness is bizarre and appealing to Faith, as her cunning and passions are appealing to Silva. Both are willing to sabotage their own factions to keep the other around a bit longer, plus their determination to find a peaceful resolution.

What makes them hopeless at romance? Trust, or lack there of. Silva is weary that Faith will report anything she says to Joseph to better get her into Eden's Gate, while Faith is weary that Silva is trying to get close to manipulate her into coming out into the open to better take her down. Both are correct in the beginning but later down the line it gets muddied. Silva also refuses to speak of her past (understandable) except for the vaguest of truths while Faith doesn't fully open herself up in fear of being scorned. Not to mention it's been a long while since Silva had been in a romantic relationship and Faith is very inexperienced.

Describe them with one trope: Toxic Toxic "I can fix her" & "I can make her worse/better" Enemies-To-Lovers Yuri.

Translation for the unreadable (Also note that when Jennifer is talking about her partner, it's mostly complaining about Sonya, and Sonya's image is more a reference to what I closely envision her as):

What draws them together? They both fail to kill each other and have a bone to pick with both Dicko and Sir Enigma Malvolio and they're also considered "non-human" now.

What stands in their way? Sonya is unstable to the point she's agitated enough to kill others on instinct which Jennifer is trying to control much to Sonya's distaste. There's also the fact Sonya is like a 12-foot something mecha-beastie which she doesn't think Jennifer finds attractive. Jennifer is in denial of her feelings and believes if she loses control of Sonya then it will be right back to square-one like it was with Dicko or she'd die, either one.

What are their good traits? They both have a common interest revenge against Dicko (successful) and Malvolio (work-in-progress), and Sonya acts as Jennifer's trump card and intimidation factor in their illegal business. Both also have an appreciation for their brutal honesty and openness with one another and relatability (with Jennifer as a synthetic human and Sonya's brain transferred to a mecha-beastie). They have no problems committing murder together.

What makes them hopeless at romance? Jennifer is used to being treated as an object of lust and since her freedom from Dicko and take over of his business has pushed to be in control of everything (including Sonya) and is trying to ensure she doesn't lose that control and denying all romantic/sexual feelings, while Sonya is a victim of Malvolio and his treatment of her has left a lot of psychological scars where she dehumanizes herself and does everything in her power to prove it correct too.

Describe them with one trope: Toxic "I can make you so-so-so worse baby" bloody murder Yuri situationship/partnership on a mission of revenge with a pinch of monsterfucking and goes from "I want to kill you" to "I'd kill for you" pipeline.

Template below:

[queer-ragnelle]

I read for spoilers for The Bright Sword, it sounded self indulgent -- The Lady of the Lake is the girlfriend of unprepossessing OC, fix-it for King Arthur but also colonialism is bad... am I picking up the right vibes or should I just read it and form my own view? 😂

Hi anon! I'm going to put my longer answer under a cut since the book is still really new and people may want to avoid spoilers. But firstly, all good stories are self indulgent. Writing for the market is dead, writing for yourself is thriving! So that never deters me from any book or movie. Please do some whacky stuff, I love it! Secondly, I encourage you to ignore bad faith spoilers that only offer criticism without any bright sides. (See what I did there?)

The Bright Sword has the kindest portrayal of Sir Palomides ever written and that means something to me!! It should mean something to anybody invested in the Arthurian literary tradition, I think, as it's been a long time coming. It’s no small thing. I really enjoyed the main cast—Bedivere, Palomides, Dinadan, Dagonet, Nimue, Morgan, Constantine, and OCs Collum and Scipio—they’re all wonderful in their own ways! They're queer, dealing with mental illness, disability, all sorts of things I've wanted from Arthurian retellings for years and haven't gotten in a satisfactory way. I bought the book for those characters and Lev Grossman delivered!

TL;DR I recommend the book! There was more done right than wrong. I shared lots of samples on tumblr and in my Arthurian Theater Server as I read along so people could make their own judgement based on the text itself, and they also liked it.

So my longer answer is—I thoroughly enjoyed the first 30/40 chapters. I couldn't put it down! I was reading at work!! After 31 it crashed and burned a little. There were still a handful of flashback chapters to "the good ol' days" between 31-40 that I also liked, but didn't care for the main post-Camlann conflict resolution, unfortunately.

However, I think I understand how Lev Grossman ended up there. In his Author's Note he stated his inspirations—Mary Stewart, Bernard Cornwell, and Nicola Griffith. And in his Reddit AMA the other day, he said it took him 10 years to write The Bright Sword. I believe all of this culminated in a bit of a disconnected story, as the ending seemed to blindside me. Let me explain.

In Bernard Cornwell’s Warlord Chronicles trilogy, Lancelot is a huge piece of shit from the start. Cornwell’s clearly an Arthur enjoyer. I don’t prefer that approach, but I respect it, and I love Cornwell’s writing. His main character, Derfel, was also plainly a huge inspiration for Grossman’s Collum. That’s a good thing! What I didn’t enjoy was The Bright Sword seeming to shift gears suddenly near the end and make Lancelot out to be a villain that didn’t feel sufficiently foreshadowed. Prior to that, he felt much more like Mary Stewart’s poet-eyed Bedwyr (a hybrid with Lancelot) or Nicola Griffith’s sweetly awkward Lancelot, only to turn around and, literally, snap. BOOM! Cornwell’s garbage-tier Lance. [Insert “He would not fucking say that!” meme here.]

Now regarding Nimue: in Stewart's series, Ninian is with Merlin and then later marries the Fisher King. In Cornwell's series, Derfel is a childhood friend of Nimue and eventually her lover. And in Griffith's book, Peretur ends up with Nimue. So Ninian/Nimue has a long tradition as a spouse/lover of other characters and I enjoyed all of those examples. In The Bright Sword, she was a badass the entire novel, fighting in the battles with intense magic, and she even got her own pov chapters. I liked Collum well enough, he's not my favorite Arthurian OC, but I definitely didn't hate him! His back story was a little eye-roll worthy and his infatuation with Nimue was meh at times, but he’s literally 17 leaving home for the first time. That tracks. It’s not a deal breaker for me by any stretch. Cursed (2020) is where the worst Lady of the Lake romance is at. Nimue/Arthur with some weird shoehorned Gawain love triangle thing? Blech. Get it away from me. It can always be worse!

As a known Arthurian OC enjoyer, I’ll go on record in defense of Collum. He’s fine and characters like him are often paired with canonical characters. I much prefer Nimue end up with someone her own age, whether it be Pelleas or an OC, than stay with Merlin. And The Bright Sword goes to great lengths to show that Merlin is a creep and Nimue a victim who was in the right to bind him in the cave. So this didn’t bother me that much at all.

As far as "fix-it" King Arthur and colonialism bad, not sure what you mean by that. Arthur is dead. That's literally the plot. Did you mean writing Arthur as a decent husband to Guinevere in flash backs? Lots of books and films have done that already, Lev Grossman isn't the first to write Guinevere in love with her husband and an Arthur who is on-par or even better than Lancelot. Personally I prefer when it's balanced but this isn't new or noteworthy. Now, obviously colonialism is bad. That’s the point of King Arthur—the Saxons are colonizers he expels. Not sure what point the spoilers you saw were trying to make there. But it’s irrelevant since The Bright Sword doesn't touch on colonialism very much. Palomides travels west from Baghdad after hearing outlandish stories about Camelot but none of his friends have ever encountered westerners before and they have wildly inaccurate ideas. So Palomides wants to go there and write a book about it (which he does). There’s no talk of the west reaching east from his perspective, and the Saxons are moot, as the focus is a land in want of a king after Arthur’s death, not expelling the Saxon invaders. Could the spoilers have meant monarchy? I don't think anyone is reading Arthurian Legend, which is strictly fantasy, to dismantle the monarchy (or the crimes committed by real life monarchies, such as colonialism). Fantasy, and by extension Arthurian Mythology, is not true to life in any stretch. So that feels like an unfair criticism to make of the genre, even when it takes historical inspiration.

But anyway yes I think you should read the book for yourself! I always advise reading a book before passing judgement. Sometimes a trusted friend will read a book and tell you, knowing best what you like, that it’s not for you. That’s all well and good. But I generally don’t trust the internet’s opinions at large. Much better to feel it out on your own time. I’d love to hear from you again once you’ve read it! Let me know! Have a great rest of your weekend. :^)

[sunnydaleherald]

The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Friday, January 31st

Angel: You know, Anthony you could be a rainbow and not a (hits him over the head and drops him) painbow.

~~Sense and Sensitivity~~

The Sunnydale Herald is looking for at least one new editor. Contributing to the Herald is a great way to get your Buffy on! Find out more here.

[Drabbles & Short Fiction]

Beneath The Bougainvilleas by The_Crazy_Knight (Buffy/Giles, T)

But we were dancing, Dancing with our hands tied by Cumultus9 (Buffy/Faith, T)

Scenes From A Hood by Ellen_Brand (Scoobies, Batman crossover, G)

[Chaptered Fiction]

I Don't Want to Be the One, Chapter 23 by pommedapi (Buffy/Spike, T)

Blood, Chapter 6 by Babblefest, ConstantCommentTea (Angel, Doctor Who crossover, M)

Firebell in the Night: Chapter 104 by TheLightdancer (Willow/Tara, E)

Forged in shadows, Chapter 24 by CloudSeeker (Angel/Lindsey, E)

Potential Friend: Season Two, Chapter 12 by srmcd1 (Buffy/Angel, T)

The Buffy Chronicles: Life After Sunnydale, Chapter 28 by sweetmelodykiss (Buffy/Spike, E)

Smoke and Leather, Chapter 30 by EagleAlwaysFliesAlone (Spike/OC, M)

The Traveller (Redux), Chapter 4 by 1the_last_browncoat (Xander, multiple crossovers, T)

Fine Wines and High Steaks, Chapter 3 by QuillBard (Buffy/Faith, M)

Are We There Yet? Chapter 5 by SonOfACrossBow (Xander/Spike, T)

Clem's Cat Cafe, Chapter 5 by desicat (Buffy/Spike, T)

Unforgettable, Chapter 5 by storiwr (Buffy/Tara, E)

The Choice To Stay, Chapter 8 by Spikelover4ever (Buffy/Spike, E)

Walking the Line, Chapters 1-6 (complete!) by ocsummers (OC, Buffy, Willow, Giles, Mayor Wilkins, T)

Nemesis: To Give What Is Due, Chapter 13 by YouCutYourHair (Buffy/Spike, R)

The Watcher, Chapter 38 by In Mortal (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

How To Be A Heartbreaker, Chapter 27 by Maxine Eden (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

Ripples, Chapter 24 by violettathepiratequeen (Buffy/Spike, PG-13)

Rude Awakenings, Chapter 8 by Melme1325 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

An Enmity Most Engaging, Chapter 11 by HappyWhenItRains (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

What Happens at Willow Creek, Chapter 4 by Alyot (Buffy/Spike, R)

All Points West, Chapter 2 by Alyot (Buffy/Spike, R)

Death Is Buffy's Next Great Adventure, Chapter 119 by Sharie (Buffy/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter crossover, FR15)

Summoned To Strixhaven: Schooling of Scoobies, Chapter 1 by JoshuAB (Scoobies, Dungeons & Dragons crossover, FR13)

[Images, Audio & Video]

Artwork: Buffy by 5un5yst (worksafe)

Artwork: Cangel bringing up baby AU by artsying-ifer (worksafe)

Artwork: band candy calendiles doodle by mistyintherivers (worksafe)

Artwork: Willow and Tara by sc00bynatura1 (worksafe)

Gifset: Willow and Tara by andremichaux (worksafe)

Comic cover manips video: Buffy the Vampire Slayer what if by Raven Warlock

Fanvid: Buffy & Spike - "I Do It For You" by MissNikkie

Fanvid: Buffy The Vampire Slayer vs Spike The Slayers Killer by Buffy & Spike Channel

Fanvid: {making love to the enemy} buffy x spike (hhs collab part) by AngelicSpikes

Fanvid: "Love Is Just A Word' - Multicouples by MissNikkie (Buffy/Spike, multifandom)

Fanvid: Buffy Summers - Good 4 U by Btvs edits 13

Vidlet: Angel's girls - THE ONE by Inji // Darla, Cordelia, Fred by Billy Grayson

Video: Buffy the nose slayer by Aldena OC

Video: On-Camera Scene Study: Buffy The Vampire Slayer (Take 2) by Morgan Lee Hostetler (Anya's "The Body" monologue)

Cosplay: Spike buffy the vampire slayer by Spike.55

Song: Rest in Peace from Buffy Musical by Paul L

Song: Standing from Buffy musical by Paul L

[Reviews & Recaps]

Video: Analyzing Buffy: Star-cross My Heart | 1x07: Angel by The Bronze

Video: Working Through Buffy the Vampire Slayer | Buffy Legacy [book review] by Dave's GeekTrek

Podcast video: S4E21: Primeval by One Girl in All the World

Podcast video: 'Buffy vs Dracula' Episode Breakdown and Series Chat by Blood Splatter Chatter

Podcast video: Buffy the Vampire Slayer Season 2 Recap + JerAwards by JerBear Reacts

Podcast video: Buffy S03E12 "Helpless" Review by LGRN - Entertainment

Podcast video: Buffy's Angels: Habeas Corpses by The Franchise: A Film Podcast

Podcast video: Buffy's Angels: Potential by The Franchise: A Film Podcast

Podcast: Slayer Talk 67: A New Man by Massive Late Fee

Podcast: Episode 59 - The Renaissance of Oberyn Martell (The Freshman) by The Sunnydale Diaries - A Buffy Podcast

Podcast: Once more with feeling - 6x1-2 Bargaining (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) by Nerd Subculture Podcast

Podcast: 116. Buffy The Vampire Slayer [movie] with special guest Jacob Carrillo by Movies That Made Us Gay

[Community Announcements]

February Fangfest Posting Details by februaryfangfest

[Fandom Discussions]

Buffy the Vampire Slayer is about growing up by coraniaid

What frustrates me about age gap discourse with respect to BTVS by firelxdykatara

BEST SCENES in BtVS and AtS (imo and in no particular order) by xaeyrnofnbe

Where could they have gone with Tara's character? continued by multiple posters

AtS's overarching villain and its themes continued by Bloodyawfulpoetry

The Initiative would never have been useful continued by multiple posters

Soul vs no soul continued by AndHerSymbols

Can't believe they showed that! continued by multiple posters

Gunn and Lorne [Orlon Window] by No-Reflection-8701

Characters if they were dog breeds by FaveStore_Citadel

Some quotes from when I made my brother start watching the show by Squizzardo

One more with feelings: which was your favourite song? by melbreddituser

Out of character much? [Willow telling Giles to shut up in S2x14] by Lloronalina

The Point of the Cookie Dough Speech by sadhungryandvirgin

Normal Again by AssociationTiny5395

Imagine being one of the random citizens of Sunnydale during once more with feeling by Loose-Association613

I don’t like Andrew because he’s not funny by FaveStore_Citadel

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[kimmiessimmies]

📩 Simblr question of the day: Choose as many sims/ocs as you'd like for this question, What's something INCREDIBLY obscure and/or out-of-pocket about your sim/oc? Something that nobody (fellow sims and/or your followers and mutuals) knows 👀 (This could be things about their social skills, physicality and/or birth defects, or it could be something they vaguely remember, a dream they had that actually predicted the future, etc etc... whatever you come up with)

( p.p.s freely share this SQOTD around, anon or not, and use the # SQOTD ~ 💛 )

Thank you, Anon (who I sneakily suspect to be @eljeebee forwarding the SQOTD Anon 😉) and @nocturnalazure for the same ask (on the same day 😊). ❤️

Here's a list of very random facts about my student bunch and two bonus characters. Some things may be known to some already, but I think most can be considered obscure. It is, of course, an essay. Because I'm simply never a woman of few words, especially when it comes to blabbing about my characters. 😊

James wrote his first original song at age 8. It was titled "Parent-Free World", and sometimes he still hums it absentmindedly. He bites his nails when he's nervous and the only place he "self-services" is in the shower because that's the least messy.

Sarah has been considering breast reduction surgery because she has back pain often. She and James developed "twin language" as toddlers and still remember and use some words.

Daniel secretly hoped he would have siblings, but it wasn't on the cards. This made him closer to James and Sarah, though. He's on the verge of failing university. Not because he's not smart enough but because the lectures bore him. His learning style is more visual and kinesthetic, and the University caters more towards auditory learners.

Jill sometimes remembers smidges of a past she can't really place and is convinced these are memories from a previous life. She knows all the songs from High School Musical by heart, but she doesn't tell a soul about this because she's embarrassed.

Seth is extremely intelligent and is a member of Mensa. He doesn't want to be cocky, so he hardly mentions it. He avidly plays D&D online, and his character, a sorcerer, is named Zeno Morningsteam.

Sadie is a wonderful singer and has a great musical ear, but it bothers her that she doesn't know how to play an instrument. She has a tiny birthmark somewhere on her body shaped like a heart (when seen up close). Her parents' marriage is going through stormy weather, but they hide this from their children (for now).

Rachel does yoga every day. She secretly liked it when Sadie spent every night with James because, as much as she loves Sadie, sharing her personal space with someone every night is very demanding for her. She's written seven chapters to a fantasy story, but this is a well-kept secret. If she tells someone about it, they may want to read it! 😱

Finn has a nut allergy. This was discovered when he was three years old and had to be rushed to hospital after sneaking a taste of Nutella. After his hospitalisation, "know what you eat" became a huge topic in the Richardson household, and this is actually what inspired Jill to want to become a chef. Since lots of food contains traces of nuts, Finn is very careful what he eats and always checks the packaging.

***Bonus characters (since they're fresh on everyone's mind)***

Joshua actually hasn't sworn off religion like his sister Martha has. He still has faith but is finding his own way. His crush on Joel is slowly fading, but he's happy about this. He hopes to find love soon but knows this is difficult in a small town. He ordered a free information booklet from The Rainbow Alliance entitled "Boys." which very openly and very detailed (in drawings) explains anything and everything boys who like boys need to know. It left him extremely flustered, but it's also his favourite thing to read now. 🤫

Morgan named Jonah after the love of her life, Jonas, who died in a car crash many years ago. Morgan has a subscription to OMGYES. Aside from writing, she has another creative passion: playing the violin. She's very good at it too. She's not looking for a relationship right now, life is too busy as it is.

[hustonnn]

STABLE TOUR

95 horses !!!!

Start with my bay collection (from left to right) (some horses named in russian)

Doom - my only one Arabian horse because I lowkey hate them but I felt bad for not owning one when they were supposed to be removed

Dragon Fighter - my OC Neyvil'

Gilded Rose (Позолоченая Роза) - second horse what I ever bought but I sold it one day and bought it again cause of nostalgia

Uno - named after Muse song

Danger Desire - horse of my SSO OC's husband Howard

Morning Comet (Утренняя Комета) - starter horse I love him 💚 wish we had more Jorvikian Warmbloods to buy

Pale Road - horse of my RDO OC Wild Brown - Red Cardinal aka Cardi aka Baryonyx aka Boris aka Boryia - named after themed playlist on spotify

Boulder Gate - just Baldur's Gate.

Furious Whirlwind (Буйный Вихрь) - first ever pony. Same story as Gilded Rose

10. Lucky Chace - kinda regret him 11. Thunder Hurricane - first "cool" horse, oldie 12. Iron Man - my fav MCU character :) 13. Night Butterfly (Ночная Бабочка) - bad joke, OC Penelope

14. Druid Bear - Halsin from BG3 !!! felt bad for killing him once so this is an apology. sorry bud 15. Zombie Apocalypse - Deacon Saint-John - main char from game Days Gone

16. Lady Pearl - my OC lady Lidorfya Pearl. wish it was a donkey 17. Brave Guardian - my OC Connor Birdhard 18. Marzipan - cutie 19. Sunrise Faith - @sshadovv 🧡 20. Harsh Autumn (Суровая Осень) - I dreamed of her when I was a kid :""" 21. Sweet Victory (Сладкая Победа) - we all ask ourselves was it worth it 22. Violet Bullet - my OC Valliet Bandolero 23. Almond Cookie (Миндальная Печенька) - was eating cookies lol. didn't like this breed that much tho :( 24. Eternal Love (Вечная Любовь) - my OC Lira

25. Spring Song - love/hate with coat 26. Fiery Sunset (Пламенный Закат) - RIP my fishy Toussaint 27. Glitter Gold - @sshadovv's OC Judy (she didn't like my choice of horse but I still bought it sorry love) 28. Red Deer - ARTHUR MORGAN I miss you old man (main char from Red Dead Redemption 2) 29. Tiger Horse - my OC Jaira Tagger

30. Porcelain Bride (Фарфоровая Невеста) - dreamed of this coat 31. Ghost Queen - my OC Samara 32. White Swallow (Белая Ласточка) - Ciri from The Witcher 33. Yellow Snow - "When the time of the White Frost comes, do not eat the yellow snow" iukuk 34. Bold Horse - bold horse. 35. Pale Princess - a rat. I hate her. my OC princess Fyrze 36. Grim - my OC Gustav Grim

37. Songbird - album Death of a Songbird by Luna Fawn Ripley 38. Singing Fishy (Певучая Рыбка) - my second fish Lubystok (Dandelion from The Witcher) 39. Moon Wisdom - my OC Ezer 40. Wingfeather - novel The Wingfeather Saga, author Andrew Peterson. I love books for children, relatable 41. Old Myth - main char of my favorite series on SSO. The horse's name was Aiden and the whole story was based on the game Beyond Two Souls what I love with my whole heart too. I regret not buying more old models, especially Andalusians because it's one of my favorite breeds 42. Winter Warrior - my OC Irma

43. Golden Feather (Золотое Перо) - my OC Mechanics Emperor 44. Rebellious Spirit (Непокорный Дух) - Spirit!!!!!! Looks like my Spirit plushie 45. Wizard - my OC Guypril 46. Hero Magic - it's Guypril too.. 47. Coyote - my RDO horse Kharciz (I don't know if I spelled it right) (Харц��з)

48. Desert Ninja - my OC Wild, specifically from Black Desert AU 49. Wild Hat (Дикая Шляпка) - another Wild, but from Red Dead AU 50. Wildlord - another Wild........ because his full name is Willord 51. Dark Silver (Темное Серебро) - my OC Vampyr 52. Phantom Liberty - cyberpunk is a peak 53. Pirate Blood - I will never buy normal full black Friesian because I am ✨special✨ 54. Dark Maniac - my OC Zwyr (Beast) 55. Ghost Mystery - horse of my OC Apparel' - Parquet. Also it was name of my first "soul" horse irl 56. Sugar Father - hate the name, was my OC Shuga but I sold him

57. Zombie Fairy - my OC Daffodil 58. Osprey - kinda fits to be my OC Zwyr but in reverse colors 59. Terrifying Hunter (Жуткий Охотник) - Geralt of Rivia (main char from The Witcher) 60. Silverhand - Johny Silverhand from Cyberpunk 2077 61. Wild - another Wild but bold sorry not sorry 62. Chaotic Soul (Хаотичный Дух) - hate this horses coat, but it was free so not complaining

63. Little Plum (Маленькая Сливка) - horse of my friend's (@sshadovv) OC Judy - Sguschenka (Condensed milk) 64. Jewel Seeker - my friend's (@sshadovv) OC Judy 65. Loveace - my OC Lovelace 66. Faith (Вера) - my OC Faithful 67. Giga King - my OC Nirehon, but name doesn't suit him anymore 68. Blind Eye - my OC Jack Brown 69. Broken Rebel - feel sad for his name but it sounds poetic.. 70. Crazy Brain - my OC Kris Cardi 71. Great Father - my OC Samson Douglas 72. Lost Star - song Take Me Home by Cade Crider

73. Heaven - just like the coat 74. Frost Shore - cute marks on head 75. Echo - reminds me of my horse from RDR Heparda 76. Silent Hill - my OC Ezer 77. Daydreamer - ME !!!! looks like my horse sona 78. Chocolate Milk - my horse from RDO Nesquik 79. Illusion Pumpkin - homestuck reference

80. Ballless - my OC Samson Douglas..... I'm so sorry man 81. Supernova Axiom (Суперновая Аксиома) - just a random name it sounds hilarious 82. Royal - my OC Royal. I know I am a genius 83. Shark Shy (Акулья Стесняшка) - my older sis give her name. Kinda reminds me of one of my fishes (Lubystok), but I bought this horse before I had her 84. Tiny Sparkle (Крошечная Искорка) - I remember how SSO gave us the opportunity to create our own magic horse. How happy I was as a child when the game showed exactly the same color as I made! Core memory

85. Scarlet Ode (Алая Ода) - bought it just because everyone ride it 86. Glory Power - like his pandorian vibe 87. Guiding Star (Путеводная Звезда) - RIP my fishy Toussaint again :( 88. Lovebird - I hated this horse but I became fond of them while I was doing quests in Hollow Woods 89. Tulip Petal - my OC Garreth

90. River Hoof - this is my favorite magic coat in the game 91. Willow Tree - song When I'm Gone by Shawn James. And this is my favorite tree 92. Gloom Wolf - same story short - hate it first but now seems cute after Hollow Woods 93. Obsidian Star - Yennefer of Vengerberg from The Witcher. Horse doesn't fit for 100% but I don't wanna buy Friesian for you darling 94. Raven Mane - such a common name for this horse :т 95. Butterfly Hurricane - my OC Huston and song Butterflies and Hurricanes by Muse - my favorite thing in the whole world

100th horse will be a Noriker, named after the band Big Time Rush - Rockstar. And tomorrow I will buy a robotic horse and call it Unicorn Attack

[randomperson99sworld]

Ruffled Feathers 🪶

~ Part 5 ~

Summary: Julia Morgan, Bobby's niece, has always been a royal thorn in Dean Winchesters ass since the day they met 1 year ago at Bobby's memorial. She wants to be a hunter, he thinks she's a dumb kid playing dress up. Will she always be seen as an unwanted load in Dean's eyes or will he see something more?

Pairing: Dean x OC

Warnings: Age gap, language, sexual themes (used lightly), physical abuse (Not by Dean).

Word Count: 944

A/N: This is my first story ever so please go easy on me. Also, this story is cross posted on Wattpad, I made a last minute decision to share it on here too. Happy reading! ♥️

The Impala cruised down the highway, the sound of the engine filling the silence that hung heavy between them. Sam flipped through his notes again, while Julia stared out the window, her hands fiddling with the hem of her jacket. She was trying—trying not to let Dean's attitude get to her, trying not to snap back like she used to. It was Bobby's voice in her head, telling her to keep her cool, to focus on the job and not the people who doubted her.

But it wasn't easy.

Especially with Dean.

She glanced up at the rearview mirror, catching Dean's eyes for a brief moment before he looked away, his jaw clenched like it always did when she was around. It had been a year since they first met, and no matter what she did, no matter how much she tried to prove herself, Dean still looked at her like she was the same inexperienced girl he'd met that day at Bobby's memorial.

"So," Julia began, trying to break the tension, "you think this werewolf sighting's legit? Or just another crazy local seeing things?"

Dean scoffed, not bothering to look back at her. "Probably another local with too much time on their hands. But we'll see."

Julia bit her lip, keeping her voice steady. "Right. I'll keep an eye out for anything strange."

"Yeah, you do that," Dean muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe stay out of the way this time, huh?"

Sam shot Dean a warning glance, but Julia spoke before Sam could intervene. "I can handle myself, Dean. You don't have to keep treating me like I'm a screw up."

Dean's grip on the wheel tightened, and he shook his head. "It's not about treating you like a screw up. It's about not getting us all killed because you think you're ready for something you're not."

Julia let out a slow breath, forcing herself to stay calm. "I've been on hunts with you guys for a year now. I've trained with Sam. I'm not saying I'm perfect, but I'm not clueless either."

Dean's laugh was humorless. "Right. You've been on a handful of hunts, Julia. You think that makes you a hunter? That you've got it all figured out?"

"I don't think I've got it all figured out, but I'm learning—"

Dean cut her off, his voice harsh. "Learning's not enough. This isn't some college class. You screw up out there, people die. And I'm not gonna sit back and watch you get Sam—or me—killed because you're too busy trying to prove something."

Julia's fists clenched in her lap, but she kept her voice steady. "I'm not trying to prove anything. I'm just trying to do the right thing. Bobby saw something in me. I don't know why you can't."

Dean's jaw twitched, and for a moment, there was silence. He wasn't going to get into the Bobby argument—not now. Bobby's faith in her didn't change what he saw right in front of him: someone who wasn't ready.

Sam, sensing the conversation was about to go south fast, jumped in. "Julia's been doing good, Dean. She's held her own. You've gotta give her some credit."

Dean shot a look at Sam, his eyes hard. "Credit's not gonna stop a werewolf from ripping her throat out."

Julia opened her mouth to respond, but Sam put a hand on her arm, giving her a look that said, Not now. She bit her lip, turning back toward the window, trying to ignore the sting of Dean's words.

The rest of the ride was silent, the tension thick enough to choke on. Julia stared out the window, her thoughts racing. No matter what she did, no matter how much she tried, Dean wasn't going to see her as anything other than a kid playing hunter. She'd saved his ass more than once, and yet he still looked at her like she didn't belong.

And maybe, deep down, that was what hurt the most.

Not his harsh words, not his constant belittling, but the fact that Bobby—the man who had meant so much to all of them—had believed in her, and Dean couldn't even try.

They pulled into the small town a few hours later, the sun setting low on the horizon. The streets were quiet, too quiet for a town supposedly dealing with a werewolf problem.

Dean parked the Impala outside a local diner, killing the engine. He stepped out without a word, slamming the door harder than necessary. Sam and Julia followed suit, the air still tense between them.

"So, what's the plan?" Julia asked, trying once again to break the ice, her voice steady despite the knot in her stomach.

Dean glanced around, his eyes scanning the area. "Sam and I'll talk to the sheriff, see if there's any truth to the sightings. You..." He pointed toward the diner. "You stay here. See if anyone inside's heard anything."

Julia blinked, caught off guard. "You want me to sit this one out?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "No, I want you to question the locals. Just keep it simple. Stay out of trouble."

Julia swallowed her frustration and gave a tight nod. "Fine. I'll ask around."

As she turned toward the diner, she couldn't help but feel the sting of his words again. Dean didn't think she could handle more than asking a few locals some questions. But she'd prove him wrong. One way or another, she wasn't going to screw things up.

But as she walked away, she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that no matter what she did, it would never be enough for Dean Winchester.

[the-silver-chronicles]

WIP Wednesday + My OC as... & What Faerie Court Does Your OC Belong To? & What Does Your Soul Look Like?

Tagged by @g0dspeeed @voidika @socially-awkward-skeleton @deputy-morgan-malone @direwombat @adelaidedrubman and @onehornedbeast

Tagging @shallow-gravy @inafieldofdaisies @strangefable @strafethesesinners @josephslittledeputy @minilev @chazz-anova @cassietrn @snake-in-the-garden @corvosattano @ec-10 @deputyash @derelictheretic @henbased @jacobmybeloved @ladyoriza @nightbloodbix @vampireninjabunnies-blog @neverthesameneveranother @wrathfulrook @carlosoliveiraa @thewanderer-000 @softtidesworld @josephseedismyfather @skoll-sun-eater @vasiktomis and @afarcryfrommymain + anyone else who wants to join.

One WIP, two quizzes and a sharing visual stuff of Silva with the My OC as.... Here's the "What Faerie Court does your OC belong to?" Quiz and the "What does Does Your Soul Look Like?" Quiz.

Here's the WIP of that unnamed "Arranged Marriage" AU, with Silva agonizing over her life so far (after a shower no less) as she waits for Faith to come back with a dreadful wedding dress. Snippet below:

[Silva's] head in gloved hands, she fought the urge to grab a fistful of dark hair and rip it out. To scream and curse... at what? God? Her father? Joseph and the prophets before him who were too cowardly and self-absorbed in their own dead delusions to even try not to fuck someone's life over for once?

Or would she curse herself? For agreeing to this arrangement, despite how much she hates it? For hurting others with her very presence, being forced to wander in their vision even after taking the lives of loved ones, whose blood has since been washed off, but not the scars and lesions that are scattered over her damaged hands, a reminder of the lives she took? Curse herself for not putting her own needs, her desires, her hopes and dreams before others, just as Kamski insisted she do?

Silva didn't know. She didn't know what to do anymore. It was far beyond what she initially knew. Far from what she was taught in the Minas. Eden's Gate wasn't like Father's battalions of Enforcers, cruel and deplorable in their mission, nor were they like the Apostles, teaching malevolence and hidden in shadows.

Eden's Gate had a mission, one with the best of intentions, but were spreading terror in their methods, even if they seemed a bit remorseful, which doesn't change the fact they have ruined lives indefinitely, nor excuse the recruitment of psychopaths like the Cook.

It was uncanny just how much qualities about the Project that she could despise and how much she could differentiate it from the likes of her father's Enforcers. It didn't make it any better that Joseph and John seemed genuine in their desire to have her as apart of the family, even when her gut argues that it's nothing more than a ploy, a deception, with her stomach coiling in agreement, the very reminder that she'd be married to Jacob in the coming weeks making her nauseous again.

Despite the personal cost of her freedom, she had to do it, especially if it meant peace for the Resistance and the freedom of Hudson and Pratt... and Burke as well she guessed. She could also breath a little easier with the knowledge that she had forced Joseph to acknowledge that this marriage was, at best, a tactical ploy for peace, more-or-less, and convinced him to give not only his word that Jacob would not try anything of harmful or sexual nature towards her, but also had him forbid his older brother as "the Father" from even thinking to do such acts, or else she would not agree to anything more.

Silva knew from experience that a profeta's word was as reliable as a rickety old bridge worn down from age, but if he backed out on any of the agreements, not only would he face backlash from herself and the Resistance, but most likely a few of his own people as well.

It still didn't change the fact she was a prisoner here both presently and with the reminders of how guilty her own conscience really is.

She gave the Resistance a standing chance for freedom, however that is going, even if it meant she was restricted in her own.

Jannah, Elsa would be so disappointed in me. Worse then disappointed probably. She'd return from the ashes if she could, and then go on to berate Silva of not only her martyr tendencies, but also give her an earful for all the times Silva had told Elsa to keep track of her own well-being while being mindful of others.

How hypocritical of me.

Does that make me closer to Father than it does Paul now?

Silva wasn't sure how to answer that, but she couldn't blink the welling tears away, no matter how much ferocity she put in.

Here I am... on a bed in Faith's Gate... a prison in all but name, surrounded by people I have hurt in more ways than one... crying to myself... as I can do nothing for my friends and neighbours who I can't even communicate with, no less hear from... all the while I'm waiting on Faith to get me whatever wretched wedding dress the Seeds had stolen to have me wear... while in nothing but my undergarments and the thinnest bathrobe.

It may not be as rock bottom as walking in a blizzard barefoot in a shitty dress at 10-years-old while Enforcers searched for her across the bridge to the Minas, or sailing on a boat with little supplies, taking care of an infant barely two weeks old, and tending to an injured hermana after escaping a successful massacre on the one community she thought truly understood her. Nor was it like the day she returned to the county, into her resident home, without her hija in hand to carry to bed, and as if to kick her further, find out the legacy Elsa wanted to leave behind in the form of her floristry had been stolen away during Silva's absence. But it was still suffocating, and she couldn't help but mourn for the normalcy she almost regained.

Here's the results for the "What Faerie Court Does Your OC Belong To?" Quiz.

Elsa Omar (Far Cry The Silver Chronicles, The Harbinger's Salvation AU)

Yeah this describes Elsa. She generally doesn't take in account the feelings of others in canon nor in this AU. Elsa is very selfish, and only cares for the people closest in her family circle (mainly Silva, Persephone, & Ezekiel + Azriel and Mercy if she got to meet them), everyone else is a pawn to use and abuse for whatever means necessary, especially in The Harbinger's Salvation AU, where her older sister is under the control of the Apostles of Zachariah. Elsa is narcissistic and vain, as well as a compulsive liar to majority of people to boot. She has no problem enacting on every vice (smoking, drinking, screwing, etc) without shame, even if it is detrimental to her overall health and social apathy. Credit where credit is due, she's achieved sleeping with nearly everyone in the county, something even Adelaide hadn't achieved. But its the fact she's careless of everyone's feelings and also gives zero fucks about looking through peoples things to see what she can use for blackmail. She's absolutely NOT a good person, it just happens to be that her goals are either beneficial to others (her work with the Resistance in the AU even if she's not in it for their fight but more so her sisters' safety, having gathered enough evidence of Eden's Gate' crimes to send Joseph to prison for life to protect Silva and Persephone, etc) or even she has morals or ideals she wouldn't cross/adopt (absolutely knows for certain that Adam's Guard is not safe nor should be left to exist, wouldn't join the Apostles because of their habits to bring terror and death to others, and wouldn't join Eden's Gate because they restrict peoples' freedoms in what they want to do for their lives besides devote it to God which would be a very unhappy place for Silva and Azriel, etc) even if those are because it goes against her self-interests. Elsa is willing to take massive risks, which though can be dangerous, she's always confident of the rewards it brings. And just because her bones are brittle doesn't mean she's not willing to go down rough and dirty to win.

Now for the "What does your soul look like?" Quiz.

Azriel (Far Cry The Silver Chronicles, Wings And Horns original work)

I mean this pretty much describes Azriel. Neglected by her parents and then was almost killed by them as they tried to sacrifice her to prove themselves worthy of staying in Eden's Gate, was always shunned for her interests in technology and invention from within the project did not help her mentally. Nor did the isolation. Afraid everyone is out to get her, this 9-year-old puts up a ferocious front in order to at least look the part of scary. Which offputs people from her or undermine her with sympathy she doesn't understand nor want. She feels as if no one wants her, nor do they want to understand her, choosing how she should live her life. Well, at least until she meets Silva in a chance encounter that changes the fate of the county and Silva's role in the Reaping and the Collapse. The first time the Voice felt fear that day. And it wouldn't be the last time either.

Now for the "My OC as..." stuff. I tried to find a faceclaim that I thought was true to Silva. (RANT: I had to go to f***ing Quora for this. And I hate Quora with a burning passion. I still receive their emails to this day. No I don't want to know how to make a Spinach cake, I'm not interested in the quantum physics of a blackhole and no I don't want to be involved in the debate on whether its criminal to leave the toilet seat up, IT IS, debate over!). Anyway Silva's current faceclaim for the time being (or indefinite if I feel that "do you know what, this person is right for Silva") is actress Mina El Hammani. In order to use and create this template I used this trustworthy meme generator, who never disappoints me (unlike Quora).

Maybe I should make one of Paul one day. That would be interesting dissecting him like this.

[welp-back-on-my-bs]

2, 4, 11, 12, & 21 for the roots asks! <3

(for morgan, or an oc of your choosing!)

Morgan's first job: they did work with the family's stablewoman. A badass old lady who taught them how to ride and care for horses. They don't work in that field anymore, but they are in the habit of caring for the horse that they are entrusted with. It makes them feel safer and connects them deeply with the horse.

Morgan's childhood dream: they never had a set dream as a child, just some things that any kid would want to be. A princess, a star, a writer, an artist, whatever they felt passionate about. They found a set dream after leaving their ex, becoming disabled, and learning more and more about who they truly are and not their facade they have been putting up for all these years. They want people to be their genuine selves and not have to pretend. It's part of why they started the purple butterfly organization. To help those in need get what they need and not have to hide.

Childhood fears: old dolls. They thought that they were possessed, allways watching, wishing for their last owner. Gilbert got them into horror novels, and they are less scared of old dolls now.

Faith: their family is a bit witchy in their beliefs. They believe in nature and a sort of magic within the world. That nature holds properties of healing, protection, and memories. They believe in reincarnation, that a soul after all that have grieved it time has come, will move on to a new life. They don't practice anything specific due to it being 'hedonistic' and suppressed in their childhood.

Speaking to childhood self: I'll give the provision of, they can't say anything that can change history. They would honestly be nervious to do that anyway. "Keep your loved ones close" is all that they would say to their younger self.

[adelaidedrubman]

OCs AS ENTITIES (the magnus archives)

tagged by beloveds @direwombat @simplegenius042 @inafieldofdaisies @corvosattano @deputy-morgan-malone to do this fun little aesthetics game for a horror girlie! sending tags out to @socially-awkward-skeleton @henbased @pathologictwo @strafethesesinners @clicheantagonist @shallow-gravy @direwombat @quickhacked @jackiesarch @v0idbuggy @orionlancasterr @firstaidspray @stacispratt @8bitpizzacoupons @strangefable @roofgeese @ladyoriza @unholymilf @nonfunctioning-queer @voidika @captastra @confidentandgood @belorage @deputyash @nightbloodbix @blissfulalchemist @shellibisshe @cassietrn + like or unlike this post to opt in or out, respectively, of me tagging you in tag games!

i.  THE BURIED.  weighted blankets.  drowning.  the comfort of a loved one’s weight. soil & sand piling on top of you. hugging so hard it hurts a little. cramped hiding spots.  letting out air underwater to sink to the bottom of the pool.  walls pressing in on you. not moving from a position even though you’re cramping a little.  dragging the last second before you have to inhale. lonely subways.  feeling like one with the earth.  a layer of dirt on you. looking for something below.  cardboard boxes & tiny pillow forts.  hands calloused from digging.  knowing that your purpose is just below the surface. entering your final resting place before it kills you.  a storm drowning you out. dust & sand speaking to you.

ii.  THE CORRUPTION. insects.  a close imitation of the natural course of life. an illness in a community. a rag that dirties more than it cleans.   an untreated wound.  containment.  breaching containment.  unbreathable air. fungi.  one with that you love.  one with what loves you.   a corpse unfit for a glass case.  hearing a song in the sound of tiny wings & legs.  honeycomb patterns.  an ecosystem within a person.  a curse passed on.  the hubris of a scientist.  an ugly death where a glorious one is owed. blood on a handkerchief.  parasites.  something pushing up the sewer.  a mask to keep something out.  trypophobia.  knowing you belong.  death weeks after impact.  fever. food that’s gone off. pandora’s box.   death behind a glass.

iii.  THE DARK. shadows. lights that turn off by themselves.  the feel of cold marble.  a beaked creature in the night. the difference between seeing darkness & seeing nothing. touch of something you can’t see.  hiding under a blanket.  white, clouded eyes. months without going outside during sunlight. pouring dark. unscrewing lightbulbs. black matter. light sensitivity. a starless night.  time before light was created.  a shadow on the wall without a body to attach to.  withering plants.  a world without a sun.  footfalls in an empty house in the night.  a light that doesn’t reach as far as it should.  desperate reach for a flashlight.  clothes that hide your shape.  staying unperceivable.  winter months in the north.  an empty church.

*later on but yeah she knows a guy like that

iv.  THE DESOLATION. senseless pain.  warmth of faith. wax where skin should be. a blazing fire.  heat without a source. the third or fourth tragedy in the family. losing everything you’ve ever held dear. so much to live for,  gone so soon.  the smell of gasoline.  touch that scars. coffee cup that never goes cold. scorch marks on wood.  inescapably warm air.  a child born in fire.  death of a loved one.  a candle without a flame.  an altar in the middle of the woods.  animals with burnt fur.  plastic explosives. burning hot metal.  sweating in an interrogation room.  never touching a loved one. disfigurement. kiss that ruins you.  the scent of burning fat. a tattoo that terrifies its viewer.*  the agony of hellfire displayed as art.  auburn hair.  little clothing in cold weather.  a ripple in the air.  trying to cool down in vain.

v.  THE FLESH. body horror.   factories. a hunger for something more filling. never quite happy with how you look. the terror of an animal waiting for slaughter. a very good meal. the liquid of a perfect steak. fighting your worst survival instincts. a twisted bone. long nights working out.  more than one heart.  appearance that shapes like clay. a bag of bones. bone broth in a pot.  knowing to fear pigs.   the butcher’s shop.   plastic surgery.  something alien inside your body. a hunger in the gaze laid upon you. unwitting cannibalism. forgetting what you used to look like. being admired for your appearance & appearance only.  teeth marks on skin. scars from wounds that should’ve killed you.  cooking in scarcity. fenced in with one way to go.

vi.  THE END. the last page of a book.  nightmares that don’t feel like nightmares.  a skeletal hand.  the grip of the grim reaper around your throat. existential pain.  ivory dice.  flat-lining in a hospital.  gambling with death.  as old as the universe.  soul & spirit tied to an object.  a dream where you die. closing your eyes for the last time. the pleas of a dying one.  knowing the fate of someone you know & being unable to prevent it.  a thousand cords tugging you towards your end.  skin that’s freezing to the touch.  an act of desperation. someone’s life for yours. an eternity spent alive. the cost of your selfishness.  watching your own burial.   causing your own burial.  the smell of death. numbness to fear.  words from someone gone. meaninglessness of the actions or lives of single people in the universe.  multiple near-death experiences you refuse to die from.

vii.  THE EYE. googling something you shouldn’t have. eureka moments.* the unforgiving lens of a camera.  witness reports.**  hidden libraries.  eyes of different colors.  feeling of being watched.  a death recorded in tape.   a tragedy you can’t look away from.   endangering yourself for knowledge.  truth. analog records.  a symbol of an eye.  a watch tower.  compulsion to document. turning on recording devices without thinking about it.  saving the evidence before the person. extracting information. truth or dare, without the dare. a thirst for knowledge. books that speak to you. coordinated shelves.  cataloguing systems.  voyeurism.  police report you can’t put down.** reasoning your way out.  smell of old papers.  books that read you back.

*not correct ones

**america’s sweetheart verse

viii.  THE HUNT. sharp canines.  sore calves after a run.  the scent of blood.  an adventure for the journey’s sake.  the adrenaline right before the kill.  a whistle’s echo.  the woods.  the doe eyes of a prey animal.  your own breath in the air.  sharpened claws.  being tracked.  fear of someone knowing your every movement.  hunting down monsters.  hide & seek.  running away only to end up where you started.  staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run.  a set of footsteps behind you.  blood dripping from bare hands.  barks & growls.  focused eyes.  a victim going limp under your hands.  a mouth full of fresh blood.  catching the scent of something monstrous.  perfecting your craft.  peering into the dark & running after it.

ix.  THE LONELY. an apartment too small for a double bed.  completely vacant streets.  waking up to see everyone gone.  fog.  point nemo.  a house too big to hear your family members in.  alone in a faceless crowd.  a mask with nothing behind it.  separated cubicles.  a deafening silence where joy should be.  a blinding spotlight.  the least missed in your friend group.  streets without lights in the windows.  isolation.  not truly knowing your friends. your friends not truly knowing you.  need for silence.  fear of crowds.  staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you.  a ship alone at sea.  depression.  knowing your friends are better off without you.  talking to someone only to realize they’re gone.  a family too large to notice you there. safety in being alone.

x.  THE SLAUGHTER. a game of tag.   senseless violence.  a true crime hobby.*   improvised weapons.  blinding rage.  intent to kill.   a horrific day in a quiet community.  a medal of bravery.*  holding on to what validates your anger.   history books that spare no details.  an injury you want revenge for.  war.  counting kills.  songs of soldiers.   a knife block on the counter.  a pool of blood.  shellshock.  unspeakable horrors.  anger pushing you forward.  unimaginable pain.  not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming.  a fully human monster.  an authority sending its lessers to their deaths.  kill or be killed.  unedited wartime memoirs.*  a weapons collection.  not knowing the names of who you kill.  too many to remember.  loss of hope.  there’s no heroes in war.

*america’s sweetheart verse

xi.  THE SPIRAL. sleep deprivation.  corridors you can get lost in.  maze puzzles that loop back on themselves.  losing possessions.   losing people.  losing your sanity.  corkscew curls.  rows of funhouse mirrors.  optical illusions.  a separate reality.  walking through the wrong door.   delusions.  not knowing what your hands are doing.   blank spaces in documents.   hallucinations.  wrong proportions.  a nameless thing.  a place that has never existed.  doubting your own mind.  blind faith. losing track of names,  labels,  categories.   distorted sound.  an imperfection in a glass that twists the view.   loss of time.   a garish color.  doors that open to nowhere.  lies. an unnatural laugh.  jokes & tricks.  illusions.  a doorway.  a sculptor with a wild imagination. limbs in impossible angles.  doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible.  fractals you can get lost in.

xii.  THE STRANGER. wax figures.  a close approximation of a human face.  a borrowed appearance.  a strange smell.  glass eyes.  furs & pelts.  a dance.  a song of a choir.  the uncanny valley.  stitching yourself together.  the colors of a circus.  a puppet with no strings. mannequins.  glitter & sequin.  a stranger you’ve always known.  someone strange in the place of someone you knew.  stolen identities.  stolen skins. a machine imitating humanity.  the anonymity of a service worker.  hiding in plain sight.  uncomfortable to look at.  a faked accent.*  concealing.  forgetting who you are. forgetting who others are.  a replacement no one notices.  images that look posed.  the only one seeing the false face of someone.

*not faked, just exaggerated

xiii.  THE VAST. open spaces.   carnival rides going up & down.  fear of heights.  endless infinity around you.  your insignificance in an universe.  stomach turning at a drop.  fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip.  the sway of a cable car.  an adventure holiday.  losing track of where the surface is.  miles & miles of nothing around you.  staring at the sky & feeling like you may fall into it.  loss of control.  a fall that doesn’t end in death.  glass floor to the view below.  terminal velocity.  the sound of wind in your ears.   a reach over the railing.  a jump from the top of the building. falling into nothing.  feeling your feet let go of the ground.  a leap of faith. motion sickness.

xiv.  THE WEB. undecipherable code. a puppeteer holding the strings.  power over the weak—willed.  strings of fate.  manipulation.   an arranged accident.  a hundred minions doing your bidding.*  cobwebs.  spiders.  a laid trap. never voicing discomfort.  outwitting a cheater.  doing things without realizing it.  red string across a corkboard.  finding something lost where you were sure you checked.  power over the unreliability of chance.  watching others dance for you.*  an entangled death.  a thousand tiny legs & fangs.  shady forum threads.*  something important gone missing.  suspiciously disregarded case.*  a missing witness.*  connections.  the world wide web.*  power of victimhood.*  gullibility.  no control over your own decisions.  an invisible leash.  mass psychology.  a horror film in the making.  scapegoat.  never remembering to ask for a name.

*america’s sweetheart verse

+  THE EXTINCTION. the end of an era.  apocalypse movies.  the alarms of warning systems.   a desolate landscape.  end of the world cults.  nihilism.  the last written history. a changed world.  no survivors.  old prophecies.  a thousand predicted ends.  a new chapter.  an end with no escape.  catastrophes.  a calendar counting down.  breaking point. overindulgence.

[simplegenius042]

What do your OCs carry on their person? + "What Kind Of Suffering Is Your OC?" Quiz

Tagged by @inafieldofdaisies @socially-awkward-skeleton and @deputy-morgan-malone for the former and tagged by @adelaidedrubman and @g0dspeeed for the latter.

Tagging @shallow-gravy @strangefable @jillvalentinesday @josephslittledeputy @derelictheretic @voidika @onehornedbeast @vampireninjabunnies-blog @minilev @neverthesameneveranother @nightbloodbix @wrathfulrook @direwombat @chazz-anova @cassietrn and @strafethesesinners

(I can't seem to tag @josephseedismyfather's blog, are they alright?)

The quiz can be found here.

Will do the main protagonists of my series (The UnTitledverse, Far Cry The Silver Chronicles, Life, Despair & Monsters and Wings And Horns).

Joaquin Cobalt (during Phase One, at least) -> Joaquin has got a short sword, a pocketknife, a revolver, ammo for the revolver, paperclips and bobby pins (for lockpicking), a notepad he uses to take notes of the universe he's stuck in, any deodorant, shampoo and conditioner he can find, testosterone prescriptions, rations, canteen of water, any spare clothes he can buy (or steal/scavenge... he is likely being hunted by the Chairman at this point in his life after all, and currency doesn't always stay the same in each universe), three polaroid pictures that all include himself with Lisa, Maisie and Mario & Calvin, respectively. He has a scarf, boots, an umbrella and goggles for extra protection from the environment. Also a mechanical contraption that allows him to travel to a different universe (he's trying to get back to his old original one). He also has specialized binoculars that can switch to nightvision when needed.

Sylvester Silva Omar -> On person Silva usually has a handgun, an ornate knife called the "Silver Dragon" (something she took from Paul), regular binoculars, two radios (one to coordinate with the Resistance and listen in on Eden's Gate, the other to call Kamski because her flip phone doesn't have any service, LOL), her now useless Nokia flip phone, her house key to Omar's Residence (where she spends her time alone and unbothered, having meals, showers and rest, as well as hiding from the Christmas snow), Elsa's lodge key, her deputy badge, cuffs (which she forgets she has on until much, much later), her golden locket (inside it is the only remaining picture that Elsa took of Silva with Irene and an infant Persephone), a small backpack (which usually holds extra clothes, a water bottle, medical supplies from Kamski as well as additional weapons and ammo), gas mask for when she eventually decides she's sick of the Bliss' bullshit (after being attacked by an angel or bear that she thought was a civilian for the umpteenth time). She did have prescribed medicine for her PTSD, but that has since run out, and the Hope County Clinic had either been pillaged by Eden's Gate or can't replenish their supplies since the county is on lockdown. She does have Joseph's Word for a while before giving it back to Faith. Eventually Silva also gets glasses between her time in the bunker after the Collapse and during Old Dusk (the New Dawn arc), as well as a crossbow (because I think she deserves one), not to mention the ring.

Haoyu Anabuki - Haoyu is the one with the least amount of shit. A wallet, phone (which has a screenshot of the Literature Club as the opening image which includes Haoyu themself, their sibling Monika, and both their friends Sayori, Yuri and Natsuki), antibiotics and reading glasses is the most you get from them. Anything else is stashed in their little pocket dimension. I'm sure the others here would be looking to kick Haoyu's ass for being the second person with the least amount of stuff to carry.

Archangel Metatron - Because first goes to Metatron, a literal archangel who's clothes are part of his disguise, and only really has a flaming sword to worry about.

BONUS Azriel - Poor girl doesn't have enough pockets to carry every shiny thing she sees. But to recap; in Azriel's years as an Angel of Death, she only carried around a hood, cloak and two sickles. Justified, she's technically dead and an immortal soul doing Death's deeds, so she's kind of omnipresent and omnipotent. But in her mortal years as a child, she tries to pocket and carry way too many things, sometimes her own creations, and has a bayonet pistol as well as several explosives she built or stole herself. As an adult, Azriel has heavier weapons (like a bayonet minigun) and better explosives, plus cogs and other doohickeys that she uses as accessories or utilizes for uses not for their initial purpose (like a hair tie). She also has hair dye just in case her dark hair starts showing again. And plenty of fake badges and ID card.

Now onwards to the suffering of the Antagonists! Since I just did the protagonists I thought it was only fair the antagonists got to shine.

First up!

Edward Carmine (The UnTitledverse, The Perfect Storm saga)

While I do agree that Edward is experiencing a kind of despair, he is too focused on his own superiority-complex to even consider that this isn't healthy. He is too ambitious to worry about trivial things like hope. He is too unsympathetic and without empathy towards his own downfalls to even reflect on his actions. Edward believes the world works a certain way, and he will have it focused on him whether it likes it or not.

Father Adam Omar (Far Cry The Silver Chronicles, Silva's Hope fic)

Adam Omar is the result of living up to the horrible expectations of a shitty society based on class (that he proceeds to make worse), groomed by the previous Prophet Omar and the Voice with words of importance and righteousness, as well as several unspecified disorders (plus biological factors) that the Congregation could care less about doing anything about. Though these do not at all justify any of the heinous shit he does to everyone, including his own children. Proceeding, "The Taker" most definitely describes Adam. Though I highly doubt Adam would ever change his mindset, especially when it has proven successful for him thus far.

Sir Enigma Malvolio (Life Despair & Monsters)

I'm unsure about this one. Malvolio really is the person who spreads despair on anyone he meets through his unethical "social experiments". He's a creature from an alternate dimension disguised as a human, I highly doubt he believes in concepts like "hope" and "religion". He is hooked entirely on the unethical side of science. He wants to help humans "evolve" but really he wants to satisfy his own "itch" and twisted curiosity (plus his Darwinist/dog-eat-dog ideology).

Xiang Ba'al (Wings And Horns, Original Work)

Xiang, a demon from the Sloth Ring of Hell, the last creature anyone, not even Metatron, would expect to go on a mission to dismantle the Soulmate System after he sees the consequences of it after finding the damned soul of a ten-year-old girl named Jezebel (that he adopts) wandering in Hell after a horrible confrontation in the mortal realm. Xiang believes he is giving humans an opportunity to remove their soulmarks (or soulbrands, which are arguably worse), which in his POV, is a curse that has plagued the mortal realms for far too long. Problem is (besides the extremism and forcing people to do so against their will) Xiang doesn't have a lot of runes nor the energy to power those runes (due to being a Sloth Demon) in order to successfully eradicate the soulmate system (leaving him to comprise a plan to make as much noise as possible to show the Gods that "hey, your system is broken beyond repair!"). While Jezebel dislikes the extremism, she finds Xiang caring enough for her to dismantle a system that completely fucked her over despite the consequences he could face is very touching. It's the thought that counts, in Jezebel's opinion.

And BONUS...

Urijah Callaghan (The UnTitledverse, The Omniscience Rule and The UnTitled Ventures sagas)

Urijah has an extremely nihilistic outlook in life, not helping that Madame Callaghan (his parental figure/kidnapper) pushes him further into this extreme form of nihilism. He did care at one point. He really did. But now to him, nothing matters. Except for his mission to wipe the multiverse and everyone in it from existence with a bomb he designed. Even his companions from Cognito, Inc. Including his closest companion, Reagan Ridley. He views it as a kind of mercy than living under Zachariah's cruel and callous hand.

[paralyziingfears]

⭐

Send a " ⭐ " and I will list muses I would be interested in throwing at yours, or potential muse combinations if you are also a multi. @stefcns.

BtVS/AtS: Buffy Summers, Dawn Summers, Faith Lehane, Angel (or Angelus!), Darla, Drusilla, Spike, Lilah Morgan, Harmony Kendall, Destiny McMillan (vampire slayer oc), Joan Summers (vampire slayer oc), Lochlan Summers (vampire oc), Alexis Augustine (vampire slayer oc), Lorne the Host, Kate Lockley, Chase Lockley (vampire hunter oc).

TVDU: Damon Salvatore, Niklaus Mikaelson, Rebekah Mikaelson, Caroline Forbes, Bonnie Bennet, Enzo, Lily Salvatore, Nadia Petrova, Vicki Donovan, Sarah Salvatore, Hayley Marshall.

Mixed Horror Media: David (TLB), Star (TLB).

🖤🖤🖤

[deputy-morgan-malone]

OC Aesthetics for the Entities (Magnus Archives)

I'm not sure how much new Spooky Month content I'll be doing this year, I'm pretty tapped out at the moment, but I have had this for a while (created by @sagamemes) and it's pretty spooky, so I figured I'd do it for the start of the spooky season \o/

Tagging @inafieldofdaisies, @turbo-virgins, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @direwombat, @adelaidedrubman, @florbelles, @cassietrn, @unholymilf, @strafethesesinners, @paganminiskirt, @henbased, @deputyash, @roofgeese, @fourlittleseedlings, @josephslittledeputy, @jillvalentinesday, @corvosattano and @voidika to do it too - ONLY if you want to <3

aesthetics for the entities.      bold what applies to your muse, italics what applies situationally or only in certain verses. rest of the fears here.  this is based on a horror podcast;  potentially triggering and / or upsetting content ahead!

Deputy Morgan Malone (FC5 OC)

i.  THE BURIED.          weighted blankets.   drowning.   the comfort of a loved one’s weight. soil & sand piling on top of you. hugging so hard it hurts a little. cramped hiding spots.   letting out air underwater to sink to the bottom of the pool.   walls pressing in on you. not moving from a position even though you’re cramping a little.   dragging the last second before you have to inhale.   lonely subways.   feeling like one with the earth.   a layer of dirt on you.   looking for something below.  cardboard boxes & tiny pillow forts.   hands calloused from digging.  knowing that your purpose is just below the surface. entering your final resting place before it kills you.   a storm drowning you out.  dust & sand speaking to you.

ii.  THE CORRUPTION.          insects.  a close imitation of the natural course of life. an illness in a community. a rag that dirties more than it cleans.   an untreated wound.  containment.   breaching containment.   unbreathable air.   fungi.   one with that you love.   one with what loves you.   a corpse unfit for a glass case.  hearing a song in the sound of tiny wings & legs.  honeycomb patterns.   an ecosystem within a person.  a curse passed on.  the hubris of a scientist.  an ugly death where a glorious one is owed. blood on a handkerchief.  parasites.  something pushing up the sewer.  a mask to keep something out.   trypophobia.  knowing you belong.  death weeks after impact.  fever. food that’s gone off.   pandora’s box.   death behind a glass.

iii.  THE DARK. shadows. lights that turn off by themselves.   the feel of cold marble.   a beaked creature in the night. the difference between seeing darkness & seeing nothing. touch of something you can’t see.  hiding under a blanket.  white,  clouded eyes. months without going outside during sunlight. pouring dark. unscrewing lightbulbs. black matter. light sensitivity. a starless night.  time before light was created.   a shadow on the wall without a body to attach to.  withering plants.  a world without a sun.  footfalls in an empty house in the night.  a light that doesn’t reach as far as it should.  desperate reach for a flashlight.  clothes that hide your shape.   staying unperceivable.   winter months in the north.   an empty church.

iv.  THE DESOLATION. senseless pain.  warmth of faith. wax where skin should be.   a blazing fire.   heat without a source.   the third or fourth tragedy in the family. losing everything you’ve ever held dear. so much to live for,  gone so soon.  the smell of gasoline.   touch that scars. coffee cup that never goes cold. scorch marks on wood.  inescapably warm air.  a child born in fire.  death of a loved one.  a candle without a flame.  an altar in the middle of the woods.  animals with burnt fur.   plastic explosives. burning hot metal.  sweating in an interrogation room.  never touching a loved one. disfigurement. kiss that ruins you.  the scent of burning fat. a tattoo that terrifies its viewer.  the agony of hellfire displayed as art.  auburn hair.  little clothing in cold weather.  a ripple in the air.  trying to cool down in vain.

v.  THE FLESH. body horror.   factories.   a hunger for something more filling. never quite happy with how you look. the terror of an animal waiting for slaughter. a very good meal. the liquid of a perfect steak. fighting your worst survival instincts. a twisted bone.   long nights working out.   more than one heart.   appearance that shapes like clay.   a bag of bones.   bone broth in a pot.   knowing to fear pigs.   the butcher’s shop.   plastic surgery.  something alien inside your body. a hunger in the gaze laid upon you. unwitting cannibalism. forgetting what you used to look like. being admired for your appearance & appearance only.  teeth marks on skin. scars from wounds that should’ve killed you.   cooking in scarcity. fenced in with one way to go.

vi.  THE END.          the last page of a book.  nightmares that don’t feel like nightmares.   a skeletal hand.   the grip of the grim reaper around your throat.   existential pain.   ivory dice.  flatlining in a hospital.  gambling with death.  as old as the universe.  soul & spirit tied to an object.  a dream where you die. closing your eyes for the last time. the pleas of a dying one.  knowing the fate of someone you know & being unable to prevent it.   a thousand cords tugging you towards your end.  skin that’s freezing to the touch.   an act of desperation. someone’s life for yours. an eternity spent alive. the cost of your selfishness.  watching your own burial.   causing your own burial.  the smell of death.  numbness to fear.  words from someone gone. meaninglessness of the actions or lives of single people in the universe.  multiple near-death experiences you refuse to die from.

vii.  THE EYE.          googling something you shouldn’t have. eureka moments.  the unforgiving lens of a camera.   witness reports.   hidden libraries.   eyes of different colors.   feeling of being watched.  a death recorded in tape.   a tragedy you can’t look away from.   endangering yourself for knowledge.   truth.   analog records.   a symbol of an eye.   a watch tower.   compulsion to document.   turning on recording devices without thinking about it.   saving the evidence before the person. extracting information.   truth or dare,  without the dare.  a thirst for knowledge. books that speak to you.   coordinated shelves.   cataloguing systems.   voyeurism.   police report you can’t put down.  reasoning your way out.  smell of old papers.  books that read you back.

viii.  THE HUNT.          sharp canines.   sore calves after a run.   the scent of blood.   an adventure for the journey’s sake.   the adrenaline right before the kill.   a whistle’s echo.   the woods.   the doe eyes of a prey animal.  your own breath in the air.  sharpened claws.   being tracked.   fear of someone knowing your every movement.   hunting down monsters.   hide & seek.   running away only to end up where you started.   staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run.   a set of footsteps behind you.   blood dripping from bare hands.   barks & growls.   focused eyes.   a victim going limp under your hands.   a mouth full of fresh blood.   catching the scent of something monstrous.   perfecting your craft.   peering into the dark & running after it.

ix.  THE LONELY.          an apartment too small for a double bed.   completely vacant streets.   waking up to see everyone gone.  fog.  point nemo.  a house too big to hear your family members in.  alone in a faceless crowd.  a mask with nothing behind it.  separated cubicles.  a deafening silence where joy should be.  a blinding spotlight.  the least missed in your friend group.  streets without lights in the windows.  isolation.  not truly knowing your friends.   your friends not truly knowing you.  need for silence.  fear of crowds.  staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you.  a ship alone at sea.  depression.  knowing your friends are better off without you.  talking to someone only to realise they’re gone.  a family too large to notice you there.  safety in being alone.

x.  THE SLAUGHTER          a game of tag.   senseless violence.   a true crime hobby.   improvised weapons.   blinding rage.   intent to kill.   a horrific day in a quiet community.   a medal of bravery.  holding on to what validates your anger.   history books that spare no details.   an injury you want revenge for.   war.   counting kills.   songs of soldiers.   a knifeblock on the counter.   a pool of blood.   shellshock.   unspeakable horrors.   anger pushing you forward.   unimaginable pain.   not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming.   a fully human monster.   an authority sending its lessers to their deaths.   kill or be killed.   unedited wartime memoirs.   a weapons collection.   not knowing the names of who you kill.   too many to remember.   loss of hope.   there’s no heroes in war.

xi.  THE SPIRAL          sleep deprivation.   corridors you can get lost in.   maze puzzles that loop back on themselves.   losing possessions.   losing people.   losing your sanity.   corkscew curls.   rows of funhouse mirrors.   optical illusions.   a separate reality.   walking through the wrong door.   delusions.   not knowing what your hands are doing.   blank spaces in documents.   hallucinations.   wrong proportions.   a nameless thing.   a place that has never existed.   doubting your own mind.   blind faith.   losing track of names,  labels,  categories.   distorted sound.   an imperfection in a glass that twists the view.   loss of time.   a garish colour.   doors that open to nowhere.   lies.   an unnatural laugh.   jokes & tricks.   illusions.   a doorway.   a sculptor with a wild imagination.   limbs in impossible angles.   doing what’s fun,  not what’s sensible.   fractals you can get lost in.

xii.  THE STRANGER          wax figures.   a close approximation of a human face.   a borrowed appearance.   a strange smell.   glass eyes.   furs & pelts.   a dance.   a song of a choir.   the uncanny valley.   stitching yourself together.   the colours of a circus.   a puppet with no strings.   mannequins.   glitter & sequin.   a stranger you’ve always known.   someone strange in the place of someone you knew.   stolen identities.   stolen skins.   a machine imitating humanity.   the anonymity of a service worker.   hiding in plain sight.   uncomfortable to look at.   a faked accent.   concealing.   forgetting who you are.   forgetting who others are.   a replacement no one notices.   images that look posed.   the only one seeing the false face of someone.

xiii.  THE VAST.          open spaces.   carnival rides going up & down.   fear of heights.   endless infinity around you.   your insignificance in an universe.   stomach turning at a drop.   fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip.   the sway of a cable car.   an adventure holiday.   losing track of where the surface is.   miles & miles of nothing around you.   staring at the sky & feeling like you may fall into it.   loss of control.   a fall that doesn’t end in death.   glass floor to the view below.   terminal velocity.   the sound of wind in your ears.   a reach over the railing.   a jump from the top of the building.   falling into nothing.   feeling your feet let go of the ground.   a leap of faith.   motion sickness.

xiv.  THE WEB.          undecipherable code.   a puppeteer holding the strings.   power over the weak—willed.    strings of fate.   manipulation.   an arranged accident.   a hundred minions doing your bidding.   cobwebs.   spiders.   a laid trap.   never voicing discomfort.   outwitting a cheater.   doing things without realising it.   red string across a corkboard.   finding something lost where you were sure you checked.   power over the unrealiability of chance.   watching others dance for you.   an entangled death.   a thousand tiny legs & fangs.   shady forum threads.   something important gone missing.   suspiciously disregarded case.   a missing witness.   connections.   the world wide web.   power of victimhood.   gullibility.   no control over your own decisions.   an invisible leash.   mass psychology.   a horror film in the making.   scapegoat.   never remembering to ask for a name.

+  THE EXTINCTION.          the end of an era.   apocalypse movies.   the alarms of warning systems.   a desolate landscape.   end of the world cults.   nihilism.   the last written history.   a changed world.   no survivours.   old prophecies.   a thousand predicted ends.   a new chapter.   an end with no escape.   catastrophes.   a calendar counting down.   breaking point.   overindulgence.